Your browser isn't running scripts, so you might have trouble with the Drop-Down menu at top right hand corner of page. You can get it at http://www.java.com/en/download/windows_ie.jsp"
Site hosted by Angelfire.com: Build your free website today!



 

Second part in the Five Gold Rings series:

Part 1     Part 3    Part 4     Part 5

Sequel to Five Golden Rings written for 12 Days of Spander Ficathon 17 Dec 2004
Rating: NC-17
Parts: all
Summary: Begins Christmas Eve eight years after the battle with the First and post senior partners showdown. The boys are in a bad place. What a difference seven days can make….
Spoilers: Season 7 latter part only – departs from canon as you will see.
Author’s Note: Don’t own the characters etc and bow down to their original creators Joss, et al., plus all the wonderful online writers who continue to give them life.
Warning: Character death in first section

Return to Five Gold Rings Index Page


New Years Resolutions


by
Rngrdead





Part One

CHRISTMAS EVE

Spike >>>>>>>>>>


He hadn’t really been fooling himself….

This was all about *feeling* something… anything…..

He always seemed to be so cold lately, you’d reckon he’d be used to it by now, but this was different, colder than even a normal ‘room temperature’ standard. It permeated everything, chilled him to the core and seemed to freeze his hard won soul. Inner pain and darkness with a side serve of utter physical emptiness.

Starved of loving touch for … how many years now? Forever? How long was that? Dru was never one to cuddle; Harmony had a closer relationship with her bloody stuffed unicorn than him; and the transient slap ‘n tickle with the slayer was certainly not to be counted (him bein’ the slappee ‘n all!). There was some platonic affection with her pre his amulet wearing departure, and of course the last couple of days with the whelp. The return and whole non corporeal thing fed the craving for touch highlighted by the beginnings of a reconnection with his sire. He never told the surviving Scoobys of his return, not even Xander. After all what would he say? Hardly brothers in arms any more, those few stolen hours of closeness pre battle, then his ‘glorious exit’ probably best left as a treasured memory.

He twisted the wedding band he’d exchanged for his own rings on that last fateful night of the fight with the First, idly wondered if Xander still wore his and wished for the comfort of the two treasured reminders of his past. Regardless of the lapsed years, he still couldn’t bring himself to make contact, hell the whelp probably had wife and kids by now… he’d only ruin it again for someone else he cared about.

His mind drifted to the months of threatened impending death courtesy of the senior partners (or whoever!) and the time when connections with others faded again.

The final battle with the senior partners had been a joke – odds so far out of their favour that the only obvious ending was a Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid ‘cover’. But then the tide had turned. Illyria had gathered some inter-dimensional strength, used it and disappeared into her self created dimensional rift as the ensuing blast obliterated the opposition. The dragon was vanquished by the ‘hero of the hour’ of course but it had still taken Angel down – stupid ponce – he only had to wait a few seconds more and Illyria’s fire would have changed everything.

Oh, they’d survived alright, only later was it apparent that the depth of the dragon claw marks on Angel was not the issue. His sire had failed to heal at all the following night. He’d collapsed the day after, vomiting blood and shaking violently, but dismissed the incident as an effect of residual exhaustion. Spike rang Andrew at the end of the fourth day when things took a turn for the worse, Angel apparently fitting then crying out in pain when Spike attempted to lift him to a sitting position.

The boy had come through on the research – but with no solution just information. Dragon talons carried a poison deadly to all creatures, including vampires, and there was no known antidote. It was a swift death for most, but courtesy of a vampire constitution, his sire was to be condemned to a slow and excrutiatingly painful demise. It would possibly take a few weeks to dust, if unlucky, a few months.

It was strangely comforting and unbelievably distressing to spend that time finding ‘resolution’ with his sire. They had talked quietly for hours – history, family, life and unlife, their women, and their own love/hate affair that had spanned one and a quarter centuries. Spike pleasured his sire while the older vampire was still able to respond – following each climax, the invalid and his attendant had both sobbed through the twilight of ‘coming down’, not sated but holding to each other crying out the shared grief for lost ones, lost opportunities, and lost tomorrows. As Angel’s condition notably worsened, they began to grieve in advance for the loss of … everything.

Two months from the fateful night, the dark vampire was emaciated almost to a point of being unrecognizable and was no longer able to muster the strength to feed, even when presented with the dripping, open wrist of his childe. He sobbed silently for hours, excruciating pain taking away his ability even to scream, then had begun to repeatedly beg his grandchilde, in a barely audible whisper, to give him the dignity of dying in the embrace, and by the hand, of his ‘favourite boy’.

Spike knowing this to be the last gift he could possibly offer, had tenderly kissed the dark vampire for the final heartbreaking time with all the reverence one would bestow a beloved monarch. He then took a stake, placed it between their chests, held it in place with his ‘wrong hand’, and lovingly whispered goodbye to his creator. Choking back his own tears, he had grasped the wasted form of his grandsire around the shoulders with a adoring caress, and then used his own weight to drive the wood home in a last, desperate and deadly embrace.

He had spent the ensuing five days lying in the ashes of his maker, unable to think, let alone move. Then he simply got up, brushed himself down and walked from the apartment into the night without a backward glance.

He felt Dru’s passing a couple of months later, though still had no idea how she had dusted. On that day, he had withdrawn from all contact, demon or human, adopting life as a hermit trapped by his own misery.

Six years on, found him in yet another damp basement apartment. He could afford better, with the ready cash flow from many investments these days. Angel had seen to that in his final weeks, transferring all the assets from AI and his ‘Aurelian’ Swiss bank accounts to Spike… But dark, dank and underground felt right… his mood was always dark and underground these days. The Spike of old was a gregarious, larger than life and undeniably social animal, it made his choice of subterranean solitary confinement seem even more fitting for his perpetual withdrawal and personal hell.

He was too thin, eating infrequently, smoking a great deal and inebriated often. After a century and a half, he’d concluded that feeling nothing was better than feeling hurt….No more deep wounds, no more rejection, no more fear… He knew he was a bad man, undead, not worthy of caring caresses, of loving. Everyone was dead or gone… or both.

The mantra was ingrained, Angelus left – he was the favourite childe, then nothing; Dru left – he was her prince, then so despised that a chaos demon replaced him; Buffy… Buffy was never really there, he knew that now; hell, even Harmony left; Angel he had only just found, and he’d left – albeit involuntarily. The only two times he had done the leaving was when he died – first as mortal choosing death in an alley over his dear mother. And second, to stop an apocalypse with his own blaze of light and destruction, leaving an ally he cared for deeply and only just taken as lover.

There was no killing any more except if he stumbled across a nasty whilst on a rare trip to buy blood, even those occasional fights had become a matter of physically reminding himself that he existed. He had been close to this desperate before, babbling confessions of angst and inner thoughts to ‘the First’ in a haze of insanity, starvation and sadness in a school basement. But this was far worse…. This time there was just silence and he was utterly alone.

Now, somewhere in Boston, he lay staring up at another grey, blotchy ceiling complete with water stain in the shape of a fleeing elephant, and pipes that groaned and thumped at inopportune moments – it was always a bloody basement. People threw things they couldn’t be bothered with into basements. They went down there when something was amiss with the plumbing or some such; or when there was a garage sale and they figured to rid themselves of the unwanted flotsam and jetsam in their lives.

He stared at the jumbo stain’s ‘flapping ears’ and casually wondered if he was the ‘flot’ or the ‘jet’…. Finally fixing upon the thought that he was, no doubt, the ‘Sam’. *I am Sam, I am Sam, do you like green eggs and ham… oh Sod it* He took another swig of the bottle in his hand, accidentally hit his front teeth with the rim of the bourbon, and began to giggle with the pain and his own obscure thoughts.

Strains of ‘Away in a Manger’ sung by a boy soprano drifted down from an apartment above him and his chortle became a hitched sob. Christmas again, years merged then dropped away as the memories flooded in. He dropped the bottle, curled up on the decrepit couch and cried in earnest for the fourth time that day.

Xander>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Xander lay on his back staring at the ceiling of his room of his now ‘single occupant’ apartment.

The bed was cold, he was cold. For all the success at work, and acceptance back into the ‘normal world’, he felt empty and cold.

He’d all but decided to leave relationships alone for good now. “Gay me up Willow” had been the glib line delivered with good humor to his favorite wiccan. It had been kind of appropriate for that moment, but he didn’t think that in all honesty *anyone* could love him now. Gender, age and apparently even species had no bearing on his unloveability. Hell even his own parents barely tolerated him. To date he’d had a few ‘anyones’ from of each of the categories in his 30+ years. But there were two that held profound sadness when remembered.

He had stood on the edge of the crater that was Sunnydale, and publicly yet quietly, grieved for Anya, then later, alone and away from the abyss, privately and extremely loudly, mourned Spike. Both losses made more acute by the apparent willingness of the survivors around him to seem so eager to forget their dead demon friends, and so at ease with ‘moving on’.

Andrew’s heartfelt description of Anya’s heroism had touched him deeply, and he had taken some comfort in knowing that her end had been swift. Not so for Spike it seemed. Buffy’s explanation of his beloved vampire sharing a poignant moment then beginning to burn up, had Xander conjuring pictures of tortured witches with flames licking at their hair from Inquisition accounts in the watcher’s books; of TV images showing self immolating priests dying in public view, protesting the Vietnam war; of screaming victims trapped and burning in countless scenes from Hollywood ‘B’ horror movies. Endless terrifying scenarios had played out nightly in torturous dreams and daily in his worst thoughts, for months after the averted takeover by the First.

Eight years later, they were the occasional companions that plagued him when stressed and alone, or momentarily distracted by the sight of a leather duster, platinum hair, or smell of bourbon, cinnamon and tobacco.

He had left the group of survivors shortly after the battle, choosing anonymity and relative solitude over a life as perpetual ‘donut boy’ and handy man repairer of all things. Giles had offered him a place at their newly established ‘HQ’ in England, promising relative luxury and ‘loving’ company of what remained of the Scoobies for as long as he would care to stay. Even suggesting Xander might try his hand at ‘watching’, the offer firmly rejected even before the former librarian had finished speaking.

Instead, he used his cut of the “Federal Disaster Fund” for Sunnydale’s ‘earthquake’ victims to finance his move to the relative ‘safety’ of suburban Sacramento. Building was still his thing – project management his forte. Dedicated and thorough, everyone knew Harris was available 24/7, his workaholic behavior put down to the welcome drive of a ‘young and hungry exec.’ in the post dot.com era of improved property investment and construction ‘frenzy’ in the area.

When others inquired of his personal life ‘status’, vague references were made to loved ones, the ‘quake’ and grieving periods. Eight years on, a few of his colleagues began to puzzle over their rather enigmatic workmate. Xander was well liked as personable, capable and intelligent; his management style seen as efficient and fair; but he always left functions first or ‘found something to do’ at parties to provide a plausible reason to retreat from contact.

Currently Xander sported a beard, trimmed and ‘goatee’ style, but definitely edging toward pirate. His eye patch itched occasionally, and vague memories of a picking up a certain dearly departed vampire on his ‘pirate speak’, always caused him to twist the two ‘borrowed’ rings in habitual succession. The familial ring and the Aurelian seal were exchanged with Spike for his own plain band as a promise and sign of hope all those years ago, now they were sported as a sign of inner pain and posthumous respect.

At the moment Xander wasn’t sleeping properly; his lean form reflecting the lack of desire to eat adequately or work out regularly; his ever present thoughts that he let down everyone who counted in one way or another fed a deeply entrenched guilt and self loathing. The ‘all’s great’ capable work exterior crumbled in private to reveal a ‘needy and naïve’ underbelly and he felt ashamed of that weakness too. So he strove harder to be successful in public and hid the rest….

Tonight he had escaped a party early, citing a second commitment and departing with good natured smiles. As he entered his airy apartment, Xander was reminded of the main character from the movie ‘Fight Club’. He too had the quintessential Ikea décor with the hand made ‘whatevers’ and neutral tones. Though he was hardly a ‘Tyler Durden’ having no intent to hit anyone again – ever – too much violence past had resolved any need to ‘do that’.

Keys were removed from the door and eyepatch tugged off, then both were casually tossed onto the dining table. Xander decided to obliterate all further thought for the night or at least to dispel the lonely ache and self doubt embedded after years of being alone, all to brilliantly highlighted by the party atmosphere he had just escaped. He sought an act of solo carnal relief and its associated oblivion. Even he admitted this to be his ‘rescue’ method to forget the ever present sense of emptiness. If only he and his toys could make the world go away for more than a few exulted minutes.

He showered, wandered into his the tastefully appointed bedroom and fell back on the king sized bed. As an afterthought, he flicked the television on to view a delayed broadcast of Christmas Eve ‘Carols from Kings’ celebrations… ‘Away in a Manger’ was being sung by a single (no doubt famous) young boy soprano with choral backing. Xander thought of Christmases past and of the people from those times, all now lost to him. He ‘took himself in hand’, gently caressed until he came, then let tears of loneliness and regret flow as he gave in to sleep.





Part Two



25 Dec

Spike


It was Christmas Day though nothing in his immediate surroundings gave any indication of the same. Vampire hours were now but a formality, it was always dark in his ‘cellar’, his demon’s ‘clock’ and changing sounds from apartments above, being the only things to denote the passing of another sunrise.

He was writing again, strange really, and a significant effort for an individual so well ensconced in the ‘dark end’ of existence, but it passed the time. The writing was new, and had begun as yet another way of expunging the oppressive loneliness he lived with nightly, providing some form of catharsis for the guilt and devastation plaguing his dreams in the day.

It had begun with the simple act of reading - a method of filling meaningless days. After the ‘big battle’ he’d begun reading aloud to Angel, distraction for them both and using Angel’s own collection ‘classic’ books. He was ‘out and about’ enough to keep it replenished when they had worked their way through all the favorites, but after the demise of … everyone… frequenting book shops or public libraries really was out of the question.

It was inevitable then, five years ago a computer had been procured – traveling with him as he moved basement to basement, the then ‘state of the art’ monstrosity, now replaced by a sleek laptop with ‘hyped’ hard drive and *all* the add-ons. No longer in need of lights to read, his blacked out abode shrunk even further to the nineteen inches of dancing text on screen, and that suited him fine. The surprisingly web savvy, former poet recognized and grasped onto the anonymity and near limitless source of text the medium offered. He had latched on to a few favored sites, joined a couple of writers’ lists and proceeded to bury himself in cyberspace whenever possible.

It wasn’t about connecting with anyone. It was about losing himself in stories, much as he did when still a mortal – but rather than the romantic fluff of the past, they were now extremely dark, torturous and harsh. The literature was generally chosen for the similar plot path, starting at unhappiness and difficulty, a meeting of friends and building of relationships, love blossoming, and more often than not, ending in disappointment and sadness, and only occasionally in a place of peace. Stories that made Dickens, Hardy, even Shakespeare, look like poster children for the joy and light of relationships!

Inevitably, he imagined himself as one of the characters, most often the ‘taken’ one, sometimes buoyed up by ‘being’ the favored slave, the beloved consort, even daring at times to relate to the role of the cherished mate and ‘equal’ partner in the plot. At other times he read of violence and being violated, picturing himself the recipient of torture and humiliating training, and wallowing in the desperation and pain of the character with whom he identified.

One bored, freezing evening in January he had begun writing. Initially it was a short if somewhat obscure lament to his sire. But the result was mildly satisfying and other longer essays followed, more historical documents than fiction, but inevitably any ‘outside’ reader would not see it that way. Posting the works on one of the writer’s websites as a ‘Bugger this, just let ‘em know what pain is.’ moments, he was utterly unprepared for the enthusiastic feedback his prose attracted.

Nineteen stories on, and Spike rarely responded to the notes of praise, even when he did, it was with a word or three at most: “Taa pet”; “Life s’all ”; or “Appreciated”.

History and fantasy were his forte, coupled with sex, violence, love, hate, gender and preferences varied, graphic detail enjoyed, and his most favorite stories always long and full of angst. The common threads of his writing were the themes - love, pain and disappointment.

He logged on – it was Christmas night after all, surely some other sad ‘wanker’ had nothing better to do than look at a screen.

“FB: Re: Manifest Spirits and Talisman

Hey NonPerson,

Loved your story… really struck a chord. (No accounting huh!)

Lovely Christmas gift!

*Please* write sequel.

Regards
Xanman”



Spike took an unneeded breath, re-reading the pseudonym, and then kicked himself. There was *no* reason to assume this was the friend he had lost on the night of his own ‘obliteration’. Still… he wrote back an uncharacteristically long response.

“Re: FB: Re: Manifest Spirits and Talisman

Cheers for the thoughts,

Spark for Ch. 2 welcome.

Muse is dead.

NonPerson”



Spike then hit send, logged off, and retreated to the furthest dark corner of his ‘home’. He curled into a ball on the floor, and stroked his own hair in a vain attempt to make old memories of his boy and sadness and loss disappear.


>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Xander

It was Christmas Day. There was no-one to comment and nowhere to go until noon when he would head for the Sacramento airport and fly to the east coast for a five day break. He was heading for Boston. His favorite Aunt Agnes had been buried in Boston. He ‘owed her’ a graveside visit at least, and besides it was the only reason he could muster for choosing anywhere in particular to visit, and spending holidays at home had definitely lost their appeal.

He pushed the bed covers back, though there was no imperative to rise early. No children to calm or family to visit, no partner to greet or party to attend. Work colleagues had been gracious and thoughtful, but he had politely declined all offers, thereby successfully avoided the ‘sympathy luncheons’ apparently on offer that day. Xander really could not face another ‘day full of cheer’ as the ‘extra wheel’.

He remembered with regret, his own Christmas promise that was made to a friend years before, and wondered, as he did at this time every year, if there might have been some other way things could have ‘played out’. He twisted the rings twice, then tugged the covers up again and attempted to find solace in unconsciousness for a few more hours. Sleep eluded him. It seemed obvious that there was to be no relief from those thoughts without distraction.

He hauled the laptop from the side table onto the bed. Reading in bed (online) a habit developed after the super light piece of digital mastery was foisted upon him as part of his latest ‘work package’. The whole transferable workplace, and need for top-of-the-line connections and max. capacity, simply feeding his already rather obsessive need to work.

The penchant for online literature had come later, ever the comic aficionado, he had never considered that reading more than a few hundred words without pictures of any interest.
His workplace role however, had ‘pushed the envelope’. Tenders, proposals, reports, Emails, customer documents, all had their place and Xander had mastered them as required, then moved on to enjoy the written word in the literary guise.

Additional to his newfound ‘love of the literary word’, he had kept up with Willow and the crew on and off through a generic Email, but was really introduced to the ‘joys of the net and downloads and literature’ by the dear, though fleeting relationship with ‘friend’ Neil. They’d met at a conference, connected, ‘danced’, spent the night then parted company with the obligatory though false, ‘I’ll call you’, the next morning. But Xander was still grateful for the time they had spent looking for ‘inspiration’ online and his partner-in-passing’s pointers regards websites for ‘good reading’.

So now it was December twenty fifth, and he was perched in the very middle of his own oversized bed. As was his habit, he’d propped the notebook computer up on the ‘V-pillow’, logged on and indulged in yet another story by a favorite author, NonPerson. *And may we all take a moment to thank the lord of wireless technology for the speedy connection*.

The last three or so years, had seen Xander read and dismiss hundreds of ‘wannabe Anne Rice’s. He’d actively reviewed and ignored similar numbers of ‘horror movie script-writer' creations, plus been truly amazed (but no less disappointed) by the plethora of budding ‘alternative writers’ whose claim on wiccan or vampiric lifestyle was ‘joke worthy’!

Over the next hour or so he worked his way through the new story. It was the third of NonPerson’s literature that Xander had read in the last month. His/her ‘account of the unusual’ read like the narrative in the style of Sleepy Hollow. Xander felt a strange sense of deja vous with some of the material but dismissed it as mere personal angst borne of his own misery and prompted by what he assumed was ‘some pretentious language arts student’s’ successful attempt at ‘disturbing’…. Yet he still reserved some right to feel a little ‘wigged’, formative years spent fighting evil at the side of the slayer on a ‘Hellmouth’ and subsequent experiences, had given him ample knowledge of all things ‘bump in the night’, and to recognize serendipity for its more freaky consequences.

Reflecting on the content of this one, Xander again concluded that the stories by NonPerson really *did* seem different. He contemplated the possibility of it being from a former Sunnydale resident, then dismissed notion and opted to give feedback on his genuine enjoyment of the story rather than *seek out* the author's origins.

“FB: Re: Manifest Spirits and Talisman

Hey NonPerson,

Loved your story… really struck a chord. (No accounting huh!)

*Please* write sequel.

Regards
Xanman”



He hit send then logged off, rose from what now looked like a ‘nest’ mid-bed, packed and dressed quickly and headed for the airport.





Part Three



Xander afternoon 25 Dec


A relatively uneventful trip, had still seen him near miss the Christmas night flight after a pileup on the in ramp for departures stopped his taxi some kilometer or so from the terminal. Amazed by the numbers of people moving on the holiday, he was never so thankful to have packed light as he jogged past families struggling up the walkway with the better part of a household worth of luggage.

Packing and unpacking his laptop twice was to be expected, but when he had to all but strip to his boxers to get through the security, he began to seriously wonder if staying in his apartment for the ‘phone off the hook and pretend I’m not home’ holiday option might not have been the better one.


He had booked a boutique hotel in the Back Bay area direct from the web, so was pleased to arrive to charming architecture, tasteful antique décor, and traditional seasonal decorations. The warm welcome from the concierge included an explanation of hotel facilities and invitation to dinner – apparently offered gratis to all guests staying Christmas night. Xander felt genuinely grateful for the last part, not really relishing the thought of seeking out a restaurant solo in the snow covered chill of the Boston evening.

His room was light and airy with vaulted ceilings and period wallpaper. A large four poster bed dominated the room, only obvious concession to ‘modern day’ - a tasteful en suite, but even this was complete with black and white floor tiles, huge iron bath and impressive washstand. He noted the mini-bar had been well disguised in one side of the dresser and smiled as he drew back the curtains to find a tiny alcove formed by windows with reading seat and cushions. A fireplace with ‘real looking’ gas log fire warmed the room, and two high backed brocade chairs and a footstool completed the look of ‘authentic old world Boston’.

He took a moment to wonder sadly if a certain bleach blonde would have lived in these sort of sumptuous surrounds once, wished he was around to ask, then shook off the descent into morbidity with the determination to distract himself with a little city exploration.

Unpacking was a brisk affair, and minutes later he was wandering out of the ornate front doors of the hotel, dressed in dark blue knee length cashmere coat, scarf and gloves, and a hat complete with fuzzy maple leaf emblem, boasting a ski trip to Whistler.

It was approaching dark, so adventures to Bunker Hill or galleries would have to wait. Instead he wandered the narrow streets, occasionally stopped to read an historic marker and was somewhat relieved to discover a ‘Tea House’ still open.

He was virtually alone in the café and chatted amicably with the owner. Xander revised his plans for the coming days based on the ‘local Bostonian knowledge’, grateful when the woman located the Mount Auburn Cemetery on his rather inadequate the tourist map. She was obviously touched by a ‘favorite nephew’s pilgrimage’ and sent him on his way with a paper bag filled with Christmas fare that consisted almost entirely of various chocolate products. In another life, at least one ‘Snoopy dance’ of joy would have been performed. The holidays really were looking up.

Following the amicable company of his fellow hotel diners, Xander returned to his room, flicked on his computer and logged on. For the first time in months, he really did feel like emailing Willow with some genuinely happy thoughts and his plans for the coming days. Eleven Happy Christmas messages later, he had turned down the sound to avoid yet another tinny rendition of “Rudolf…” and returned a short thanks and greetings to each sender. Then dutifully wrote a longer message to his friendly witch.

Before dropping the connection, Xander decided to check for new fiction on his favourite authors’ group, but found instead a rather surprising message from NonPerson replying to his feedback. Having seen very few replies to any feedback from this rather enigmatic writer in the past, Xander was a little intrigued by the request for story ideas that this note contained. He felt quite buoyed by the idea that he had managed a tiny measure of rapport with this person, then pondered possible plotlines for some time. Not being a writer, he found the task to be surprisingly difficult and finally resorted to re-reading the first part of the “Manifest…” story again.

The fiction began with a shell shocked soldier returning from the trenches of World War I. It seemed to center on his struggle with insanity and his inability to distinguish real from dream causing him to constantly ‘see’ dead comrades and relive past horrors, forcing a retreat from the world altogether.

Xander realized that he desperately wanted the character to recover; for someone to ‘break through’ the soldier’s terror; for the man to find love and a purpose and normality (whatever that meant back then).

Rather than posting the reply to the list, he wrote direct to NonPerson’s Email:

“Dear NP


Suggestion for Ch 2. - Thinking some tough love might be needed?

- Fellow returned soldier ‘finds him’ camped in the warehouse – acquaintance from before war perhaps
- ‘White Hat’ gives him a place to live
- They start to connect

Hope that’s enough.

BTW Season’s Greetings from Sunny (not!) Boston

Xanman

PS
Not sure how to deal with the ‘supernatural’ stuff, but figure you’re writing-guy (or girl?) so….”




Xander was uncertain whether to put the personal touches in the message but figured it could hardly offend, so hit send.

He logged off, flicked the computer to standby and padded over to snuggle into the luxurious bed. The time change should have made his desire for bed happen later, but it had been dark for hours and he had adjusted his watch in flight. So, looking forward to a full day of ‘touristy goodness’, he fell quickly into a fitful slumber, with none of his usual sleep inducing ‘techniques’ needed.


>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>.

Spike 26th Dec

Spike woke stiff and cold in the early afternoon of the following day. Sometime during the morning, he had shifted from a fetal position in the corner to the relative comfort of his cot. He had an electric blanket these days which did go a long way to banishing the physical cold of his apartment in winter, but his internal ‘freeze’ was not to be thawed so easily.

He had slept fully clothed last night, leaving little to do after his rise to consciousness. A cramping pain and rumble from his stomach reminded him that he had forgotten to eat again yesterday. He stumbled to the fridge to find only one blood bag remaining. Cursing the idea of having to venture out again tonight, he tossed the bag into the microwave and watched it turn.

The holiday season was horrid, at other times of the year, it was possible to have blood delivered, “if a fellow had the right contacts o’ course”. Private demon and black-market websites even meant ordering online was now available. This time of year, however, the only way was to negotiate and pick-up in person.

Spike gulped down the now warm liquid meal direct from the plastic, and flicked on his computer as he tossed the rubbish in the general direction of the bin.

He was in the process of putting the finishing touches to a rather revisionist version of St Petersburg history, involving two beautiful visiting vampires and an unnamed Hapsburg prince with certain sadomasochistic tendencies and a love of cool male bodies. Fortunately the Russians of the time he ‘set his piece’, were a warring bunch, so battlefields provided a rich backdrop of hand to hand skirmishes, bloody encounters, body parts and general mayhem.

The story was one of the few he’d done to date with what Spike considered a truly ‘happy’ ending. The prince had all but begged his two new companions to been turned, but the task was carried out some month later by another of Darla’s childer, the Master of St Petersburg, Luc. The new childe was made in a rather passionate and blood drenched evening followed by the gleeful massacre of his entire household. Though the ‘tragedy’ was blamed on insurgents from the south, there were still some questions regarding the prince, and it was felt wise for the two visiting ‘friends’ to move on. The story concluded with the prince leading the pair out of Russia to torture another day.

Spike idly wondered if a certain Fredrik was still around, decided it was doubtful, yet contemplated the wicked enjoyment that the prince might have were he, by some miracle, to read this account of his turning.

Satisfied it was a story worthy of posting, Spike logged on for the first time that evening to find mail in his inbox. He saw the title and sender, and given his ‘reaction’ to the same person’s post the previous night, decided to read it a little later in the evening. He posted his finished story, and swung out of the chair to prepare for the first venture outside in a fortnight. Hair, coat and cash all needed attention.

The vampire had initially shaved his platinum locks off completely following the demise of his sire. Since then, they had been left to grow, now falling to his shoulders in a free range, dark blond mane of soft waves if let loose. He tied it back most days, although stray locks fell forward, or were absently tugged free, in the hours writing at the computer. The last time it had been this unruly was the Boxer Rebellion.

He still had his duster, but opted for a heavy woolen trench coat in these winter months, as much a bid for anonymity as to keep warm. His beloved Doc’s and a satchel slung across one shoulder completed the ‘look’. To the passing observer, the rakish young man appeared like any one of a thousand other university students trudging home late from, ‘wherever’.

Spike slipped into the evening, took on a brisk walking pace as he headed toward the back streets of Chinatown. Collar up and hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, he stared resolutely at the ground a few feet in front of him, only glancing up when crossings had to be navigated.

The main streets were busy with tourists, no doubt heading back to hotels or on their way to a night of entertainment. Spike trailed after one group for a time. *Silly coupla bints at the back, busy with their natter. Easy meal.* Back-in-the-day he would have picked them off and drained them before the rest of their party even noticed anyone absent. He contemplated warning the ‘ladies’ of nightly dangers, but simply could not be bothered making contact, opting instead for a low growl that sent the two women scurrying forward unsure of what it was they’d heard.

Spike peeled off from the group, jaywalked across the street and headed for an alley way he knew provided a short cut. Distracted by thoughts of past hunts and his current ‘mission’, Spike failed to notice the crowd of patrons waiting outside a jazz club. His satchel knocked someone hard as he swept through the people.

The individual concerned gave a surprised “Hey?!” and hand immediately moved to check his wallet. Satisfied that there had been no theft, he turned just in time to make out a mumbled “Bloody tourists”, and see the back of his offender retreating down an ally.

Twenty minutes later and blood obtained at a ridiculously inflated ‘holiday’ price, Spike took to the sewers for his return trip. Choosing the stench over negotiating any more crowds seemed the preferable option.

He slammed the door of his apartment hard enough to elicit a protest of dust from the door-jam.
“Bloody humans, bloody holidays, bloody….. guhhhh!” He flung the satchel onto the table, threw himself onto the couch and grabbed the remote. Television – the ultimate tool for escape. *Except when all 42 channels have to offer is aught but ancient war movies, rhino’s shaggin’ or house bloody renovatin’!* He privately conceded that there was always the sport or ‘soaps’ channels available but was too annoyed for that to alter his current assessment.

He grabbed the JD bottle from the floor, drained what little remained from the previous night and stomped over to the computer.

Some hour and a half later, and one vampire calmer, Spike logged on to review the reaction to his latest piece. He sometimes wondered how many vamps checked the ‘net’, then dismissed the notion as ludicrous, given the plethora of slayers that were no doubt keeping the vamp population to a minimum these days, young fledges were hardly likely to be trawling the web while busy trying to survive.

There were two glowing compliments for ‘St Petersburg’, neither of which he could be bothered responding to. Exuberant feedback including ‘flights of fancy’, ‘disturbingly delicious’ and ‘turn me, turn me!’ simply confirming that these humans *Really were thicker than clotted cream!* But then, he had a soul now, so the ‘wonderful fun’ of vampirism in the yesteryear had a very definite, and daily extracted, price.

He did reply to one ‘silly chit’ who had posted to the list – obviously a first year literature major. Her ‘OT = out there’ message regarding ‘Poetry on the Common tomorrow evening’ annoyed him beyond measure. Apart from advertising a passably interesting event, her comparisons of contemporary US poets to the likes of Tennyson and Browning were silly, and exultation of Emily Dickenson’s work as the ‘pinnacle of literature’ was simply nauseating to this particular (or indeed any) gentleman scholar of late 19th C! As her studies thus far seemed ‘era’ based and her repertoire of authors and quotes appeared sadly limited, Spike decided to ‘assist’ her education by adding some Byron, and expand her horizons at least a little. His reply included a poem he knew by heart, but he left out both greeting and signature.

“Suggest you read more widely.


Away, away, ye notes of woe!
Be silent, thou once soothing strain,
Or I must flee from hence — for, oh!
I dare not trust those sounds again.
To me they speak of brighter days —
But lull the chords, for now, alas!
I must not think, I may not gaze,
On what I am — on what I was.
Byron, from "Away, away, ye notes of woe!", Occasional Pieces, 1807-1824 ”


*Public duty done!*

Finally conceding that he simply must look at the Email that had been deliberately avoided, he ‘double clicked’ and began to read….

“Dear NP

Suggestion for Ch 2. - Thinking some tough love might be needed?

- Fellow returned soldier ‘finds him’ camped in the warehouse – acquaintance from before war perhaps
- ‘White Hat’ gives him a place to live
- They start to connect

Hope that’s enough.

BTW Season’s Greetings from Sunny (not!) Boston

Xanman

PS
Not sure how to deal with the ‘supernatural’ stuff, but figure you’re writing-guy (or girl?) so….”




A chill settled over the vampire. It was not that the suggestions were good or bad – but that the phrasing together with the signature put him ill at ease. The terminology was most definitely ‘SoCal’; the use of ‘White Hat’ odd but not that unusual; it was the ‘writing-guy’ reference that was simply too close to ‘Scoobie speak’ for comfort. He reeled back from the screen cursing his wishful thinking and the flood of memories engaged by the simple note.

He decided that even if, by some miraculous coincidence, the respondent might be a former ‘Scooby’, or by some cruel twist of fate, his then friend Xander had found his literature, he was not going to feel threatened. They were all on the other side of the continent, or the planet for that matter, and oblivious to his existence. He felt comforted yet somehow far more alone with that realization.

Spike printed off the Email then shut everything down and headed for his cot, hoping that tomorrow would be ‘better’.

It was the next evening before he realized there was a reference to Boston in the note.





Part Four



Xander Dec 26

Xander woke to the sensation of warm, soft bedding. He rolled, leisurely stretched then noticed the time. *Holy…* Sleeping for more than six hours straight was unheard of in his work-world yet here he was at 11am the next day having achieved a good thirteen hours of undisturbed slumber and body apparently content to try for more.

A quick shower and in room coffee thanks to the courtesy facilities saw him ready for what remained of the day inside fifteen minutes. He rang down to the concierge and ordered a cab. Despite the detailed directions from the tea vendor of the previous evening, he hardly felt inclined to navigate to the Harvard district on public transport today. Flowers could be purchased at the entrance of the cemetery according to the taxi driver.

Xander wandered through the vast graveyard that was the Mount Auburn Cemetery, at once beautiful and horrible, familiar and utterly foreign. How many cemeteries had he frequented in the past? How often had he ignored the messages, the ornate headstones, even the names (!), as they chased, fought or hid from, the various demons in the graveyards of Sunnydale. Tara, Joyce, even Jesse’s tributes all now absorbed into the huge hole that had been his hometown.

It seemed fitting that Aunt Agnes’ ‘people’ had been important enough and possessed enough foresight to reserve her a place in this esteemed Boston burial ground, albeit she had apparently elected cremation and was therefore… dust and a plaque. Xander could not help sad thoughts enter as he knelt by the small brass plate. It was always dust with those he loved. Always about dust.

“Agnes McAllister
1930 – 1995
Loved & loving mother & wife.
Now in heaven’s embrace.”

He placed the twelve white roses at the base of the plaque, and quite unexpectedly felt like his five year old self, wishing dearly for just one more cuddle in that ample bosom. Kneeling on the snow covered ground, he let warm tears of regret and loss drop, melting the thin layer with an odd little pattern of dots.

Some half hour or so later, he stood to wander with little interest through the older sections of the cemetery then continued on the road to Harvard Square. He had done what he had come for, yet it still seemed that closure of some other nature remained ‘pending’.

He ambled by the various imposing buildings that made up Harvard University, admiring the Law building and trying to find ‘Chemistry’ for no other reason than he had spied it on the campus map. He wondered idly whose job it was to order the gargoyles or ornate column stonework, on the architectural team of the day. *Yeah Stan, I’ll have seven of those dragons with their tongues out, three ugly trolls and a couple of swirly thingys for the bit near the front* Xander grinned to himself and walked on.

As he passed the library he was struck by the memory of a conversation with Spike in their last days. They had been talking about school, learning and regrets. Xander had always wished to be better at school, knowing he was not ‘stupid’, but taking on that mantle as he struggled with a home life that was less than conducive to academic achievement. Spike, on the other hand, had divulged that he had indeed been to university. Studying classics had been the standard for any gentleman of the day, and a trend he was beholden to follow, though he begged to be allowed to devote his time exclusively to literature. He admitted to whiling away many an hour in the vaulted halls of the main library of Cambridge, engrossed in the words of the literary greats despite pressing study deadlines in other subjects.

Xander wondered whether the Cambridge library looked anything like the Harvard one, then decided that he really needed to ‘go do something touristy’ and shake out of the growing funk.

Hours later Xander had ‘done’ Bunker Hill, making a point of near jogging the steps after several other out of towners exited past him with grumbles of ‘how difficult’ the climb had been, how there ‘should be a lift’, and various other unwarranted comments. He ‘did’ the USS Constitution and when light started to fade, took the subway back to near the hotel.

As he collected his key from the front desk, Xander was startled by a young woman nudging his arm as she announced loudly, “You’all by yer self? ‘Cause if y’ are, we’d jes love some extra company. D’yall like Jazz?”

He spun around in the direction of the voice to see a collection of rather handsome couples, noting that the Stetsons on the men made the group appear oddly reminiscent of a scene from the old TV show ‘Dallas’. Xander smiled in response to the question and at his own thoughts that the notion of Country and Western dressed Texans seeking out trendy Boston jazz clubs must be contradictory to at least one of the laws of nature!

“Sure – be down in five. You folks eaten?”

The rangy red head man with black hat sporting a snakeskin band (and matching boots!) answered first, “Figured on eatin’ Chinese or the like – you partial?”

“Great! Name’s Xander Harris.” Xander thrust his hand forward and firmly shook hands with the three men and names were exchanged. He felt strangely naked without a hat to ‘tip’ when it came to their ‘women-folk’, and opted for a rather embarrassed nod instead. After a fairly full day of walking, another lengthy hike was hardly welcome, but Xander did not fancy eating alone tonight, and the prospect of sharing a night of good music with these amicable southerners was certainly appealing.

The meal was pleasant with food proving unremarkable but the company most entertaining. Xander noted that eating Chinese out had probably been spoilt forever by the wonderful Edwin at ‘Shanghai Palace’ not a block from his home in Sacramento. Six years of regular patronage had led to a very ‘personal’ menu with Edwin knowing just how to ‘tweak’ each dish to suit Xander’s tastes.

The members of his party were all loud and jovial. Xander quickly learned that the ‘boys’ had been school buddies, all played football, and now shared business interests in the car and truck industry. The holiday together was an annual event. The women said little, but when they did Xander had the distinct impression that given different circumstances, they would easily hold their own with their rowdy partners both intellectually and in generosity of spirit. Xander found himself the ‘quiet one’ of the evening but no one seemed to notice particularly.

At around nine they made their way to Wally’s Café in the south end. They’d been told it was *the* place for local jazz and blues, was always busy, and hosted a diverse crowd. Something Xander could only be thankful for as he and the John Wayne look-alikes (and partners) lined up for entry.

The line had been moving slowly but the atmosphere friendly and relaxed, so there were no complaints. Xander had just turned to ask one of the ‘girl-friends’ what she did for a living, when he was struck from behind by a person pushing through the crowd. Xander’s first reaction was to check for his wallet as he turned to confront the ill mannered queue jumper. He could only see the back of what he thought looked like a twenty something student heading toward an ally. He was about to yell after the man when he just made out the words “Bloody tourists” growled in a distinctly English accent, so remained mute and opted to stare hard at the retreating figure, the voice and stride were distinctly familiar but the appearance and situation was wrong.

He stood looking for some time wondering whether his visits to graveyards and universities had brought on such odd associations. Finally prompted by impatient fellow music lovers, he moved forward in the queue, saying outloud, “God that could have been Spike in another life…” The woman behind him looked puzzled but said nothing, and the evening continued without further incident.

Stumbling into his room around three in the morning, Xander reviewed the events of the day, concluded that all in all, it had been an excellent adventure and resolved to ‘do’ the Freedom trail the following day.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Spike 27 Dec

Spike woke too early having been plagued by dreams of dismembered bodies, headless children and Xander screaming as his eye was pushed out. He opted to try for some writing to redirect his tumultuous thoughts.

He stared at the correspondence from yesterday now lying beside the computer and could not shake the thought that he might indeed have be conversing with Xander. It was incredible if it were true. He read and re read the words and finally focused on the ‘Sunny Boston’ line. The notion that the whelp was in the same city *and* chatting online to him seemed altogether too far fetched, but a part of him desperately wanted to believe it. Waiting for the computer to reboot, he worried a cuticle and reviewed his own reasons for not making contact with the boy after he regained his corporeal status in LA. What would he say to him now if they did happen to meet? What if they had been living right next door all this time?

Spike now desperately needed to positively identify ‘Xanman’ – otherwise he was wasting a good worry. He started online with the user group where he posted his stories, but the user biography for Xanman was empty except for the gender ‘Male’ and marital status ‘Single’. There was also an Email address, but Spike already knew that.

He then tried a quick search for “Alexander Lavelle Harris + bio” and tried to predict just how many hits he would get. The first few returns were all the same. He clicked on the link and was taken to a construction company’s website and the section profiling their management team. The whelp had done well for himself it seemed, with a number of awards for excellence on large projects listed amongst his achievements. If anything this site cast doubt on Spike’s ‘Xanman theory’ as he read ‘Head Office, Sacramento’ in the listing for workplace.

Two other things he noticed. The Xander in the photograph at the top of the profile showed a thinner, older man than Spike remembered, most definitely older. Spike mentally kicked himself – of course he would be changed, humans age in eight years. He was looking here at Xander, the upwardly mobile, ‘thirty-something’.

Frustrated that he was getting no closer to Xanman’s identity, he lit a cigarette, squinted through the smoke and returned the screen to the list of search results. A quick scan to the bottom of the page produced little more joy, so he altered the search to read ‘Xanman + Harris + bio’ and hit enter.

The very first entry was for a live journal. Spike took a long drag on his cigarette and clicked on the link. And there it was.

User Name: Xanman
Nickname: Harris
Age: 32
Marital Status: Very Single
Location: California
Occupation: Project manager, construction industry

Spike clicked through a few pages of the journal, just to reassure himself, but this most definitely had to be right. Websites were recommended, favorite online authors mentioned (including NonPerson Spike was pleased to note), and even a surprising account of a one night stand that made it fairly obvious that Harris, at least occasionally, enjoyed ‘batting for the other team’.

He was half way through the third page, when the words on screen caused his stomach to flip. Under the entry ‘Absent friends’, Spike read a loving description of…. himself. Those last few days in the basement together had certainly left quite a legacy it seemed. It was the line “I would do anything to see him again” that had Spike questioning whether to act or not.

If the boy truly was in Boston, Spike just had to see him – even if they didn’t actually meet, he simply could not be this close without sighting him. After that he would decide a next step.

He returned to his Email and replied to Xanman:

“Dear X

Ta for the plot bunny

Will see what I can do

If in Boston suggest poetry & blues event, south end Boston Common tonight, dress warm

NP”



He hit ‘send’ and was surprised to receive an almost instant answer:

“Thanks for the tip

Already planned on going – great minds…

X”



It was that easy. Spike couldn’t help bouncing a little as heated some blood. He drank it swiftly then headed back to bed to bide his time until he needed to go. He was feeling truly excited for the first time in years. After five minutes of agitated wriggling, he decided to rid himself of some energy by indulging in a little horizontal activity.

He selected from his bottom drawer collection of ‘toys’ to help matters along. He took out his original butt plug, purchased shortly after arriving in Boston. It was oft now relegated to a warm up role, as it would be today. He then took out the real arsenal – a seriously, large, ribbed, multi speed number and of course, the essential lube (no need for flavour when flying solo)…… he didn’t mind hurting but essentially sought to feel totally filled today. He left the rest of the selection in the drawer – and pushed it shut.

Spike looked at the time, noting that there was around an hour until sundown, he began the familiar pattern. A little ‘light reading’, pour lube, slick entrance and ‘warm-up’ plug, penetrate, take self in other hand and begin matched rhythm. Then add more lube, swap toys, find the right angle, add vibrations, pick up the pace in front, seek more feeling, pinch nipples hard and continue.

After some minutes he felt tingles start to build, and began to breathe, but when his arousal subsided a little, he thought of the nights with Xander all those years ago, then worked for a little more harshness in the mix, shoving the plug almost painfully against his prostate. Finally with the artificial stimulus pushed to a maximum, the sensations ramped up just enough. He panted a few more times then released with a groan. For a few blissful moments he existed not as himself, but *purely* as his own physical need and satisfaction – all thoughts and doubts banished.

Spike slipped into a light sleep, waking just after sunset in time to prepare for his excursion to the Common.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>.
Xander 27 Dec

Xander’s plans to take a leisurely walk around the Freedom Trail the following day had been changed somewhat when his enthusiastic companions from the previous night decided to ‘come too’. “Cuz, y’all seem t’ have the day figured out and we’re kinda at a loose end. So if y’all don’t mind, we’d appreciate taggin along.” Accompanied by Kathleen’s sweet smile and memories of the group’s generous inclusion of a solo Californian the previous evening, Xander hardly felt it fair to refuse.

By the time they had located Paul Revere’s house however, he was having serious doubts. There were only so many: obligatory references to him as a ‘Yankee, no offence’; lessons in confederate history (apparently far more riveting than actually appreciating *Boston’s* history as they walked through it!); and ‘Ooh ain’t that jes the cutest thang’ statements at shop fronts (with associated half hour of waiting while the souvenir savvy southern ladies made a purchase), that Xander could stand before, thanks to a fairly heavy downpour, he was able to convincingly fake a headache, then excuse himself and return to the hotel.

As he trudged back through narrow streets, he felt a little ungracious, as they really *were* nice people, but he was sure “Mitchell .K. the third” and friends would be just fine without him.

It was still raining, so the hotel really was a reasonable option for the afternoon. He jumped online and was pleased to note a reply to last night’s epic letter to Willow. Apparently that amount of news from him was “fantastic” and “well overdue” and “better not stop there buddy”. Xander smiled as he imagined the redhead delivering the last line whilst standing with hands on her hips in the ‘grin and glare’ combination of her ‘resolve face’ that only Willow seemed able to perfect.

He flicked open the writer’s list and read a few of the entries, smiling at the NonPerson’s response to an enthusiastic post on poetry. Noting the recommendation, he found the Boston City’s site and located details of the event. If the rain held off he figured that a Blues and Poetry night in a park could really be OK, besides, it was free and he could always come home again.
He was just about to log off when mail landed in his inbox.

“Dear X

Ta for the plot bunny

Will see what I can do

If in Boston suggest poetry & blues event, south end Boston Common tonight, dress warm

NP”



He marveled at the timing – particularly the suggestion of the Poetry evening, so shot back a message, then put the laptop on the floor.

As he relaxed back onto the cushions of the window seat, Xander pondered the idea that this ‘NonPerson’ might well be a Bostonian. It did seem odd for someone to have knowledge of local events, if they weren’t actually in the city. His thoughts ran to the storylines and characters favored by NP and, apart from the latest unusually disturbing contribution to the list, it all seemed plausibly Hellmouthy. He concluded that if NP was a former Sunnydalite, the most likely scenario was that they were either one of the potentials (now slayers), or possibly one of the new watchers flexing his or her ‘history writing’ muscles in the daytime, whilst doing their nightly slayer minding.

With thoughts of the irrepressible Andrew and the many slayers in the last weeks at Revello Drive, Xander decided against asking NP directly, or arranging any more formal contact. He really would rather not have to meet and greet any of that crowd. He resolved to enjoy the prose and forget the rest, to shower and head out for the Common to enjoy the show when the time was right.





Part Five



Spike - evening 27 Dec

Minus the satchel, Spike was dressed as he had been the previous evening. The only other variation, being a black ribbon rather than a rubber band containing his hair, the change for no other reason than the band broke as he tied the ponytail.

Spike made his way to the common, deciding en route, that he would need to be able to see the faces of the audience if he were to successfully spot ‘the boy’, and quickly fixed on a cover story if caught in close proximity to backstage.

Stealing a notepad and three HB pencils from a local all night store, he quickly scribbled a set of ‘open ended questions’ regarding poets-of-note on the first page and marched up the hill to the small amphitheatre-like rise at the south end of the park.

As it turned out, Spike need not have bothered with the pilfering. There were only around 150 patrons scattered across the lawn area designated for ‘audience’. Spike easily spotted Xander seated on what looked like a plastic sheet as the vampire wandered across the grass toward the recital.

He stalled, undead heart attempting a beat when he spotted that familiar, yet oddly different face.

He changed plans, deciding that, as Xander had perched himself toward the central rear of the crowd, he could content himself with a profile view of his former ‘brother-in-arms’.

He watched the boy for some time. Noted that he was here alone, then worked his way through to the forming and dismissing of at least six reasonable scenarios for making contact… all of which ended in imagined disaster.

Spike listened to a number of the contemporary ‘artisans’ deliver their own, what he considered average, material, then was genuinely pleased by Xander’s smile when the first blues ‘set’ began. In that musical interlude, he took the risk of moving closer to his former friend, and enjoyed the idea that he really had been right in all his research of Xanman and a Boston presence. He noted that a beard had obviously been grown post the ‘corporate photo’, but the man looked good.

As his muse contemplated various complimentary terminology for the attractive brunette, someone began to read a particularly and very personal favourite poem from his beloved Byron. A poem he’d recited to both Xander and Angel on their last evenings together in vastly different circumstances. A poem found amongst Byron’s papers after his death, and one that was so personal to Spike, that the world reduced to the deep baritone voice of the reader booming the stanzas out to the audience in that moment:

“I watched thee when the foe was at our side -
Ready to strike at him, -or thee and me -
Were safety hopeless - rather than divide
Aught with one loved - save love and liberty.

I watched thee in the breakers - when the rock
Received our prow - and all was storm and fear,
And bade thee cling to me through every shock -
This arm would be thy bark - or breast thy bier.

I watched thee when the fever glazed thine eyes -
Yielding my couch - and stretched me on the ground
When overworn with watching - ne'er to rise
From thence - if thou an early grave hadst found.

The earthquake came and rocked the quivering wall -
And men and Nature reeled as if with wine -
Whom did I seek around the tottering hall -
For thee - whose safety first provide for - thine.

And when convulsive throes denied my breath
The faintest utterance to my fading thought -
To thee - to thee - even in the grasp of death
My Spirit turned - Ah! oftener than it ought.

Thus much and more - and yet thou lov'st me not,
And never wilt - Love dwells not in our will -
Nor can I blame thee - though it be my lot
To strongly - wrongly - vainly - love thee still.”

By the final line he looked up to see Xander’s place empty and realized he was crying, just in time to register an emotion filled voice behind him whispering “God Spike, if it’s not you then *please* don’t turn around.”

He hesitated for a second, then turned.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Xander - evening 27 Dec

Xander had begun his on foot journey toward the Common in good humor, stopping only briefly to procure a pack-of-three ‘heavy duty trash bags’ from a late night shop – his experience at the cemetery on his second day in this city reminding him that ‘snow’, or even just ‘ground in winter’, did not equate to ‘dry’ in anyone’s estimation.

He was fairly early, so chose a central spot, though still far enough back that if he found a need to leave early, he could do so without being too obvious.

Xander sat through the apparently obligatory reading of ‘The Ride of Paul Revere’, followed by a ‘by rote’ rendition of the Declaration of Independence recited by a person he swore had been borne post Y2K, then genuinely enjoyed the first ‘set’ from a local blues band who’s lead singer vaguely reminded him of Oz.

As the music struck up, he began to look around the audience. It was obvious that some on the hill that day were regulars not tourists. The more than ample picnic baskets, warm rugs and ground level fold out seating, a give away for Bostonians used to enjoying this type of ‘civic service’ at Christmas. There were a few students – apparently they came in ‘huddles’ with associated backpacks full of illicit beverage that was, from time to time, being extracted and imbibed at speed. And then there were a few others…

He noted one slim young man in a ‘great coat’ picking his way through the crowd, and tracked his progress for long enough to mark a few other key details: the confident stride; the slim stature; the generally attractive ‘look’.

His curiosity piqued, Xander graciously accepted the opera glasses from the elderly couple next to him, but turned his attention to ‘that unknown student’ rather than a focus to the stage.

What he saw caused him to draw breath. He somehow knew it was the individual who had bumped him so rudely the previous night. And his ‘wiggins’ meter left over from Scooby days cranked up to emergency levels.

The hair and clothes might have differed from his old friend, but the facial features were unmistakable. Cheek bones to die for, full pout on lips so familiar, and the blue eyes unmistakable, all so convincing that Xander was *sure* it had to be Spike. But it made no sense?! Spike had dusted, the Hellmouth had closed. He berated himself for the wishful thinking but as the Byron piece began he was suddenly no surer that he was right in this assumption, than of anything else in existence.

Xander handed back the tiny binoculars to their owner with a nod of thanks, then moved to a position directly behind the young man he’d been observing. He was suddenly conscious that the poem being read was one that Spike had recited by heart in their last days. He weighed odds only a child of the Hellmouth could consider – Angel had come back from Hell, Willow made the switch from trying to end the world to being one of its most powerful wiccan protectors, and Buffy had come back from the dead… twice… so why not Spike?

Xander was now close enough to the long haired ‘student’ that even from behind, he could make out the pouting lips moving in time with the words of Byron, indicating at least a close familiarity with the poem. It was then he took what could only be described as a leap of faith…. He sidled up behind the preoccupied audience member and whispered, “God Spike, if it’s not you then *please* don’t turn around.”

He stood back then watched with some amazement as the perfectly remembered and adored crystal blue pair of eyes turned to meet his, now quite self conscious, albeit one eyed gaze.





Next






Feed the Author

Visit the author's Live Journal

The Spander Files