Survival Instincts
by
Savoy Truffle
Part Twenty-One
After an almost sleepless night and a few unproductive hours in his office, Xander admits to himself what “everything I can” is. He doesn’t have Dawn’s phone number, but he channels Jamie’s Internet savvy and looks up her email through the Case Western website. He sends a message and has his answer within a few hours.
He goes home shortly after that, taking off early, and surprises Spike sitting on the couch. If he’d come home at the normal time, Xander knows Spike would have made sure he was elsewhere and, damn it, how did it come to this? How did they go from whatever they were there for a minute to hiding from each other within a small apartment?
He realizes he’s been standing and staring when Spike finally looks up with a question on his face.
“You’re home early.”
Xander thinks about calmly telling him why, but sharp words come out instead.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” More an accusation than a question:
“Tell you wh—?”
“Don’t say ‘tell you what?’! You know very well ‘what.’”
And all of a sudden they’re both standing, facing off, yelling at each other.
“Wasn’t going to say ‘tell you what?’ I was going to say ‘tell you when?’ When exactly—during which our many heart-to-hearts lately—was I supposed to have told you? Huh, Xander? When?”
“I don’t give a fuck when. Whenever. This is more important than whatever fucked up reason we’re not talking to each other. You just should have told me.”
“’S none of your business.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Of course it’s my business. Jesus! How long?”
Spike shrugs, starts to walk away.
“Damn it, Spike! Don’t walk away from me. Answer me. Jamie said last week. Is that when it started or was it earlier?”
Spike stops walking, but still doesn’t answer.
“Answer me.”
“Been about two weeks now,” Spike mumbles.
“And there’s no reason?” Xander’s voice is softer now, but still tense, urgent. “You’re not hurting anybody? You’re not touching anybody? You’re not even…”
“I’m not even thinking bad thoughts. So how d’you like that?” Spike drops onto the couch.
“I don’t like it at all. We’re going to Cleveland.”
Spike’s head snaps up. “Wait. What?”
“I’ll talk to Jamie tonight. We’ll leave tomorrow at sunset. We should be able to do it in two and a half nights if we make good time.”
“Hold on…”
“I already emailed Dawn and she’ll fill everyone in, see if anyone has any ideas.”
“Xander. Just stop for a second.”
“What?”
“I’m not your fucking pet.”
And once more, with feeling: “What?!”
“I’m not your pet. You can’t just make a decision like this and then pack me into the car like a bloody Yorkshire terrier. You ever think about asking me what I want to do?”
“Christ, I can’t believe this. You need help, Spike, and I’m trying to get that for you. Don’t you get that? I mean, first you say I’m treating you like my whore, and now you say I’m treating you like my pet. Did it ever occur to you that maybe, just maybe, I’m treating you like my friend? That maybe I care about you?”
“Sure you care about me… when you need me. When it’s convenient…”
“What are you talking about? I seriously don’t get it. Where is this coming from, Spike?… Spike?… Spike!”
Spike’s face tenses, contorts. His hands clutch at his head, a tableau of silent agony until he cries out. Xander drops onto the couch, is by Spike’s side in an instant, but then he just stares, hands hovering over Spike’s coiled form, not knowing what to do, afraid to touch Spike in the middle of the wail, worried he’ll somehow cause more harm…
Then, as suddenly as it started, it’s over and Xander doesn’t hesitate to haul Spike into his arms, running soothing hands wherever he can reach and producing a soothing voice to go with them.
“Convenient?” Xander manages a soft laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding. When have you ever been convenient, Spike? Huh? You’ve always been—how would you put it?—a bloody pain in my arse? Yeah, that sounds about right. You’ve never been convenient… but I do need you. I need you now… and sometimes?… sometimes it feels like I’ve always needed you….”
“You’re petting me,” Spike grumbles, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Get used to it.” Xander keeps petting and keeps talking, hands and voice gentle, synchronized. “I’m going to need you in Cleveland, too. It’s going to be hard, so hard… but we have to go. We have to go get you help. Because I need you… See, it’s sort of like a catch-22. I think we’re stuck with each other…. Think you can live with that?”
A pause as Spike seems to give the question serious consideration. Finally:
“Lay off the skittish-animal voice and I’ll try.”
Xander laughs and shoves Spike off his lap.
“Jerk.”
“Wanker.”
They smile at each other for the first time in weeks.
“So I’m asking now. Tomorrow night at sunset, okay?”
“Yeah, okay.”
Part Twenty-Two
When Jamie walks into their bedroom that night, Xander is sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting.
“We have to go to Cleveland,” he says without preamble. “We have to go by car. We'll have to be gone for at least two weeks, I think.”
Jamie looks at him. It’s not exactly an invitation. The “we” is ambiguous. After a quiet moment, Xander clarifies.
“You could…”
“I can’t. I shouldn’t miss that much class.” Jamie pretends not to see the relief in Xander’s body language. “So they’re all there? All your… friends?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you scared?”
“I try not to do fear. See, I long ago perfected this special brand of denial that allows me to recognize that really crazy shit happens—often, and especially to me—without actually believing that it’s going to happen when I wake up each morning and have to face life.”
Xander pauses for a moment to consider his own statement, then adds:
“Of course, it's that very skill that allowed me to nearly be eaten by a hot teacher who invited me to her house because she was actually a giant praying mantis, then to nearly have the life sucked out of me by a cute foreign exchange student who was actually a resurrected Incan mummy girl, and then to nearly be lynched by a mob of girls hexed into thinking I was the nummiest treat since Chocolate Hurricanes, and then to nearly be strangled by a renegade vampire slayer who made me her fuck toy, and then to enter a long and ultimately doomed relationship with a former vengeance demon who could have shriveled my manly bits or worse when I was crazy enough to leave her at the alter... and still, after all that, to be foolishly optimistic enough, seven years later, about love on the Hellmouth to go actually go on another date where—surprise, surprise—I found myself being tied, spread-eagled to a giant wheel—and, no, not in a naughty-fun way, but in a let-me-use-your-blood-to-call-forth-the-n
Jamie takes this information in stride, is philosophical.
"Well at least we have the probable answer to what turned you gay,” he notes. “So, I almost followed all that... sort of. But help me with the terminology. Vampire slayer? Hellmouth?"
And once Xander starts explaining, it's impossible to stop. One story leads to another…
"Of course the soldier possession was a hell of a lot more useful than the hyena possession..."
"And don't forget the funny syphillus and being made into Dracula's bug-eating man-bitch..."
And Jamie laughs so hard he nearly cries, but it's obvious that these stories that can be laughed at are just a small selection among many that probably aren't funny at all.
"So, yeah," Xander is saying, "They say Cleveland is another Hellmouth, so it's going to take some serious denial for me to get in the car and drive myself straight into all that wackiness."
"Well, it sounds like you'll be safe enough with your friends. I mean, vampire slayer, witch, librarian..."
"Well, yeah, as long as Willow's not so angry with me that she decides to, say… destroy the world or anything... Which, come to think of it, she's just as likely to do in a misguided effort to help me with something..."
And then comes a whole other group of stories about how powerful doesn't always mean powerfully good or helpful…
"But I'm actually not really worried about that,” Xander concludes. “I mean, they've all grown up now. I'm sure it's all well under control."
"But you are worried? About seeing them again?"
Xander takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly as he drags his hands over his face.
"Yeah. Worried is an understatement. I mean, what if they all hate me?"
"Dawn obviously doesn't hate you."
"Yeah? Well, maybe she should. I mean, maybe they all should. I left them in the middle of an apocalypse, for Christ's sake."
"You had your reasons. Maybe it’s time to try explaining them."
"I just don't know if..."
"You're awfully hard to hate, Alex." Jamie reaches out to cup Xander's chin, runs a thumb under his lip, leans in to kiss him gently. "And you can be pretty easy to love… when you let yourself be."
Another light kiss and then a heavier one that doesn’t stop and leads to hands that search out bare skin to stroke and tease. Clothing melts away and sweat glistens where warm skin presses against warm skin and words disintegrate into sounds of desire. They know just how to touch each other to make it good. Good, slow, familiar, comforting… with just a touch of needy, an edge of desperate.
They rest in each other's arms afterwards, Jamie curled into Xander's side, running lazy fingers over his chest.
"I'll miss you while we're gone," Xander says.
Jamie doesn't answer for a moment. Can’t quite look at Xander’s face when he speaks. His eyes follow the movement of his own fingers on Xander’s chest.
"I'm not going to be here when you get back.”
Xander’s body goes rigid.
“Jamie…”
“Don’t make it harder.”
“But I… I didn’t mean to…”
“Don’t. You don’t have to explain, okay? You have stuff you need to deal with and I thought I could help you, but I can’t. I see that now. You need to go to Cleveland and I… I need to move on with my life.”
Jamie finally finds the nerve to meet Xander’s eye and, in that moment, Xander loses all will to fight the inevitable.
“So that was breakup sex?”
“Yeah.”
“It was good.”
“Yeah. You seemed like you needed it. And I think I did, too.” Jamie sighs. “I want you to feel better, Alex. I want you to be happy again. And I’d like to be friends… if you’ll give me a month or so to get past the post-breakup weirdness.”
"Why are you being so nice?"
"Pretending I hate you isn't going to make it any easier to lose you. Besides, you deserve nice."
"After the way I've treated you?"
"No, after the way life has treated you.” Jamie reaches out to turn off the lamp, then snuggles back up against Xander. “Let’s go to sleep. You have a big day—hell, a big couple of weeks—ahead of you.”
Xander runs a hand slowly down Jamie’s side and wonders what it will be like never to do it again, wonders what the hell he’s given up.
"My personal issues are no excuse. I deserve yelling and screaming and the throwing of blunt objects."
"Well, I'll try to break a few things as I'm moving out. And maybe I'll steal your stereo."
Part Twenty-Three
The next day is rough for Xander. He wakes up and kisses a sleeping Jamie goodbye for the last time. He busts his ass at the office trying to get enough done and enough delegated to be gone for what he knows is an indefinite period of time—though he doesn't let his bosses know that. He gets home and finds Spike.
"Hey. Jamie around?"
"He went out."
"He's... um... not coming with us to Cleveland."
"Yeah, he told me."
"Oh."
"I'm... I'm sorry, Xander."
"Don't be. I lie in a bed very much of my own making."
Spike shrugs.
"We don't always get to make our beds the way we want them, yeah? There’re things you can't control."
"Maybe you’re right. I mean, I guess it’s like no matter how nice the sheets—even if they're like silk or something—they can’t make up for a crappy mattress where the springs are broken and sticking you in the ass."
"Right. I just…” Spike pauses. “Just want you to know that you're not alone in the bed. I'm right there next to you on that dodgy mattress and we're going to make the best of that bed... and we really need to stop using this metaphor now..."
"Um, yeah, about five minutes ago. So, I'm just gonna go pack now. We can leave as soon as the sun sets."
“Right, then.”
Xander packs. Afterwards he sits down and writes a note to Jamie. It's a long note, all logistics and financial stuff, nothing personal. Nothing personal except for the necessary dismantling of a shared life. And somehow writing that note turns out to be harder than the previous night's discussion. The note makes everything real.
Xander takes the first shift behind the wheel. He drives for about three hours until he can barely keep his eyes open, then switches with Spike.
Xander promptly falls asleep in the passenger seat… only to be jolted awake maybe an hour later by the sudden swerving of the vehicle. He looks over and sees Spike, eyes squeezed shut, cringing and clutching at his head with one hand while the other tries to keep the car on a road he can no longer see. Xander grabs the wheel and steadies it just in time to avoid a close encounter with the ditch.
“The brake, Spike! Try to hit the brake.”
But Spike can’t do it, his foot stays jammed into the gas, and they continue to barrel down the road. Xander struggles to keep the wheel steady with his left hand and to keep his one eye on the road as he reaches across his body with his right hand, feels around for the parking brake. He finally gets a grip on it and jerks it up, jolting the car to a sudden and dramatic stop.
Xander starts to breath again in big heaving gulps. His heart threatens to pound right out of his chest. He looks around and takes stock of the situation. The highway is virtually empty, thank God, and Spike’s episode actually appears to be over. But there’s a very annoying noise that won’t seem to stop. It takes Xander a moment, but he figures it out. He gets out of the car, walks around to the driver’s door, opens it, takes Spike by the shoulders and pulls his head up off the horn. Blissful silence.
“C’mere. That’s it,” Xander says, drawing Spike out of the car and into his arms. He walks Spike around to the passenger side and eases him inside.
“One of these days, I’m going to go on one of those fun, footloose and fancy-free roadtrips people are always talking about,” Xander mutters as he buckles the seatbelt around Spike.
He shuts the door, goes back around the car, gets in the driver’s seat and starts driving. He goes on the adrenaline rush for about two hours. After that, it’s a cup of coffee every hour for the next six before sunrise. He downs the last cup sitting across from Spike amid the formica and vinyl of a roadside diner as he consumes an early morning “dinner” of bacon, eggs and hashbrowns.
By the time they check into a Motel 6 for the day, Xander looks so trashed that even the woman behind the desk—whose voice, face and posture imply that she’s seen everything, probably twice—seems reluctant to rent to him. It’s Spike who steps in and charms her into not only renting them a room, but also letting them into it hours before a reasonable check-in time while only charging them for one night. Spike requests a room with two double beds, earning them a look that asks: Who do you two really think you’re fooling? Don’t you know I’ve seen everything?
If only you knew, Spike and Xander are both thinking and they exchange a weary smile and pick up the keys off the counter. Doubt you’ve ever seen a pair quite like us, lady.
As Spike close the door to the room and draws the drapes against the coming sunlight, Xander strips off an outer layer of clothing and collapses onto one of the beds. He attempts to close his eye, but it pops right back open. The joys of caffeine: The body is weary, but the mind is jacked up. Besides which his body clock keeps trying to tell him that it’s time for wakefulness and work. With perseverance he manages some restless dozing only to be woken by the sound of a lamp crashing to the floor. He looks over to find Spike thrashing in bed.
“Bloody, buggering, mother-fucking hell,” Xander mutters. “I have got to stop waking up like this.”
He slides off his own bed and crawls onto Spike’s. He stretches out and pulls Spike’s back against his chest, covering Spike’s hands with his own so that he won’t accidentally get punched, squeezing Spike hard in the circle of his arms in a futile attempt to quell the shaking.
When the chip finally stops, Xander keeps his hold on Spike and pretends not to notice as tears stream quietly down the face of the toughest guy he’s ever known. When Spike finally manages to fall asleep, Xander isn’t far behind.
Spike’s vampire body clock wakes him a sunset. The steady rhythm of Xander’s breath and heartbeat tell Spike that he’s still asleep and Spike wants nothing more than to let him stay that way but knows that he sooner this whole thing is over, the better. He slides out of Xander’s arms and sits up.
“Wake up, luv, it’s nighttime. Let’s go get some breakfast.”
Xander spends about two hours behind the wheel that night before the chip kicks in again. He pulls over and rubs ineffectually at Spike’s shoulder as Spike rides it out.
“Let me drive,” Spike says when it’s over.
“What? Are you actually sustaining brain damage now? There’s no way I’m letting you drive. I value my life, your unlife and this car, for that matter, far too much.”
“Think about it, you git. It just went off, so we’ve got at least a couple of hours before it happens again. If you try to drive all night, you’re just as likely to run us off the road as I am.”
Xander has to admit he’s got a point. So that becomes their new pattern: Xander drives until the chip fires. Spike recovers and takes over for a couple of hours before they both get twitchy and Spike turns the wheel back over to Xander. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
More crappy coffee, another crappy motel, another day spent sleeping in each other’s arms. Around three a.m. on the third night, they finally pull into Cleveland. They check into another motel, both so exhausted that not even the thought of what—or rather who—awaits them both in the morning can keep them from passing out together on the hotel room’s single queen bed.
Part Twenty-Four
Spike and Xander wake up to pain. Spike’s pain is in his head where it feels like firecrackers are shattering his skull. Xander’s pain is first in his arm where Spike’s fingers are digging into his flesh more than hard enough to bruise.
But, lucky him, Xander gets to forget all about that first pain when the second arrives in the form of a thrashing Spike’s knee thrashing right into his crotch. The fact that said crotch was sporting morning wood only exacerbates the issue.
Xander’s third pain, that of him rolling off the bed and onto the floor, goes completely unnoticed in a mind filled with Aw!Shit!Fuck!Ow!Holygoddamnmotherfucking
In spite of the internal cacophonies, the room is actually utterly silent until a few minutes later when Spike comes back to himself and opens his eyes to an empty bed.
“Xander?”
“Morning, Spike,” Xander calls from the floor.
“What’re you doing down there?”
“Nothing. I think I’m just gonna take a shower now.”
Xander crawls his way over to the bathroom door, pulls himself upright with the doorframe, pulls off his t-shirt, gingerly strips off his pajama pants and limps into the shower stall.
As the hot spray brings Xander back to himself, he manages to come up with three “bright” sides: (a) at least Spike’s chip couldn’t fire when he accidentally hurt Xander since it was firing already; (b) at least Xander hadn’t had to deal with the potentially awkward consequences of waking Spike up with that morning wood pressing into his thigh; and (c) at least now Xander has the clear motivation he needs to get over his nerves and not put off calling Dawn for another second.
Oh yeah, sings Xander’s sarcastic inner voice as he dries off and wraps a towel around his hips, the future’s so bright I’ve gotta wear shades.
He walks out of the bathroom and picks up his cell phone.
“Ready?” he asks Spike.
“Soul says ‘no,’ but the head says ‘hell yeah.’”
Xander dials. As he waits for the call to connect and Dawn to pick up, he tries frantically to think of a good meeting place. He might as well be choosing the location for a Middle East peace summit. Nothing seems right.
A public place would lack the privacy they need to discuss Spike’s problem, but all private places carry emotional disadvantages. He doesn’t want anyone besides Spike in the hotel room, needs it to be a refuge, a potential hiding place. But if they go to Buffy’s or Willow’s or even Giles’, he and Spike will be the outsiders—knocking awkwardly at the door when they should be walking in, perched uncomfortably on a couch or chairs when they should be sprawled, being asked if they would like anything to drink when they should be helping themselves.
And there will be no natural leaving point—no check brought by a waiter, no other patrons waiting on their table, just faked yawns or fabricated engagements, standing up and stretching to cover the awkwardness, “Well,” loud and falsely jovial, “I guess we should get going…”
“Hey, where are you? Did you make it? How’s Spike doing?”
Dawn’s voice startles Xander, leaving him at a momentary loss. He remembers fondly a time before caller ID when you had at least the space of “Hello?” and “Hey, it’s me” to get your bearings. He takes a deep breath and plays back the questions in his head.
“A hotel. Barely. And not so great.”
“Well, Buffy’s figured something out. We need to meet her. Giles is out of town, so we can use his office at the council building. It’s big and private and…”
“Neutral.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s perfect. Thanks, Dawnie.”
“No thanks necessary. Family, remember?”
A pause.
“Just give me some time.”
Xander can practically see Dawn considering this on the other end of the phone.
“Alright, you get a little time, but no space. We only make sense when you’re stuck right in the middle of us.”
“Now that, I remember. So, how do we get to the council?”
“So, how long do you think we can stand outside this door before we become the biggest fraidy cats on the planet?”
Spike grabs Xander’s wrist and studies his watch.
“Roughly ninety more seconds,” he says with authority.
A silence.
“It’s going to be alright,” Xander says suddenly.
Spike considers.
“Your tone was pretty convincing—I give it a nine-point-two. But your expression? A little dodgy—three-point-six at best.”
“Three-point-six? That’s harsh.”
“You look like you’re going to vomit.”
“Ah, but I haven’t vomited. That should count for something.”
“Alright, four-point-one.”
“Cool, so then if you average them, that means—”
“It’s time to stop stalling and go in.”
Xander nods. Spike opens the door. Xander walks in. Spike bounces back off an invisible barrier.
“Bloody hell!”
“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry!” And there’s Willow, rushing forward. “I forgot. It’s magicked. I’m so sorry. Come in, Spike.”
Spike comes in and there they all are.
“Red.”
“Xander.”
“Willow. Buffy.”
“Xander. Spike.”
“Slayer. Bit.”
“Well good,” Dawn says, clapping her hands together. “Everyone still remembers everybody else’s name. I think that’s a good start.”
The quip meets with silence.
“No really. I mean, now we don’t have to waste any time on reintroductions. And you know how when you meet someone and they tell you their name and then you just aren’t even listening because you’re thinking about what kind of impression you’re making and you’re trying to size them up and stuff so then, like a minute later, you’re all asking yourself, ‘What was that person’s name again?’ but it would definitely be weird to ask since they just—”
“So I called Riley,” Buffy interrupts. Slayer approach to awkwardness: cut to the chase. “Well, actually, I called this place that pretended to be a flower shop and left a message hoping it was a government conspiracy instead of just a wrong number. And apparently conspiracy theorists have the right idea because these soldier guys showed up, with a med team. Riley sent them and they say they can help you. They converted a conference room. It’s down the hall.”
Spike is speechless.
“Now,” Xander asks, eye on Spike. “Right now?”
“They say every hour could be critical,” Buffy says in the general direction of Willow. She hasn’t really looked at either Spike or Xander since they came in.
“Right then,” Spike says. “Lead the way.”
Spike and Xander follow the others out of the office and down the hall. When they reach the conference room, Buffy opens the door. The room is full of armed soldiers, men in white coats, an exam table, bright lights and scary, shiny, silver equipment.
Spike takes it all in and gives a shaky nod. “They’re a subtle presence, aren’t they?”
They all continue to stare, but no one moves. Xander breaks the silence.
“Uh guys? Can we have a moment?”
“You know, Dawn and I don’t really need to be here,” Willow says. “We’ll just wait back in the office.”
“And I’ll, uh, wait over here,” Buffy says, wandering a few yards down the hallway.
Closing the conference room door so they can no longer see in, Xander puts a hand on Spike’s arm and speaks in a low voice.
“I…um… I’ve had a tendency… in the past… to respond to… situations like this with emotional declarations that I… I…”
“Don’t mean,” Spike finishes, looking down.
“No, that I mean, but that I’m not necessarily… ready to follow through on.”
“’S’alright. Maybe this isn’t really a situation like this…”
Xander can see the terror behind Spike’s eyes. He runs his hand up and down Spike’s arm.
“Yeah, probably not. But if this were a situation like this, I just want you to know that just because I’m not saying anything doesn’t mean I don’t mean it. Okay?”
“You know, it’s bloody frightening that I actually understood what you just said.”
“Actually, I think it’s kind of nice.”
Xander motions for Buffy to come back. She opens the conference room door and indicates that Spike should go in ahead of her. Spike hesitates and turns back to Xander.
“Me, too. And not just about the nice thing. ’Bout the other stuff, too.”
Xander nods and Spike goes in, followed by Buffy. She comes back out a few minutes later and she and Xander stand in the hallway without speaking. Twenty silent minutes later, a soldier comes out and addresses Buffy.
“Med team tells me they took a look at the chip. You were right. It's degraded. Leave it as it is much longer, it'll be fatal to him.”
Xander can’t breathe. It’s as if those words have sucked all the oxygen from the building. He hears Buffy and the soldier talk as if from a vast distance.
“Okay,” Buffy is saying. “So how long t—”
“Now.”
“Right. Of course. Um, what do we do next?”
“Agent Finn said it was your call, ma'am.”
“My—what was my call?”
“All decisions regarding Hostile 17 are to be left in your hands. This chip...we can either repair it... or remove it.”
The ensuing silence seems to deafen Xander, until he hears his own voice, surprisingly calm and firm.
“Remove it.”
The soldier looks at Xander, then at Buffy. Xander looks at Buffy. Their eyes meet and hold for the first time in almost seven years. The moment stretches and Xander can hear his own heart pounding in his chest and then Buffy is looking away, turning to the soldier.
“You heard him,” she says. “Remove it.”
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