Pairing: Xander/Spike
Rating: Mature Audiences – for content and themes.
Summary: Exquisite statue… admirer… magic… and everything changes.
Warnings: M/M – if you don’t like boys together, don’t play here!
Disclaimer: Don’t own the characters nor make any money from stories etc, and bow down to their original creators Joss, et al., plus all the wonderful online writers who continue to give the Buffy/Angel verse characters life.

White Marble

by
Josie_H

Part One

Xander had limited patience for art at the best of times but Dawn was studying the history of Roman sculptures of antiquity and they had had been to almost every statue gallery in Vatican city at her behest.

Xander was resigned to more chipped stone and missing noses by the time the day was through – the artistry of the time no doubt extraordinary and Dawn’s enthusiastic commentary assisting in making the day tolerable. Still, Xander put it down to fatigue the following day when he went with Dawn to St Peters Basilica and saw Michaelangelo’s “Pieta" and he felt the uncharacteristic prickle of tears as they viewed the virtually perfect marble.

The figure on the lap of Mary was slim and handsome, and had martyred himself to save the humanity – yet according to most accounts, may not have truly been one of them. Xander was in no way tempted to compare the heroic act of Spike or any other of their 'crew' to any biblical parallel, but the figure was evocative and Spike and Anya’s deaths – and those of the other potential slayers - were still raw even after two years. Xander had lost too much.

He had only come to Europe at Dawn and Willow’s request. He was tired and still grieving to be honest and his work in the construction industry giving him a little flexibility with holidays as projects started and finished.

So he had three weeks. He visited the coven in England for four blissful days with Willow and was now in Italy. He really didn’t have the money to stay more than a month, even if he had wanted to. At least not if he ever wanted a decent life back in the states. There was enough compensation from the Sunnydale disaster fund and his own parents’ life insurance to put a deposit on a house… somewhere. It was just that he had yet to find a where…

So he took a trip and now stood at the Pieta, stemming his own tears and wiping away Dawn’s with his ‘manly handkerchief’ instead.

He wasn’t staying with Buffy and Dawn in Rome. The Slayer was going through a ‘carefree phase’ and had a new boyfriend – some guy who pretentiously named himself ‘the Immortal’ something or other. Xander hardly saw her and by all reports she and the new squeeze went clubbing almost every night – plus Andrew was still also ‘crashing’ at the “Casa del Summers”.

Instead, he’d taken lodgings in a cheap local hotel where the noise from the landlady arguing in loud Italian with her husband, was easily drowned out on the Saturday night when the four drunken boys from LA on one side, seemed to be trying to compete with the ‘hens party’ from Birmingham UK on the other, for who could make the most noise. In the end he went for a walk for much of the night and visited Dawn the next day to say a quick farewell.

She was in a bit of a rush to head to language school so the meeting was easier than he expected, and he realized that, like with Willow, he was (as usual) probably just a bother to everyone anyway, given their busy lives.

He escaped Rome and headed for the coast where he resolved to stay for the rest of his holiday and was now wandering alone in the ‘medieval quarter’ of central Gajeta when he entered the gallery for the first time.

He was about to enjoy his first night completely alone again at a refurbished, very ritzy B&B run by a young English couple (Ron and Davina) in the coastal town that lay around eighty miles south of Rome. He had been very relieved to find there was no need to worry about language (even if Davina was a bit ‘over the top’ in term of gushy hostess).

The tiny town only took a half hour to walk around and was a popular destination particularly in summer and right on a marine reserve so wonderful harbor views and fabulous castle. Thankfully it was ‘low season’ and Xander appreciated the quiet after the frenetic pace of the last eight days.

He had a beer at a local café and admired the view and the ancient buildings, before wandering a little further to find a small gallery specializing in marble pieces on the corner of the piazza. The exquisitely fine carving of a fisherman with a net – the figurine only a foot or so high - caught his eye and he had aught else to do, so entered to look for more.

The young gallery curator/owner seated behind a desk in the rear of the space did not even look up from his soccer magazine as Xander entered, but continued to smoke and sip his macchiato. Xander began to make his way around the front room and finally found a tiny stand of brochures – some in English.

The works were exquisite and apparently all done by two local artists. “K. Giovanni” seemed to specialize in the smaller works and local themes, while the larger pieces – the majority figures from Roman Mythology - were signed to “Laz Minassos”.

He was just admiring the tiny detail on the ‘shepherd with two goats’ piece when the gallery employee must have decided the 'browser' was actually likely to purchase. The American flag on Xander’s day pack probably gave it away, but Xan was still surprised to be addressed in English – albeit with a heavy accent and not a small measure of disdain.

“Better is upstairs. You buy... we ship perfect to you place of living… anywhere… professional job. We take most cards.”

“Um… yeah thanks… Great… really… I’ll just go look… thanks…” Xander nodded rather distractedly then wandered up the narrow, well worn stone staircase to the upper gallery.

Indeed the collection was far more impressive, with the majority being full sized figures by Minassos. A beautiful Dianna, and exquisite little Cupid, plus several others he couldn’t quite recall in terms of gods were there, but all paled as he rounded on a piece standing alone at the very end of the room.

Unlike the other pieces lit by down lights, the afternoon sun was illuminating the marble of this one. The figure was facing away from the main room, obviously for effect.

An exquisite set of folded ‘angel’ wings cut of marble so thin that the faint yellow orange indicating the start of sunset shone through them, and gave the whole piece an almost living glow.

Xander could not help himself… he reached out and stroked the very edge of the feathers with the back of his hand, and was surprised that it was not cold at all. The silky smooth stone was still slightly warm from the afternoon sun.

He whispered “Oh God… this is so beautiful…” then as though addressing the statue itself, “You are so beautiful!”

The statue’s hand closest to him had a fist clenching a spear as tall as the statue itself, but the angle of the head was not that of pride reflected in all the other statues. The face was turned away and tilted slightly down as though in sadness.

Xander noted the slim lines – very like the Pieta, only a better healthier – and obviously intended to depict a live and exemplary male figure, if the ‘six pack’ was anything to go by. Strong chest and taut thighs, pretty feet and … oops looked there too – well endowed. Obviously Maestro Minassos was not afraid to depict a mature male!

Again he felt compelled and reached out to stroke over the artificially warmed chest, the late sun now giving it a pink hue. The figure’s other arm with clasped hand was over his breast – as though clutching in grief.

There were delicately cut curls of hair slightly obscuring down-turned face of this angel, or god… some so fine, Xander would swear it would be impossible to do!

As he rounded on the far side of the piece, however, there was no touching. His knees simply gave out.

It was unmistakable. The beautiful face of the noble and ensouled vampire that had saved them all from the Hellmouth through his own sacrifice… Xander looked again, this time through tears. It was a perfect likeness… perfect.

… And Spike heard every word, felt every touch, smelt each tear, and wished he too was still able to cry.

Part Two

Xander eventually rose in a daze and kissed the clasped marble hand representing heartfelt grief just as one might a beloved monarch, afraid that if there was too much contact… the statue might somehow crumble to dust. He realized how ridiculous that was and shook himself a little but still addressed the statue quietly as if to a dearest relative when seated at their gravestone.

Tears were streaming down the man’s cheeks in an unstoppable cascade from his good eye, and leaking uncomfortably down his throat from the bad one, as he addressed the inanimate sculpture of a friend lost.

“I never got to say goodbye… I was such an ass, always worrying about how hard it all was for the group and me... but you know… And then you with the soul and the out with the chip and still helping and… Oh God… or Goddess … this is going to sound so ridiculous but… um… [hic] I miss you. [sigh] … Put up with me when you didn’t have to, protected me when you didn’t want to and… Oh geez!!!… and I heard that Angel died in LA too… not sure if you’d know that… sorry if you’re listening somewhere – Andrew told me – Angel took out a dragon doing it though – figure you’d like to know that. Oh Shhh$#@! [hic].

“And you… You’re the bloody hero! Not Deadboy![hic] You with the I’ll get a soul and with the sacrifice … I know I don’t go to church but shit I really hope you made it to heaven… I really do … I know we’ve had our differences but hope oh geeez… Ahn … the two people I… [hic then deep breath]… But the others here are Roman gods – so you have… and your full wings… ::Labored sigh::… Oh Spike… I really do hope that you… and that Anya… Oh God… Spike! I really do hope you are…I… ummm oh sh….”

Strangely he had not cried… he had never cried like he did now… it was a water shed. He found himself with arms wrapped around the ankles of the exquisite marble carving, sobbing his heart out like a small child and feeling like… like somehow someone was finally willing to listen.

The young curator came up the stairs to source the noise and indicate that it was closing time… but decided that if the American was so moved by that piece… the one with the big wings…. Well Minassos would pay him twenty five percent, and his trip to Barcelona for the semifinals of the European cup in a month was paid for guaranteed! He left the tourist alone – and continued to wonder why the foreigners always seemed to choose his shop to cry in!

Raoul wandered back down the narrow staircase and rang first his girlfriend then his mother. Both knew the scenario and understood. Plans would be altered. Claudia now coming for dinner at his mother’s home in an hour and a half, rather than their preferred eating at the café, but at least his mother had agreed to their heading for Rome on the weekend… without a chaperone! That alone was worth it. Raoul wandered next door to order another coffee while his ‘client’ continued to wet the floor upstairs with his tears. He could afford to take his time. The statue was thirty thousand Euro – ‘bargain price!’ and he knew from experience that it would be a ‘two or three visit’ sale… but it would be a sale.

Spike felt the tears on his foot, the kiss on his hand… and… wanted to… then the news of his Sire… Angelus… Angel… dust also. Would he have been rewarded… At least the soul… surely?!

He had no idea Angel had dusted. Spike had fallen as a mob set upon him, pinned down and torn apart, his last vision before he dusted - Charlie-boy dead and his Sire fighting on… then black and cold, or not cold, he wasn’t sure.

He had awoken as a block of stone in Minassos’s studio but had no idea of time in the interim. He resigned himself to being ‘played with’ by the powers just one more time.

As a sentient piece of rock it really was all quite odd… There was a lot of time to ponder odd things before chisel, then diamond drill and sander rendered the broader surfaces and began to remove him from his jail.

He was happy when the Maestro (and Minassos was truly that!) uncovered his eyes, and could not believe the feeling as the amazing wings emerged… His sadness was real and Laz seemed to feel his pain, drawing immense emotion from cold stone and paring away the shards of precious rock until he could again feel his cheek bones and lips… The hand on his heart was fixed for all time as was the one on the spear honoring the good fight… His soul was still here, he knew that and from the corner of his eye, could see the beautiful form of his own familiar body emerging over the weeks, but still he grieved.

The final process of polishing had taken days... no weeks... and he felt every touch, from the coarsest sand paper to the finest diamond polish. His toes, fingers, ears, knees, even scrotum and wing tips… Maestro Minassos pulled Spike’s new form from the piece of stone.

As he did the Maestro talked to his creation as though real, the final polishing more a caress than an act of artistic intent.

Spike so wanted to tell the man how talented he was, wanted to tell him to accept that having a male lover was fine – despite what his brothers might say; tell him that he truly was a genius; let him know that he had once been human too…

And they gave him the spot by the window at the gallery. He wished he could have thanked the Maestro!

Every afternoon he was warmed by her ladyship the sun and he could see the sea and watch in silence as the days came and went. There was aught else to do but to accept. This was to be his purgatory. He wondered if a rich buyer would purchase him and put him in a garden somewhere to gradually melt under the acid rain of Europe; or whether he would be eventually relegated to the dungeons of some large gallery along with the other ‘lesser pieces’; or perhaps fixed in a public space until vandals knocked off his spear holding arm and broke his wings, leaving the town masters no option but to ‘break him up’.

Yet… now there seemed to be… not hope exactly… indeed perhaps it was torture for here was a human he had known when undead, wetting his feet with his tears, hugging his ankles, worshipping him and telling him of his Sire’s fate and his own love for… Spike.

For the first time in… well time really had taken on a different measure now, since there was no hunger and no sleep just… being, he wished he were able to move or speak… He knew he deserved this for all he had done – all he had killed. But he wished that from his eternity of stone, he might at least say thank you… for caring… for remembering… and somehow give comfort.

The gallery lights blinked indicating closing time. Xander wiped his eyes, stroked down the beautiful face of the statue one more time, then departed.

The lights went out and Spike was left in the dark for another night. If he could have sighed he would have. He stared out of the harbor as the lights of houses and boats joined street lights and stars to twinkle and welcome the moon.

Xander promised the rather snarky Raoul that he would return in the morning, before exiting the building only to stand staring at the harbor and the lights of houses and boats and stars, red eyed and still very emotional. He sent a heartfelt prayer to whoever might be listening that Spike might one day be rewarded for his noble acts… that all his sins be forgiven and he be rewarded.

A single marble feather on the very tip Spike’s wing sparkled, became a real feather, then broke off and floated gently to the ground.

Part Three

Xander spent a dreadful night. His accommodation was wonderful; the food from the small seafood café, delicious; but his grief and confusion was as raw as the day the Hellmouth was closed.

He wept then tossed and turned, woke repeatedly, in the end giving up sleep in preference to rising to read, and finally tied on his runners and went for a walk as soon as it was light. He did three laps of the town before returning to the hotel for a late breakfast and English papers.

The gallery didn’t open until eleven. Xander was there on the dot, though Raoul was deliberately a few minutes late. He could see the American sitting on the low sandstone wall from his regular coffee shop, so took his time. He arrived with a fresh coffee and baguette in hand and very casually opened the door. He knew obsession when he saw it and decided to milk the situation – just a little, so there would be no argument about the sale price.

Xander waited a few minutes – not wanting to look over anxious before walking past the apparently preoccupied curator and up the narrow stairs.

He had almost convinced himself that he had imagined the whole thing on the previous evening, but then… there he was. The glorious wings, the body, the spear, the sorrowful tilt of the head and that face. This time Xander kissed the hand that held the spear at the same time stroking the hand that was clenched over the heart with the back of his own hand… just so.

Grief seemed to strike again as he sank down to sit on the raised block of the statue’s feet. He stroked the perfect alabaster as he talked quietly for a little as though to his old fellow fighter from the hellmouth… and more than that, his friend. He told the statue, just as he would tell… well… he suddenly realized it had more often that not been Spike who was his audience… of his own feelings of grief.

Xander mused about his rather ambiguous relationship with Anya, his appreciation of Spike’s ‘form’ and his final realization that he was attracted to men in the “carnal sense if you get my drift” and the confusion that brought with it. If Spike could have rolled his eyes he would have.

In the end Xander simply fell silent and sat idly stroking the feet of the marble angel.

An hour or so of quiet meditation later, Xander broke from his reverie and made to leave. As he stood to farewell his inanimate listener, he spied the delicate white feather on the ground. It was so like the marble ones on the angel as to be uncanny.

He picked it up and cradled the prize in his left hand, brushing the softest of down at the stem of its base. He stroked the whole form then wondered where it might have come from since all the windows seemed to be sealed shut. It was all very odd. Finally he broke from his contemplation. He needed to check his Email… and to do more than sit talking to a statue!

He held onto the feather and took his leave of the angel, “I need to go. This will remind me of you… but I’ll be back… I really will… I’ll be back.”

Spike had felt the warm lips on his marble, and the welcome touch of the slightly calloused skin of Xander’s hands rhythmically caressing his feet as Xander spoke. But when the man picked up the feather as he was about to depart, and gently touched the down at its end, it was as though Spike’s entire wing span had been stroked. It was exquisite torture. The ultimate agony!

As Xander departed he had whispered, “God Spike, I wish you could hear me! I wish you were real… See you tomorrow.” And the statue grieved a little.

Xander could not work out what was wrong with him. He was a man obsessed unable to think of anything else but the angel and Spike the original and his hostile treatment of the loyal vampire post chipping and their later friendship.

He wandered aimlessly through Gajeta, eventually ending up on the seashore leaning against a sandstone wall and staring out at the azure blue… so like he remembered Spike’s eyes… and he really did remember those eyes. Eyes that he had seen defining Spike’s desperation and shame in after the chip; red rimmed after days of grief and regret following Buffy’s death; flashing with yellow as he rose to defend Dawn or any of them in the months that followed; sparkling with the thrill of a fight; that belied age and wisdom and honor. Eyes that had the ability to express the joy of being in a single irreverent glance; to define deadly intent; or to look with such love and affection as would melt a heart of stone.

There was no one around so Xander took off his own eye patch and rubbed the agitated flesh around the socket. He still had one eye because of Spike’s actions that night, total blindness an alternative too horrendous to contemplate. He began to cry anew as he remembered the vicious killer turned brave defender after Buffy’s death; the abused ‘bed buddy’ then devastated lover after her return; the tortured soul and lost mind in the school basement; the devastated ‘toy’ of the First; the individual writhing in the excruciating pain of a failing chip; and their final days and hours before his end… the quiet companion irreverent to the end, but caring to a fault, sitting on the back porch with the now one eyed compatriot in arms, listening mostly, but inevitably flicking his cigarette butt into the garden before offering some wise words that utterly gave away the depth of intelligence and love held within the lithe form.

Xander pulled his knees up to his chest and grieved anew. Tears from his good eye fell onto the tip of the feather he still held fast in his right hand, and as they did, the angel felt his pain. Miraculously a salty tear emerged from the marble itself, made a track down the unmarred cheek of the statue, and dripped onto the floor below unobserved.

The following three days Xander had intended going back to the gallery, but Davina seemed to have decided that her quiet, American guest was quite ‘the project’.

She organized a trip on a local fishing boat that lasted for nearly a day and a half by the time they hefted their catch onto the docks for sale. Not keen at first, Xander found that he actually did enjoy it immensely! He naturally joined in hauling up nets, sorting the catch then pushing the nets out again. His knowledge of heavy equipment on building sites made the winches and tools reasonably understandable, and he was a very quick study when it came to the physical. After the first hour of work the crew seemed to simply accept him as one of their own and after their catch was in and they motored back to shore, plied him with home made bread, cheese and cheap red wine.

The captain of the boat – a stocky mariner and seventh generation fisherman, Illias – offered him a second day out, explaining in very broken English that he “Like you! Work, not like usual…” and then there were a series of expletives that Xander was sure were not in Dawn’s Italian-English dictionary.

By the third day, he really was enjoying himself, happily fronting up at the docks around midnight to help with the general preparations before heading out for another sunrise over water.

Marcos’ wife had sent along a special treat for the crew – something about her father’s brother’s something or other… Xander really didn’t mind but just smiled and thanked the pretty woman as he carefully passed the large plate of cakes from the dock to another crew member (Marcos’ son) on the boat. As the teenager Panna took the prize then stole one of the cakes, Xander couldn’t help but grin. The scolding of a mother seemed to sound the same regardless of language.

On the downside, the food went ignored and weather closed in by early light. On the upside the catch was excellent in the first two pulls, so the night was a resounding success.

It was very rough as they headed back for shore and Xander had still to find his sea legs. He managed to keep working, but only just, and was feeling very queasy by the time the lights of Gajeta came back into view. He was never more happy to haul heavy boxes onto dry land, volunteering to work the mini crane as soon as they docked, and feeling intense relief that the ground underfoot was no longer moving.

It was close to ten in the morning when the last of the catch was sold. He stayed for a little longer and helped the rest of the crew tidy up the boat ready for the following night.

As he was about to leave, exhausted but really rather satisfied, Illias held out his hand then used the handshake to pull Xander into a warm hug and kissed him on both cheeks.

“You good boy. You come back? …is easy I give you job.”

Xander was firmly slapped on the back then, surprisingly, had some cash pushed into his hand… quite a lot of cash! He looked up very surprised at the old seafarer.

“Good catch. Is wage-plus, three day…”

Xander grinned at the man, he really didn't think he was sailor material but would seriously consider coming back to work for a season – particularly if the four hundred Euro cash he now held in his hand was any indication of income!

He bought Davina flowers on his way back to the hotel, presenting them to her with a smile and genuine thanks before heading up to ‘de-fishify’ himself with a very long shower and a great deal of body wash.

It was late afternoon and the beginning of his last week of holidays when he entered the gallery, he smiled at Raoul then headed upstairs.

But the statue of the angel was gone.

Part Four

Spike lost the feel of his old friend the following day. His feather had obviously been discarded.

After the warm feeling departed, he had hoped that his friend had simply put the feather down somewhere in his room, but as he watched the sun come up and go down three times, he decided that he had been dismissed as a sounding board, that his own compatriot in arms had left and that a friend would not return. He watched sadly as the last sliver of gold disappeared over the horizon leaving a red glow that now seemed to epitomize the memory of his bloody past rather than the warm glow of a balmy Italian evening.

After closing, he was almost relieved when Minassos swept in with his newest creation – a diaphanous figure of Aphrodite - and insisted that she be put in the pride of position, relegating the angel to the small courtyard at the back where other larger less popular pieces resided. When Raoul informed Minassos of the American who was still in town and had a ‘thing’ for the angel, the Maestro seemed unimpressed, claiming that anyone could admire for free.

Minassos mentioned his intention to separate off the angel wings, and sell the ‘male soldier’ and the wings separately. He would come by the following week with his diamond saw for the wings then deal with the other later. The ‘soldier statue’ was of lesser importance and could be polished at his leisure.

Raoul and his brother grumbled a little but eventually convinced their cousins to assist with the new piece and the heavy angel, easing it carefully down the narrow staircase.

Minassos had been most specific. Even if Raoul didn’t sell it complete, there was to be no damage done if he wanted his commission.

Spike’s grief was complete. Minassos might as well break him apart completely. The agony of losing his wings now was too much to contemplate.

He wished for oblivion, begging in his mind for final death and welcoming the dark corner of the tiny courtyard when he was placed facing the wall between the unpopular overly ornate bird bath and a large cracked terracotta urn.

He heard Xander arrive, would have rejoiced… but then heard the footfalls then the pause and the brisk exit, the slam of the door, tinkle of the bell, and received the faint scent of tears.

Hope departed with the brunette friend.

After Xander’s initial couple of visits, Spike had mused that to be a statue was not so bad if the powers would allow him the one solace… to be in the house, or even the garden of a friend… even for a time.

But it was apparently the vengeful powers just giving him a faint hope and turning the sword one more time.

He was glad of his pained demeanor yet again.

Minassos would violate his form, take his wings, sell them, then no doubt leave him to the ravages of time. He would probably be sold at a bargain price to some pretentious upstart from Rome who wanted a nude male in her front yard because it was ‘today’, and he would gradually be forgotten under an ivy plant,

He resigned himself to having his bits forever on display and only a few friends of [whoever!] noting the poignancy of the figure and the odd bumps on his back that would once have been wings if only they had known.

Then the ultimate of all torture, his wings began to tingle again as Xander who had returned from his near four days as fisherman, and found the statue gone, had immediately rushed out of the shop and down to the port, only to pull out the feather, hold it to his own cheek and grieve anew.

It was not a single tear that fell from the beautiful marble visage, but many, and as he cried the marble moved and a clenched hand opened to splay out over his heart as though to hold in his grief. No one witnessed the shift nor the tears and even Spike himself failed to register the change through his pain.

Late that night, a bereft Xander sat on the stone lined shorefront with a half full bottle of Ouzo and finally realized that his parents had perhaps wanted to blot out life as much as he did at that moment… and that it was nothing to do with their child… He had three more very long drafts of the aniseed liquor before flinging the bottle into the sea. He was very drunk and still crying openly as he made slow progress toward his hotel, leaning as required, talking to lamp posts and kissing every public statue en route before telling them how much he loved the one he had lost.

Davina rang the fishermen at around one am when her lodger failed to return, but Illias and Marcos were already at sea. They were a little concerned but reminded her that their temporary employee did not seem like the irresponsible type.

He had to have the statue… he would find out who bought it … and he would have it… even if he had to forgo ever owning a house, he had to have it…

Xander was obviously grief stricken as the lovely Davina met him at the door of their B&B around one thirty in the morning. And her project had just become a rescue mission!

She knew there was something different about this ‘tourist’, and it was confirmed by every one of her acquaintances in the fishing community who were slow to welcome strangers, and local traders who were ‘over’ American tourists – but needed the money so dealt with them with a smile. This traveler was a whole different character. Gracious, generous and polite to a fault, even without command of the language, the twenty something had endeared himself to everyone - to the point that Illias would employ him and said so openly in the village!!!

Davina and husband met Xander at the door and he spent the next hour slurring apologies for his disgraceful behavior and trying to explain. The sum total of which was a watershed of tears for lost loved ones, and the broken expression of his wish to take home the marble angel tribute for a memorial grave, since the actual place of rest for his parents, best friend and reacquainted fiancé was an enormous hole by all accounts… Then cried more as he divulged the fact that he had even arranged for the money to purchase the object from Raoul but now…

“I’ve got money!!!… Don’ need house but thehhhh… and he wassssthere… he wasss!!! Really!… oh… fffff” He pushed all the money Illias had given him – plus a thousand Euro more into Davina’s hand along with the card from the gallery. She knew that it must have been the deposit to secure the sale of the memorial piece.

Xander was utterly beyond reason by the time the dear woman hugged him for a final time and eased the grieving drunk onto the chais lounge in her own sitting room. The lost friends and family, his best friend’s obvious bravery and death, and the statue’s likeness, and the need to purchase it, was all worthy a Shakespearean tragedy!

She looked pointedly at her husband (who was less than impressed by the late night interruption) and silenced Xander’s tears with a motherly kiss and a pillow for his head. He immediately fell into an exhausted sleep as she tucked a blanket around him and shifted into the ‘do something about this’ mode.

At seven the next morning, Davina was on the phone to first Raoul’s then Minassos’ homes speaking in rapid Italian – equally as fluent, passionate and formidable as in her Yorkshire English! Despite the hour, Raoul’s mother (the local midwife) and then Minassos’ lover understood the concern. Xander’s descriptions of his friend and grief for his partner and his family lost in the earthquake in Sunnydale (which had been on every channel in Europe at the time) were conveyed passionately and accurately and melted the hearts of her listeners.

By the time both Laz and Raoul were awake, there was no question that the statue was to be owned by the young American. Minassos wrote the whole thing off as a mistake – and would stick to his Roman Gods theme from now on… and Raoul agreed to the reduced price and commission – and agreeing to a new friendship ring since his girlfriend was less than impressed that he still intended to fund the trip to a football match with his friends with his commission!

The following day it was well past twelve before Xander woke, the room was unfamiliar but his brain so addled that he simply fell asleep again, It was almost two in the afternoon before he felt he could even face more than the softest of artificial light. His head throbbed, skin itched and he felt decidedly shaky. He had no idea how he had made it home and really could recall little of the evening after he had purchased the Ouzo and sat on the sea wall… But Oh how his head hurt.

He was sure someone had added a dead hamster to his mouth and stuffed something truly awful smelling under the blanket with him… then realized it was he who reeked! And yet, as he remembered the reason for his pain, he decided that nothing really mattered any more. Yet again he had found the world had screwed him over and this time for a mere statue.

Unfortunately for his sore head, his stomach was apparently catching up with the evening. He made it to the toilet down the hall just in time to rid himself of some foul liquid from the previous night, then rest his cheek on the porcelain and cry in silence for friends lost.

Eventually he made slow progress to the shower upstairs, bathed and changed clothes – threw up twice more then wandered back down to find his kind hostess and make some amends for his behavior.

Davina’s usual bustling presence seemed to hurt his head more as he knocked quietly on the kitchen door, but he managed to smile weakly at her. He then gathered his courage and apologized sincerely for his drunken state the previous night – requesting that the message be also conveyed to her husband. Davina simply patted him on the arm, handed him two aspirin and stated that she had ‘fixed everything’.

Xander had no idea what that meant and simply nodded, swallowed the aspirin without water then headed back up to his room. If he was to go out today he most definitely needed sunglasses. He picked up the beloved feather and stroked it again. Now rather than hope and remembrance, however… it spelt pain. He placed it carefully on the dresser next to his toiletries bag and headed out.

It was cold in the courtyard and the sun never his more than a tiny corner near the cyclamen plant. Spike wondered how long it would take before he had as much moss on his wings as the pot next to him… then remembered… that would apparently not be a problem! Spike heard them before he felt the belts strapping him onto a pallet then a trolley wheeling him through the shop and to a truck. Minassos had obviously decided to clip his wings sooner, rather than later, and he was being moved back to the workshop. He hoped the Maestro would remove his manhood along with the wings – the violation would then be complete, his nether regions being on display prevented, and the title ‘Sad Eunuch’ might just work.

But it was not to be.

He was delivered to a sunny front courtyard of a small hotel, obviously set up for al fresco dining. He was settled just inside the gate facing the door of the building. He was happy for the feel of the sun again but confused by the turn of events and still very much in grief mode.

Davina passed on various messages to Xander - one from Illias regards the possibility of another couple of nights of work (Marcos’ son was the best man at a wedding in Rome and they were short a crew member); another from his bank to say that funds were available for electronic transfer whenever he needed them; and a third from a ‘Mr Giles’ asking if everything was OK – as there had apparently been an obscure phone message from Xander to him at midnight the previous evening.

Xander thanked Davina, apologized yet again then made to head out.

“Oh there’s one more thing… a package arrived for you – goods on approval, do you want to…?”

“I’m sorry Ms D but I just need to head out and clear my head for a while… and I really don’t think… Oh whatever… see you later this arvo OK… and promise – no more bad behavior. Figure I’ll just go tell old Illias he’s got his extra crewman… might as well make myself useful.”

Davina smiled knowingly as Xander headed out the front door, curiosity getting the better of her after five minutes or so. The scene she faced was more moving than she could possibly have imagined.

Xander had almost walked past the figure in the front courtyard. There was noone else around at this hour, and his head was down, but as he made to open the cast iron gate the flash of white in the corner of his eye caused him to look up. He then did something he never thought he would, he kissed a statue square on the lips and wrapped his arms around the slim waist as though holding a lover, and placed his head on the marble shoulder. As tears came he lifted his left hand and stroked the hair and the top of folded marble wing.

Davina came out just in time to see her ‘project’, hugging the statue as though his life depended on it, and knew she had done the right thing.

That night, Xander transferred the money needed for his statue then headed out with Illias again, but this time the talk was of him staying on in the town for at least a few months, and how much work he realistically could expect were he to do so. He returned to kiss his statue on lips before making his the way to the door.

On the stroke of midnight – just as the fishermen were pushing the boat away from the dock, the angel shivered and for a split second every feather shifted from marble to real in a single flash of joy.

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