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Spike doesn't call. Spike goes East. (Spike/Xander)
Spike sat and stared at the International calling card in his hand as the sun gradually sank below the horizon. Making a decision, he stood and dropped the card in the wastebasket. It had been eight years—everyone he knew had gone on with their lives without him. It was time he made an unlife for himself . . . found his own purpose.He glanced at the motel décor. A framed print of the United States hung on the wall above the TV. Spike moved the TV stand closer to the dresser and took out his pocket knife. Turning his back on the map, he threw the knife over his shoulder. It was as good of a way to make a decision as any, he guessed. Angel had always thought The Powers That Be were guiding him in his mission. Maybe he was right. Maybe the Powers would show Spike where he was most needed.
Spike slowly turned and went to retrieve his knife. Well, then. Guess he was needed in New Jersey.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Spike had not been to the East Coast since he'd killed Nikki Wood in 1977. He'd gone to check out the emerging punk scene downtown while disco reigned supreme uptown. Spike shuddered. He'd been to Studio 54 once and felt jittery and irritable for days afterward. He wasn't sure if it was due to the atrocious music or the amount of coke he'd inadvertently imbibed with dinner.What he really remembered was cutting a swath through New York with Dru in the 20's. Bootleg booze was much more palatable as a digestive aid than cocaine.
He wasn't sure exactly where in New Jersey he wanted to go. He decided he'd begin in NYC and work his way south on Rt. 9, stopping whenever he got the urge. He had fond memories of Asbury Park. In the 20's, the Convention Hall was the place to be, and the boardwalk rivaled that of Atlantic City. Dru had loved the swan boats at Palace Amusements. In the late 70's, the up-and-coming E-Street Band had frequently played the Stone Pony. In 2011, there was nothing at all for him in Asbury Park, so he moved on.
He arrived in Atlantic City and felt disoriented. His memories were of the most famous beach resort on the East Coast — the sand dotted with hundreds of beach umbrellas, families strolling the miles of wooden boardwalk and equestrian spectacles in which beautiful girls on gleaming white horses performed on the pier. In his absence, someone had apparently transplanted Las Vegas right on top of Atlantic City! Its character was completely gone — overridden by glitz and desperation.
Well, as long as he was stuck here for the day, he may as well take advantage of the casinos. There was no day or night inside, and the gamblers didn't care if they were in the middle of the desert or mere yards from a legendary beach.
Spike wandered around, playing a bit of blackjack here and there; stopping to watch the spin of a roulette wheel, and helping himself to watered drinks constantly being carried through the casino by harried servers in dangerously high heels.
He froze with a glass of scotch and water halfway to his lips as he heard a familiar voice announce, “Thank you for playing, ladies and gentlemen. Jeanette will be your new croupier.”
Spike turned slowly, watching Xander untie a short green canvas apron from around his waist and loosen his tie. Xander strode through the casino, and Spike hurried after him — if Xander went out onto the boardwalk in the mid-day sun, Spike couldn't follow.
Spike was relieved when Xander headed for an in-house restaurant, just emptying from the luncheon crowd. Xander chose a booth in the back and stretched out his legs with a sigh of relief. A waitress appeared, a flirtatious smile on her face.
“Hey, Xander. What'll it be today?”
Xander smiled. “Hey, Liz. The usual, I guess. Right now I feel like a bear of very little brain.”
Liz smiled, touched his shoulder for a moment and then left to place his order with the kitchen.
Spike leaned against the side of the high wooden box-like enclosure of the booth and waited for Xander to notice him. With a sigh, Xander's eye focused and he looked up. Xander jumped, knocking over his water glass and sending his silverware to the floor.
“Great googly-moogly, Spike! Lurk much?”
Xander bent to pick up the napkin-wrapped flatware and bumped his head on the edge of the table.
“Shit!” He rubbed his head. “You're about the last person I expected to see here—what are you doing here anyway?”
Spike slid into the booth across from Xander.
“Don't really know. Got tired of just pissin' m' unlife away, thought I should be doin' somethin' helpful for a change, and here I am.”
“Did Willow send you? Am I your pet project now? Poor Xander . . . lost his sense of direction . . . I know! Let's send Spike to cheer him up!”
“Haven't seen or heard from Willow in years, an' why would they send me to cheer you up? You don't even like me. An' why would you need cheerin' up in the first place?”
Xander rubbed his forehead. The elastic holding his eye patch in place was too tight and had left a diagonal indentation in his skin. He glanced briefly at Spike and then looked down, staring at the napkin-rolled silverware as if it were the most fascinating curiosity.
“I'd been . . . depressed for a long time. Right after the thing in Sunnydale there was so much to do, I didn't have time to think. Just kept traveling from one place to another. Africa . . . the Middle East . . . India . . . tracking down slayers, explaining the gig — you know.”
Spike nodded. Xander briefly met his eyes, and then focused on a knothole to Spike's left.
“And then all the slayers were accounted for, and I had no purpose. I'd never really stopped to grieve . . . pushed everything down deep and it just ate me up inside. I'd never expressed my feelings — and then it was too late. I felt tired all the time . . . couldn't sleep . . . no appetite . . . nothing mattered any more. I was drifting. All the world to choose from, and I had no idea where I wanted to go or what I wanted to do . . .”
“Yeah . . . last few years've been like that for me, too.”
“So . . . how'd you end up in Atlantic City?”
“Threw a knife in a map. You?”
“See, I'd always loved Monopoly when I was a kid . . . wanted to see the real places that I'd only known as colored squares on the board. Anya an' I used to play Monopoly a lot. She always beat me . . . she wanted it more — even if it was just pretend money.” A rueful smile crossed his face. “That's the first time I mentioned Anya in . . . years.”
Xander's fingers beat a frantic tattoo on the table and Spike reached out to cover Xander's hand with his own.
“ 'm sorry about Anya. I hadn't heard, till Andrew came to LA and filled us all in. She deserved better than that. But she was lucky, too . . . to have mattered so much that you still grieve for her all these years—”
“Anya? You thought I was grieving for Anya?”
“Well . . . yeah.”
“Anya was a wonderful woman. And, yeah, she deserved better than to die like that. She deserved better than me. But it wasn't Anya I was grieving for the last eight years . . . it was you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
“But . . . you didn't even like me!”
“Probably not. Didn't like you much at all. But somewhere along the line I think I sorta started to love you . . .”
“Hearin' must be goin' a bit wonky. I thought you just said—”
“I did.”
“Oh. Y'know, you're lookin' for a purpose in life; I'm lookin' for a purpose in life . . . maybe we could . . . look together?”
Xander turned his hand over underneath Spike's and their fingers twined.
Spike smiled. “Harris—do you even like me?”
Xander grinned. “I guess we'll find out.”
The End
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