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The Continuously Evolving Relationship of Xander Harris and the Vampire Known as 'Spike'

 

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Part Eight—Spring 2004

There is so much death here in Africa. And not just the supernatural kind involving vampires and demons. Real death. I suppose it doesn't matter to the person how they die—you're just as dead either way, but still . . . I thought Sunnydale had a high mortality rate, but there's not a family here that hasn't lost someone to starvation or disease. It makes me feel helpless—like we felt when Joyce died. At least if you're dealing with demons, you have the chance to do something—to make a difference. Your actions count. But this devastation . . .

Maybe you finally reach a quota on dealing with death. Maybe when there's so much of it, you sort of get inured. I don't know. I do know that Buffy's death to save Dawn and close the portal was the last death I actually mourned. When Tara was killed, all our energies were focused on saving Willow, and then the Potentials were dropping like flies, and then there was Anya and Spike. Their deaths are so tangled up together in my mind that I just shoved everything down deep and put off dealing at all, because to mourn one would be to think of the other. They both died to save others. How bizarre is that? The humans made it out alive, but the demons—ex-demons . . . whatever—willingly gave their lives to save the rest of us.

Maybe everything I thought I knew about demons is wrong. Maybe the initial information Giles gave us was flawed. Maybe after living up close and personal with various demons over the years, I should trust my own perceptions rather than those of Watchers and Council members who probably never even met a real vampire and certainly never got to know one. Maybe I should start to think for myself.

Andrew finally spilled the beans to Giles that Spike somehow came back from the dead and is working with Angel in LA. If that wasn't a major mindfuck! I could put off thinking about Spike as long as I thought he was dead. Dead-dead, not just undead. But now he's not, and I don't know what that means.

I thought he hated Angel, yet here he is, working with him. Buffy and Giles think Angel went over to the dark side, but I don't believe that. If he did, why would Spike be working with him? Even when he was evil, Spike didn't join up with Angel to destroy the world, and I just can't believe he'd do it now, especially after dying to save it. Wow. This thinking for yourself is really weird. Who would have ever thought I'd be defending Spike—and Angel, too, I guess—to Buffy?

And what makes me think I understand Spike better than Buffy does? She's the one that had the relationship with him—she should know him better than anyone. But I don't think she does. I just don't think she ever really 'got' Anya or Spike. It seems like Angel was her template and everyone else either fit the pattern, or didn't, but they were always seen in relation to Angel, rather than as individuals.

Wow! That is really deep. Look at me, Xander Harris, making with the deep thoughts. Will wonders never cease?

 

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Part Nine—Spring 2004

Spike wore a smile of pure joy as he entered the lobby of Wolfram and Hart. He felt energized. Vindicated. Ready to take on the world—or at least the Fell Brethren.

Harmony looked up at him and frowned. “What's up with you? You look . . .”

“Effulgent?”

“Okay. I was going for 'high' or 'stoned' and if that's what that word means, then definitely yeah.”

“Harm, my love, I have had an excellent day.” Spike leaned over the desk, took her face in his hands and planted a big, smacking kiss on her glossy pink lips.

“Ewww, Spike! I thought we agreed—”

Spike had already started down the hall.

“Wait!” Harmony called after him, and he turned and raised one eyebrow. “You got mail . . . I have it here somewhere . . .”

Harmony handed Spike a rather dirty envelope, bearing several foreign stamps.

His mind was already on the night's work, and he absently thrust the envelope into the inner breast pocket of his duster and then hurried down the hall.

 

 

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Spike awoke with a groan. He kept his eyes shut while he mentally assessed the situation. All was quiet—looked like the battle was over, or at least had moved away from this spot. He opened his senses to their fullest extent, pushing past the overpowering odor of garbage that surrounded him. He was apparently lying under a tipped-over dumpster, but beyond the dumpster, he could smell the acrid scent of demon blood and offal. He listened. The scrabbling paws of numerous rats and the softer padding of feral cats were the only sounds he heard. Traffic sounds and the normal bustle of a city as large as LA were completely absent.

He assessed his own damage. There wasn't a square inch of his body that didn't register on the pain scale from dull ache to excruciating, but everything at least seemed to be in working order. He was just so bloody tired.

Spike drew his legs under him and got to a crouch. He ignored the pain screaming through his brain, slid his hand under the edge of the dumpster and threw it off. He had never been one for the quiet, subtle approach. Look out, here comes Spike had always been his motto. The only reaction to the crash of the dumpster was the sound of rat feet running away, so he pulled himself to a standing position and looked around.

Nothing alive left in this alley.

Until he could suss out what had happened, he may as well be comfortable — or, at least clean, he amended.

Spike glanced at the sky. Dawn wasn't far off, but whether this was the same night of the apocalyptic battle or the next night, he had no way of knowing. He staggered toward the Hyperion, hoping the water was still turned on, because he felt like he could shower for an hour or two at least.

Spike made his way through the Hyperion to what had been Angel's room—corridor access, no windows—shed his clothes on the way to the bathroom and gave a sigh of relief as the the water pounded, fresh and hot, over his body. When the warmth finally penetrated his bones, making up for a night in the cold rain, he felt woozy and reluctantly shut off the taps. He dried off quickly and crawled into Angel's bed before the borrowed warmth could dissipate.

When Spike awoke, he felt much better. He searched the hotel for clean clothing, discovering a pair of black jeans that fit him reasonably well, if one overlooked the fact that they zipped backwards, that had probably belonged to Cordelia. He chose a long-sleeved cotton-knit shirt that still carried the faint scent of Connor.

He hit the motherlode in the kitchen, where he discovered a supply of frozen blood. Human, from a blood bank—Angel, you naughty lad, I could kiss you for this! It was probably a year or two old, and some of the nutrients may have broken down, but he was ravenously hungry and it tasted like ambrosia.

After indulging himself with as much blood as he could drink, Spike made a pot of tea—Ta, Wesley—and carried it back to Angel's room. He checked the pockets of his duster for cigarettes and lighter. A faint crackling sound from the breast pocket caught his attention, and he remembered the letter he had thrust in there a lifetime ago.

He withdrew the crumpled letter, lit a cigarette, poured a cup of tea, leaned back against the headboard, and began to read.

Dear Spike,

I'll bet I'm the last person you ever expected to hear from, but I've been doing a lot of thinking lately — don't laugh! And lower that eyebrow and lose the sneer, while you're at it. I'm serious!

I never expected to be writing this letter — well, first 'cause I thought you were dead. We all did. How come you're not dead? Not that I want you to be dead or anything, although I may have definitely given you that impression in the past, but that's probably just because I did want you to be dead. In the past. Well, not you so much, as vampires in general. And you can't really blame me. At least, I hope you can't. Well, you probably can. You can do whatever you want, but I hope you don't. Blame me. For wanting you dead. And telling you I hated you. Which I did, because you were a vampire. I didn't really hate you as a person, just as a vampire, but then again, I never saw you as a person—back then—just as a vampire, so I guess I did. Hate you. Then. But I don't now. Hate you. Or wish you were dead. Now.

Ohmigod! This is coming out so much stupider than it sounded when I thought it.

Okay. Here's the thing. I've been doing a lot of thinking, and I realized all of my feelings information about vampires came from the Watcher's Council, and they were wrong about a lot of things. Like, they thought you were 'barely 200' and they didn't even know Angel had a soul and they thought vampires couldn't love and couldn't do decent things and weren't really people, but after getting to know you, I've realized they were pretty much wrong. At least where you're concerned. But I didn't realize it at the time, so I treated you like you were just an evil disgusting thing and I didn't think of you as a person at all.

Well lately, I've been doing a lot of thinking, especially about you and Anya. Well, not you and Anya, 'cause that still creeps me out, and makes me feel all possessive and jealous, although I'm not sure which one of you I'm jealous of forget I said that. And I remembered that you took good care of Dawn and you helped us all out when Buffy was dead and you brought flowers for Joyce and you stood up for Tara and you even tolerated were nice to Andrew. I'm not saying that you were perfect in any way — you did some really stupid, hurtful things, too. But then, so did the rest of us. Especially me. Only, we cut each other slack for the screw-ups, but we never did for you. And I'm sorry about that.

I don't think this is coming out right — it sounded a lot clearer in my head.

Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that although there are things I hate about you, there are things I like about you, too. Just like with any other person. And, I really do think you're a person. You just happen to be a vampire-person, like Buffy is a slayer-person and Willow is a witch-person and Giles is a British-person. Anyway, I think we could have been good friends, if I had treated you like a person. Well, I would have liked to be friends with you; I don't know how you felt about me. Not that I'm suggesting you felt anything at all for me. I mean, you probably never gave me another thought at all once you died, and then you were probably really busy when you got brought back and all.

Speaking of coming back, I would have thought that the first thing you'd do when you came back to life would be to go see Buffy. I'm just saying. Not that it's any of my business. So, how come you didn't go see Buffy? Never mind. It's really not my business. Unless you want to tell me, that is. But you don't have to. Well, duh! Of course you don't. It's none of my business. So, anyway, if you're not planning to go see Buffy, and if you feel like taking a vacation anytime in the future and you have any interest in visiting Africa, you could come and visit me. If you want to. I officially invite you to visit my home.

There's a lot of stuff I'd like to talk to you about. Not bad stuff, or weird stuff. Just . . . stuff. We used to talk about stuff when we lived together, and I kinda miss that. I kinda miss you. And how weird is that?

Anyway, I just wanted to write and let you know I'm gad you're not dead-dead, and I appreciate what you did for us in Sunnydale and I'm sorry I treated you like crap and if you want to come and visit and hang out and stuff, you'd be welcome. Okay. I guess that's all.

I hope things are going well for you.

Take care,

Xander

P.S. If you don't want to, or can't make a visit, but just want to write back and forth, that would be okay, too. I'd like to hear from you.

 

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The Beginning

 

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