Chapter Text
So there he was, half-dead from a flight around the globe, bantering with someone who, until a day ago, he thought was full-dead.
Talking to the dead? Getting to be a regular Scooby habit. Talking to this undead? Bantering with him as if it had only been a few days ago, not months? Sodding scary, and he'd been hanging out with way too many British ex-pats if that's his adjective of choice.
He had been, though, hanging with the Brits. There were still a fair number roving Africa as if they didn't want to admit that the Empire had shrunk. He'd needed to be near them, listening to the cadence of their speech, the off-color words that only confused the other Americans. He'd discussed the finer points of footie, mostly Man U, of course. Talked about London as if he'd spent way more than a month there. Didn't consider why he was comfortable. Or why, when a wiry blond fellow arched his eyebrow, he'd followed him up to his room.
Wasn't thinking of Spike. Couldn't. Of all the losses that day, everyone knew who Xander was missing. But, as usual, everyone was wrong.
As he'd just told Spike, he and Anya were over. There was too much knowledge, too much hurt. Each were drowning in their own troubles, clinging and sinking together. It reminded him too much of what his parents' marriage had looked like.
"Hello? Earth to Harris? Simple enough question."
Question? There'd been a question? Oh yay--the gaying up.
He remembered the last time Spike had used that line. It was their last discussion before...
"Wasn't sure if you wanted anyone else to know that you made it in one piece, or are back in one piece now, whatever. Anyone Andrew didn't fill you in on?" Xander had learned diversionary tactics from the best of them.
That earned him a head tilt, one that said "fine for now, but you're not getting off the hook." And when had he become so good at reading Spike's body language?
"The lad's a regular gossip columnist. Got the latest on all you lot. Heard that Red is still with the annoying-est Slayer. Hmm...wouldn't have bet a fiver on that one lasting beyond the trenches."
Scooby news, this he could do. Xander settled back in the chair and prepared to wax eloquent on the comings and goings, and that thought started the blushing again. Funny how certain common everyday phrases fell into the verboten categories once they'd been used around Spike.
"Are you suffering heat stroke there? Your core temp just jumped. While it is all much more entertaining than watching blood dry, could you TRY to pretend that you were going to carry on a conversation? If you're going to just sit there like a lump, well, I still wouldn't do anything. Not being able to move and all."
Spike and self-pity. That mixes worse than any of Dawn's cooking experiments. Things that do not go together. Xander glared at the vampire and shook his head. "Wanker, you know you're loving this. Hurt in the line of fire. Probably got a couple of birds bringing you presents."
He caught Spike's eyes going to a cartoon clock on the night table.
"See? I knew it. Okay, I heard that Harmony was working here. So?"
"So what? And what has gotten into you with your word choices? You can't use an American accent and call them birds. It just ain't right, mate."
"I don't have an American accent. I just speak. And you haven't told me yet."
"Told you what?"
Time for the big guns, an exaggerated eye roll. "If Harmony is working here, where is the stuffed unicorn she gave you as a get-well present?"
The patient muttered something under his unbreath.
"What was that? I can't hear you." Okay, so he might have used a sing-song victory voice, but how often did he get to beat Spike in, well, anything?
"I said, it's under the sodding bed. It was staring at me." Spike's face was pinched as he made this admission.
Then the absurdity of the situation seemed to hit them both.
Through uncontrollable laughter, Xander managed to spit out, "You, the Big Bad, you who've taken on Hell Gods and smooshed the First Evil, you were upset because a stuffed unicorn was staring at you?"
Spike was rocking with his laughter, but managed to comment with, "Well, could have been the drugs they've got me on, but I swear its beady eyes were following me. Easier time sleeping in that god awful thing you called a chair, while I was tied up."
Okay, images of Spike and bondage fun were not good for his equilibrium.
"Is it malaria?" This time, Xander could hear real worry in Spike's voice. Damn. He must be watching my body temperature. The guy 's worse than a lie detector.
"No, not malaria; I'm clean. And why the concerned looks? Not like you took the time to check in on us since you pulled the anti-Houdini."
Ouch, even he could hear more than a bit of venom in that last comment. He hadn't meant it, but he was exhausted, he was sitting beside someone who shouldn't be here, he had no clue what Spike thought of all this, and he wasn't sure how much rejection one man could take. Xander acknowledged, to himself at least, that he'd been in inquisition mode, but Spike didn't seem that broken up about Buffy. Oh, he asked about her, but not in an obsesso-way, --what did that mean?
"Not like you lot were checking in on the A-team either. And what was I suppose to say? Yup, had a blaze of glory, got better, what's up with you?"
Great, now he's getting snarky. How can I tell him anything when he's snarky Xander felt the weight of Spike's gaze pressing against him like a vise, so, using another classic Spike maneuver, he began to pace the room, ranting.
"You died! Saved the world! You left. You never leave. Buffy chased you out of town, you came back and kidnapped me. The Initiative played doctor. You ended up in my basement. You took off when Willow did a 'hey, I can play apocalypse too!' star turn, but six months later, guess who I was sharing an apartment with? I got used to you and you weren't there! None of the girls get Monty Python like you do."
That was it. He'd just poured his soul out to the souled vampire, and his only cover was a mint-wafer-thin reference to Python!
Would Spike answer? What could he say? One scenario dancing around Xander's mind included Spike declaring that there'd been a Xander-shaped hole in his life and that he was nummy and why aren't they shagging right now? In another, Spike was laughing at him. At this point, he wasn't sure which would be worse.
There was silence. That was not of the good. Spike was only quiet when he was all broody last year. Should he ignore it? Should he ask for comments, concerns, questions? Should he just go? Damn, ask me about dovetailing drawers, reframing windows (got real good at that task), or even talking to parents of newly called Slayers--and who would have thought that the Xan-man would be good with parents?-- any of those and I'm golden. Trying to figure out one boomerang vamp? Not on the current skills list.
"Are you planning to wear a hole in the bleeding rug? I'm beginning to get a bit dizzy with that shuffle you're doing. Sit," he ordered.
Like Inu Yasha, Xander sat. So much for wondering whether he was dominant or submissive. He turned to fiddle with the satchel.
"And put that bleeding bag down. You look like a bloody raccoon washing his food each time you dig through that bag. What's so sodding interesting in that thing?"
Well, he asked. Xander hadn't been sure what to do with it, but...
He grabbed the small bundle and was about to toss it to Spike when SHIT, his hands. How thoughtful is that? He's got no working hands, not able to catch.
"I've got something of yours. Been holding it, but you might need it, so, want me to put it here?" Xander nodded towards the night table, his left hand caressing the silk wrapped item.
He stared at the cloth, avoiding Spike's eyes. He'd had it since Sunnydale. It was a link. Holding it had been like Spike wasn't dead. It wasn't his duster, but it had been such a part of him. Xander's hands knew its shape, all its carvings--original and those added with use. Looking at it, he could remember Spike's hands, fiddling with the lighter, snapping its lid, adjusting the flame so that it was eyebrow-searing in height. Stupid vamp, holding his own death in his hands. But it was his. And he was here. So.
"It's your Zippo. Must have fallen out of your pocket in the bus on the way to the school. Kept it for you, sort of a talisman, but not the zombie-raising variety, unless you're a zombie?"
He paused for a quick breath, wondering what Spike would say.
There was silence. Xander continued, "You don't LOOK too Dawn of the Dead to me, though thinking about Dawnie first thing in the morning? I'm positive that the monks watched way too many Romero movies. Anyway. Back to the Zippo, here it is."
With that he gently tossed the silver lighter, unwrapped, on Spike's lap.
"You kept it?"
That line could have been delivered so many ways. Never expected it to sound amazed and maybe a bit pleased? But pleased that it had been kept and returned, or pleased that he'd done the keeping?
So many questions, so little sleep. A litany passed through Xander's brain, Spike's alive. He was still him. I'm here. He's here.
Xander dared to look at him. Spike's eyes were focused on the lighter, but they were drooping.
"Hey, want me to go? You're looking about as lively as Gigli's second night."
That seemed to rouse the vamp a little, he managed to mutter, "Don't mind you hanging round a bit, if you want."
It wasn't much, but from Spike it was an engraved invitation.
"I'll just sit here, then. I've got your back."
And Xander did, like Spike had when he'd been injured. Sat and watched a sleeping vamp, and finally felt content.