Ahestele
FEEDBACK: Love some.
SUMMARY: You meet the damndest people at the airport.
SPOILERS: Through Season 6. Set fifteen years after Season 6 finale.
CONTENT/WARNINGS: Some four letter words
RATING: NC-17
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, Never were. All rights to Joss, Mutant Enemy and assorted capitalist entities.
NOTES: Unbeta-ed. All mistakes are mine alone.
Fifteen years. Fifteen years and a lifetime ago he threw a punch at that face, blinded by betrayal, humiliation and rage. The first and only time he struck someone who couldn't fight back, the first time he felt the specter of his father so close beneath his skin that he woke up from a nightmare that night and vomited. Fifteen years, and he could still place the voice, that voice, in one second: whisky and velvet, smoke and sin. "Whiskey, neat. Bring the bottle."
Turning slowly, Xander followed the English accent to its owner, and time stood still.
He looked the same, but not. Same long black leather duster, same cut glass cheekbones and slightly pouted pink mouth, lashes a dark fringe on the alabaster skin. Lit cigarette held between two fingers, tendrils of smoke rising from the tip to dissolve in the pre-digested, beery smell that most bars, and airport bars in particular, seemed to have. But the hair, god, the hair.
No longer blinding white bleached blond it fell in tousled honey colored curls, framing the sculpted planes of his face, falling over the smooth forehead. It must be his natural color and it made him seem even younger, if that was possible. The white peroxide severity of the cut before had added a brittle, hard edge to the vampire, made him a study of dizzying contrasts: blond hair, dark lashes, perfect features, scar at his brow, luminescent Dresden skin, black leather. Always black leather, with a dash of red. Death and blood.
Hasn't smelled me yet, he thought, amazed at how easily his mind slipped into Suundydale thought, thought his thirty-five year old mind chafed against after all these years. Must be rusty. But something else was awry with the vampire. Xander couldn't quite pin it down, but Spike felt off. He had spent enough time disliking the demon to know. Sometimes his dislike had bordered on rage with an ugly undercurrent of jealousy coming up the backstretch. Rage at the pale, cat graceful creature that embodied everything Xander Harris never would be. It took him some long years and lots of thinking to figure that out. Amazing what hindsight and the first sign of gray at your temples will do for a man's clarity.
But Spike wasn't that rusty, no, because he could see the instinct kick in, finally. The relaxed shoulders became still, the features a mask of calm, and slowly, slowly Spike turned to look at him, attitude oozing from every pore. They locked eyes, and Xander felt his mouth unhinge, flap in the wind to catch flies, met equal shock in eyes blue as a summer morning.
Sweet Jesus, he had a soul.
It practically shone from those eyes, more open and naked than a vampire's should ever be. It marked each orb with such a haunted, bruised look Xander caught himself wanting to reach out and shut them, as if Spike lay in a coffin, just to turn off that look His fingers twitched with the want of it. Tara would say Spike's aura had completely changed.
The memory of the sweet, shy girl he knew once, and how she died, twisted his gut in an instant. He hadn't thought of her in years; he didn't think of that time if he could help it because those memories had teeth that ripped and shredded the careful, safe life he'd cultivated in L.A. Too much of a walk down memory lane and he needed more than a shot of whiskey to sleep at night. His eyes slipped shut against the onslaught of images, fighting it, fleeing in his head until he could breathe again. When he opened his eyes once more Spike was gone.
He'd slapped a bill on the bar and sped out the door before he even registered his actions. In the milling chaos of midnight travelers he walked quickly, scanning for the vampire, not thinking of why, just acting. Goddamnit, he couldn't have gone far! Just as keen disappointment began to sprout in his chest he spied the sign for the men's bathroom.
When all else fails, hide in the John. He'd practically lived by that credo in high school.
The place didn't even have a door so he rushed in scanning the urinals and corners, ignoring the mirror. It's why he hadn't noticed Spike sitting at the bar. Nothing, but one of the doors was shut. Bending over Xander checked under the stall and saw scuffed Doc Marten, black jeans and the hem of a weathered duster that had seen better days. Straightening up he approached the closed door slowly, wondering what he planned to say. He hadn't thought that far ahead.
For long moments nothing happened. The tension got to him and he opened his mouth to say God knew what, because he certainly didn't, when a wary sigh sounded from the other side of the blue resin door. A low voice muttered, "Bugger."
"Back at you, Fangless." The quip fell out of his mouth from another time and place, and Xander shook his head. Excellent. Not ten minutes since he'd seen the vampire and already channeling his high school self.
Sounds of the latch coming undone, and Xander stepped back as the door opened allowing William the Bloody to step through. For a time they just stared at each other, and Xander wondered what the vampire saw. He saw himself every morning, but had ceased to study himself a long time ago.
He knew he had gray, but not too much. Odd strand here and there, and he'd solidified across the chest and lost the early twenties spread that had begun when the vampire last saw him. Minute lines bracketed his mouth and crinkled at his eyes, and he'd had the goatee about a year, grown on a whim. He guessed it looked okay, and he had gotten more notice from younger women, for all the good it did them, or him. He was dressed in his travel suit of jeans, a Henley tee and flannel over shirt with glasses in his breast pocket. All that research of heavy books with teeny tiny writing as a teen-ager had gotten him in the end. All in all a regular Joe. Nothing to write home about, just your average foam insulation salesman, and he hadn't attracted a demon since Sunnydale. All it took to disable his demon magnet was distance and time.
"Harris." Resigned, low voice, and he noticed for the first time the tension stretched across each muscle of the vampire's body. He was fairly thrumming with it.
"Spike." He returned. "How's the soul working out for you?"
The blond man stepped back as if Xander had struck him, shock and pain warring for dominance on those fine, fine features. He took a step forward, hand outstretched, because he didn't follow Spike for this, to one-up each other. Spike held him back with one arm, tips of elegant, pale fingers touching his chest like tiny points of ice.
"How..." And Spike had never sounded that watery, not even when Buffy took the swan dive off the tower that signaled the beginning of the end of all their innocence. "How..."
"Shouldn't that be my question?" Not one twitch at the bait. "I don't know." He admitted, not moving away from the touch that ghostly hand. "I could sense it, kind of. Your eyes..." The comment evaporated because the eyes he spoke of suddenly looked like brilliant sapphires, and holy god, Spike was going to cry....
"Spike..." His voice sounded scared to his ears and the vampire turned away, lightening quick, almost dodged past him with inhuman speed, but he moved pretty fast for a foam insulation salesman. The cool body in his arms went rigid and, hell, the chip must still be working. Spike didn't move away but his muscles quivered like a tuning fork encased in leather. Xander stared at him, arms full of vampire, wondering how he got himself in this position, and déjà vu much?
"Don't." Ragged, single word said at the wall because the vampire wouldn't face him, had his face turned so much away the tendons in the milky neck stretched and strained.
"Don't what?"
"Just don't." He thinks the body in his arm might totally shake itself to pieces at the rate it's going. "Bloody let go of me pillock..."
"There's the Spike we know and love." At which point Spike began to weep abruptly, silent quaking sobs racking through him with his head bowed down, careless, croissant colored waves and curls falling into his face. Xander couldn't be more surprised if Spike had grown wings and flown.
A group of college kids entered the bathroom and froze at the sight of them, but Xander gave them a measured, even look that dared anyone to make a smartass comment. The group dissipated, eyes averted, throats cleared and Xander eased up his hold on the man in his arms. Spike's sobs had tapered off to infrequent hitches, like after tremors, and he wouldn't look up from under his hair.
"Let's get out of here." Xander whispered, not wanting to give the frat boys more of a show than they'd already had.
Spike let himself be led out of the men's room without so much as a move to run and they had walked ten feet before Xander realized he'd had his arm protectively around the lighter man's shoulders. He held him close, guiding him around rushing people, which was probably good since Spike still wouldn't come out from behind the soft wall of curls. Xander felt huge next to the blond man, so much more there. The narrow shoulders beneath his arms felt fragile, like they would break under the weight.
Without asking he led them to the most expensive airport restaurant, deserted at this time of night. The maitre'd began to wrinkle his nose in disapproval until Xander slipped him a fifty and they were instantly led to a secluded booth. The drinks he ordered appeared in record time, and he place one in front of Spike. Alabaster fingers closed around the shot of tequila and lifted, head thrown back with the practiced air of a true expert. Xander sipped at his ginger ale and watched a hand, graceful and pale as a dove, pull the unruly curls away from Spike's tear streaked face and they were locked in each other's gaze again, and again he broke the silence.
"How 'bout those Lakers?"
Spike gave him completely vexed stare then a wry smirk began to lift the corners of his lips. It was so close to a Spike sneer Xander felt inexplicable relief. Were it not for the tragic sheen in that sky blue he'd believe Spike hadn't changed. But he had.
"Same old Harris. Still using humor as a defense mechanism."
"Worked, didn't it?"
"Yeah."
An awkward silence tried to insinuate itself between them and he quashed it. "So." He stroked condensation from his glass, averting his eyes in hopes it made the vampire more apt to answer. "Want to tell me what happened?"
"Doesn't matter." Spike said almost without inflection, glancing around for the waiter. Xander just could not get used to that hair. It moved with every gesture, softly bouncing, and he caught himself wondering how it would feel.
"Where are you going?"
"Just got back." The vampire reached in the duster for a pack of cigarettes and lit one with a silver lighter, blowing the smoke away from him. Spike didn't know it but each gesture like that freaked him out. Pre-soul Spike would have exhaled smoke in his face and laughed while doing it. "You?"
"Burbank. Business seminar, but I think I missed my flight."
"Sir." The maitred materialized at their table his nose wrinkled up like a prune. "This is a non-smoking establishment."
"Not anymore." Xander said.
"Sorry." They stared at each other across the table then Spike dropped the stare as he looked for an ashtray. Xander didn't take his eyes off him as he reached in his wallet and peeled of a hundred dollar bill, holding it out to the wide-eyed restaurant worker.
"He needs an ashtray."
"Of course." The man disappeared and returned and Spike didn't speak again until Mr. Funny face came and went with the request.
"When did you get so solvent?"
"I do OK. When did you get polite?"
"Came with the soul."
"Bullshit." The word came out angry and he realized, belatedly, that he was. He didn't want this, man, did not want it like poison. He was too damn old and had worked too damn hard to dig up bones right now. "I gotta go."
"Don't." Snake fast grip on his wrist stopping him from getting up and Xander marveled at the cool silk and slightly rough fingertips against his skin. Fifteen years of labored forgetting and one touch could send him back to the Hellmouth in the blink of an eye. Vampires were real, boogey men did exist and the thing under your bed wanted your soul. "Why?"
Because! He wanted to yell. Because I can't watch you sit there with your pretty eyes and white skin and that look on your face, and, shit, Spike, I thought you got out. I thought that fucking place hadn't gotten you, not you, godDAMNIT....
"Where are you staying?" He asked before he could stop himself. Spike loosened the hold on his wrist and ran a hand through the dark blond waves and curls again in a gesture he hadn't had before. Of course not. The platinum blond coiffure of fifteen years ago had swept away from the sculpted cheekbones and square jaw, an uncompromising trademark held in place by tons of hair products. This loose, tousled look was almost Victorian.
"Hotel room."
"Where?"
"I don't know yet." Spike began reaching in his pocket once more and Xander moved to stand.
"Come on." The sky blue eyes looked at him rise with puzzlement and he sighed, motioning with his hand. He wouldn't let himself call the look on Spike's face gratitude. He just didn't think he would be able to take that.