Suppose
He supposed he should stop this. It wasn't really a supposition, more like deep down, bone crushing knowledge that he must stop this. Absolute knowledge that he was playing with fire, fire blazing hot and bright. Fire that was going to come and kick his ass. He knew that as sure as he knew that the sun would be rising over that hill in just a moment and then everything would change. Everything always did every time the damned sun rose.
He sighed heavily, sensing more than seeing the infinitesimal change in the nature of the blackness of night, the black slowly fading up one degree to contain more gray. Dawn would soon rise, the sun would shine and he would be trapped here, sitting staring through a window that was more a hole in the wall than actual window. A hole through which he could just barely make out the figure lying curled on the bed, a blanket drawn up to his chin, limbs clutching a pillow to him fiercely as if that could ward off the dangers in the night. He stared a moment longer, then slowly eased his way off the crypt roof. A month since he found the perfect position to stand silent watch, a month since he started this lonely vigil, this addiction that he would never, never allow to be made public. He stretched, working the kinks out of his back, rubbing a tired hand across his face. It was going to be another long day at work, the sleep deprivation had already started to get to him. He gathered up the small pile of wrappers next to him, the remains of his nightly snack. Energy bar to maintain some semblance of nutrition, candy bar to take away the taste of the energy bar, Gatorade to replace the electrolytes he lost fighting, crackers. He always was a big cracker fan. He scooped it all up, smoothing out the traces of his presence. He loped away as the sun crested the hill, bathing the cemetery in a warm glow. One more night down. He didn't even want to consider how many more to go.
He supposed it all started the night that Spike took a bullet for him. It still made him shudder whenever he thought of it. And the thoughts would come to him at the strangest times. When he was driving, when he was showering, when he was swinging a hammer back to drive in a nail. Suddenly his breath would stutter and the edges of his vision would go black and he would be there, would be living it as surely as if were happening again right there and then. Just a normal night of patrol, Buffy and Spike were sniping at one another as usual, Willow and Tara were lagging slightly behind, still a little shy about holding hands in front of Buffy while he was walking backwards and attempting gamely to include them all. Buffy and Spike were quickly crossing the line from playful teasing into downright viciousness and he moved closer, vainly hoping he would be able to separate them before Buffy at best spilled Spike's blood and at worst finally got fed up and staked him. He reached them just as the fighting started to turn nasty, just as they were squaring off, Spike still automatically dropping back to fight. That always grabbed at him, the way that Spike's body hadn't yet caught up with his mind, the century plus of muscle memory automatically taking over.
He sometimes wondered what would have happened if the men hadn't suddenly burst from the trees and surrounded them all. Would that have finally been the night Buffy snapped and gave in to her barely suppressed urge to finally waste the vampire? It was there in her eyes, much closer to the surface than usual. But there was no way to know now. The men surrounded them all and that was when the nightmare began.
This part was always a bit of a blur. There were twelve of them, large and snarling and pierced and tattooed. Looking exactly like what they were, a bunch of bikers protecting their turf. Apparently, and this only became apparent long hours later, they had accidentally wandered into part of the cemetery where the gang was running a meth lab. He remembered the taste of the blood, that was always clear, the metallic tang filling his mouth the first warning that the memory was about to overwhelm him. His blood, Willow's blood, Buffy's blood all mingling together. It was a vicious fight, as bloody and nasty and cruel as with any demon they ever faced. Underneath it all Spike's growl, a growl of frustration and pain. He remembered that clearly too. It was the first time he realized that Spike might have some attachment to them that he would never admit out loud.
The fighting escalated, blood flying, Buffy seemingly everywhere, his own arms swinging and throwing stakes, for the first time wanting to kill another human. He saw Willow fall out the corner of his eye, saw Spike yank her away, face contorted in agony as he fought the man off her limp form. The bodies of the bikers began to fall and he let hope creep into the corner of his mind just for an instant. Just enough to drop his guard. He glanced over, checking to make sure Spike was fine, that Spike wasn't rolling on the ground in pain. It was the glitter of the barrel in the night that shocked him into realizing that there was a gun pointed in his direction.
He remembered the next seconds with perfect clarity. A scream wrenching from his throat, not wanting to die like this, not like this, not for nothing, he didn't want to die at all. Buffy's stunned face, the horror in her eyes when she realized that no matter what she did it would be too late. Then just as his eyes fell shut, not wanting to witness his own death, a swirl of black leather and a blur of white hair moving insanely fast. The shot rang in the night, he flinched waiting for his death and moments later he felt a body slam into his, knocking them both to the ground.
Blood gushed from the hole in the center of Spike's chest and he remembered how stunned he was when he realized the blood was warm. Then desperate minutes trying to staunch the flow, trying to halt the bleeding while Spike lay motionless the entire time, the faint traces of color in his face bleeding out and leaving him truly white. On some level he recognized Buffy dispatching the remaining men, recognized as Willow and Tara started a desperate chant, recognized the sound of his own voice screaming Spike's name. But that was all far, far away from the pressure of his hands on Spike's chest. The blood finally stopped flowing and he stripped off his shirt, binding the would tightly shut. He carried the vampire back to his car, fending off Buffy. It was his debt, his life that Spike saved and he would be damned if Buffy hauled this burden. Besides, Spike was so very, very light now, nothing but flesh and bone. Back to his apartment, there was blood in his freezer for a reason he never could later place, and he heated bag after bag, forcing it down Spike's throat, not watching as some trickled out the wound. Long hours of waiting, long hours filled with nasty fights and questions and vicious arguments as to the value of saving Spike at all. He finally won by pointing out the blazingly obvious. Spike saved his life. He wouldn't let them kill the vampire now. He threw them all out, tired of the drama. Some color was finally returning to Spike's face and he didn't need their help anymore.
When Spike let out that low moan that signaled his return to consciousness, he felt the vise around his chest unclench, just a little. He helped Spike up, moving slowly, careful not to make Spike feel any weaker than he already was. They didn't speak as Spike took the offered cup, drinking it slowly then handing it back. They didn't speak as he led Spike to the bathroom, knowing that Spike would want to wash the stench from his body. They didn't speak when he handed Spike a new black t-shirt and a faded pair of black jeans he found stuffed at the back of a drawer. They were a little long, but Spike cuffed them expertly until they looked as if that was just the way they were meant to be worn. They didn't speak the rest of the day, both sleeping deeply, recovering from the events of the previous night. They didn't speak until Spike rose from the couch the second the sun set.
"Spike, why?" He grabbed hold of Spike's arm, preventing him from simply stalking away.
Spike stared at him for long heartbeats, so many emotions flickering across his face that it was impossible to know what was going on. A tongue wet his lips, then he smiled grimly. "Couldn't let them hurt you, whelp. Couldn't stand to see that." Spike turned on his heel and strode down the hall.
He supposed he should have told Buffy that he started coming here the next night. He couldn't really say why. That first night he was on his way home after patrol, yawning and ready for sleep, pondering once again the words Spike said, the expression on Spike's face. He slammed on his brakes and spun the car around, swearing profusely at his own stupidity. He was so wrapped up in thinking about Spike that he never realized that Spike didn't meet up with them on patrol. The vampire rarely started off on patrol with them, but a night never passed that they didn't cross paths. But they hadn't tonight.
He made his way through the cemetery, cursing his own foolishness. He knew exactly how dangerous this was, but there was no way he could stop. He needed to know that Spike was fine. He didn't know why, but he needed it desperately. He raised a hand to knock on the crypt door then stopped, a strange noise halting his actions. He moved over to look in the window, the odd almost howl chilling his flesh. There stood Spike, shirtless and remarkably drunk, singing apparently. So that was what that noise was. His lips twitched as he watched the inebriated vampire, shaking his head lovingly. Of course Spike would howl when he sang, what else did he expect when Spike was listening to the Sex Pistols. It wasn't exactly written with melody in mind. He watched Spike stagger and fall into a chair, mocking laughter cutting through the wailing guitars.
"Bloody buggery hell, that wasn't bright there, William, pitching yourself in from of the whelp like that. Next time just hang a sign around your neck why don't you," the words slurred out as Spike took another long pull of the bottle. "Xander," his name dropped from Spike's lips as the vampire tilted his head back. "Ah, Xander, can't lose you, mate. Only good thing I have now."
He backed away, stunned at the words. He turned and ran, needing the space, hoping the vampire hadn't sensed his presence somehow.
The next night he was back, setting his alarm for 3:00 a.m., knowing that Spike usually returned to the crypt by then. He stood staring outside the window, watching as Spike moved, memorizing Spike's every action, the smooth grace as Spike settled into his home, the private rituals of preparing for bed. He watched as Spike read a little, watched as he drank his meal quickly, distaste curling across Spike's face at the scent of pig's blood, watched as Spike settled on the bed, watched as he sighed heavily and then closed his eyes, watched as Spike pulled the blanket up and the pillow tight, watched as Spike sighed out his name. "Xander" It sounded like a benediction.
He came back the next night and the next and the next until the routine was as ingrained in him as brushing his teeth, the need more desperate than anything he ever experienced. He didn't want to question it, didn't want to know why he was becoming more and more obsessed. He started arriving earlier and earlier, knowing the desperate chance he took each time. One night he would arrive before Spike and he would be caught. He knew that and he still took that chance. Maybe he wanted to get caught. Maybe he needed to get caught. Maybe it was just that the burning in his veins as he watched through that window was more intoxicating than any alcohol, was more addicting than any drug.
He settled down onto the crypt roof, rubbing the sap off his hands from where he climbed the tree. He set out his little meal and waited, the flickering candlelight illuminating the portion of the room he could see. He let out a contented sigh and dropped his chin onto his hands, sitting cross legged in his usual space. For some reason this was right, this made him whole, to simply be here, watching his vampire.
He supposed that one day he would finally give in to his desire, he supposed that one day he would slide down from his perch and cross the door and knock. He supposed that one day he would allow himself to actually feel the coolness of those lips under his. He supposed that one night he would stop watching and would act. But not tonight.
Perhaps one day, if he lived long enough, if he managed to survive this bout of insanity and desperation and torment and longing, if he managed to retain whatever small shreds of sanity to which he still clung, perhaps one day he would understand the reasons behind this.
Of course, that didn't mean that he understood them now. He curled his legs tighter into his chest, clutching the pillow firmly to him. No, he didn't understand it at all. He supposed the chip was some divinity's idea of an appropriate punishment for all his crimes. Now that, that he could understand. Of course he could understand that, he always expected to be damned. The religion in which he was raised was too deeply ingrained in his bones for him to believe otherwise. The chip, that he could understand. However, this torment, this desperate fierce longing for one he could never, never have, this was inexplicable.
Perhaps it was just his fear of being alone. He hated being alone, it left him too much time to think, too much time to look back on all he had lost, too much time to ponder when his unlife had turned into this farce, this surreal mixture of drama, comedy, action and slapstick. Usually all at the same time. And now this, this obsession, that was the only way to describe it, with the least of them. It must be that he was afraid to be alone. That was the only possible answer.
He rolled onto his back, sleep far, far away at the moment. He draped an arm across his face, idly considering lighting a cigarette. No, they were all the way across the room and it would require too much energy to move from the bed and walk over there now. Energy he just didn't have anymore.
His eyes opened and he stared up, seeking a pattern in the cracks running across the ceiling. There was none, if there had been he would have found it long, long before now. No, no pattern, no order, just chaos. Chaos. Just like the chaos of his life. Utter chaos, no stability, no center, no family, not a single thing he could truly call his own.
A hand dropped down to the floor and he picked up the picture lying there. He raised it straight into the air, the flickering of the candlelight caressing the face that stared down at him. Dark hair, dark eyes, huge smile that didn't quite touch those eyes. No, there was something there, some hidden pain. This picture always made him ache. That's why he stole it from the Watcher's house, gathering it up with his meager belongings when he was so unceremoniously kicked out. The picture originally had been one of the whole gang, but a few quick flicks of his switchblade quickly remedied that. No, he didn't want to see anyone but him.
Perhaps he finally had gone mad. He always assumed that he would, too many years with Dru finally taking their toll. He must be mad, that was the only explanation. How else to justify his actions. Christ, even now, lying here, the longing to just stalk out and stand guard under the boy's door was almost overwhelming. He let out a huge sigh. No matter how much he wanted too, he couldn't do that, couldn't risk false protection for true. No, if the Slayer thought he was stalking her friend, then his life would truly be forfeit. And then he couldn't protect the boy for real.
Without thinking, his hands dropped down and rubbed at the spot in the center of his chest. Even though the wound had completely healed weeks ago, it still itched every now and again. Though if the itch was physical or psychological he could never tell.
Perhaps it was just that he wanted to bear some reminder of that night. Gods, that night. It still made him shudder to remember it. At first it amused him, watching the terror on all their faces when they were attacked, the shock when they realized it was humans. Bloody hell, if it wasn't funny seeing them faced with the evil their own kind could do. The amusement died the second Red went crashing into the tombstone and the man leaned over her, intentions clear. No, that wasn't funny at all.
Another sigh heaved out as his hands came back to rest behind his head again. No, that was when it all became very, very serious. He couldn't really help with the fight, not really, just enough to pull Red away, just enough to keep an eye on them all. He could still smell the blood drenching everything, still feel the longing to rip anything that took a step towards what was his. He hadn't been frightened, not really, that little gang fought worse on a nightly basis. He hadn't been frightened. Not until he saw the flash of the barrel of the gun.
The first time he realized he moved was when his body was in mid-air, twisting to face the shot. He could still see every movement after that in perfect clarity. He could still hear the ringing of Xander's screams. He could still see the shock and horror on Buffy's face. He could still feel the terrible heat and wrenching pain that tore through him. He could still feel the stolen blood drain from him. He could still hear the frantic sound of his name falling from Xander's lips. He could still the tremors as he tried to force the words from his mouth, tried to say that precious name one more time. He shot from the bed and began pacing, trying to force the images from his mind.
Perhaps it wouldn't still hurt so much if he had just said something that night. He strode over and picked up the cigarettes, angrily shaking the last one out then crushing and throwing the pack across the crypt. He paced the well-worn track, turning his actions over and over again in his mind. It wasn't that he didn't want to speak, it was that he couldn't. When he woke he thought for one dizzying second that he had died again and this time gone to heaven. That was the only explanation he could come up with for lying there on a soft couch, deeply inhaling the scent of his heart's desire. Then reality kicked in and he was ready to dodge and run, looking for the trap that must be there. And when there was no trap, when there was just care and concern and a mug of warm blood, warmed human blood, and just where did that come from, he was shocked speechless. Then with every second that passed it became more and more difficult to find the words, to express his gratitude, the shattering happiness of just watching Xander walk around alive and unharmed simply too much. He couldn't trust the words. So, instead, he said nothing. Nothing until directly asked. And even then the words weren't enough.
"Couldn't let them hurt you, whelp. Couldn't stand to see that."
He moved to lean on the door, gently banging his head on the wood. Just those words. He hadn't even said thanks. Gods, he would give anything, anything, to go back and change that. But there was nothing he could do now. Nothing but stalk over to the bed, reach down and pull out the chest there. He opened it slowly, then carefully unfolded the clothes. A black t-shirt and too long pair of black jeans. Clothes that smelled like them both. He buried his face into the cloth, letting the scent creep into his bones. This, this kept him sane on those lonely nights, those nights that he couldn't help but set out to find him. To just see him, just that, alive and whole for one more day. And when he came back here, alone, alone as always now, he at least could reach for this. Their scent. Their smell. Combined here, if nowhere else.
Perhaps he should leave and get away. His head dropped on the bed as he let the thought wander through his mind. Leave and never look back. That was the wisest course, really it was. He could fend for himself now. He knew that he could do whatever he needed to survive. A snarl escaped him at the thought. Survive. And that's all it would be, survival. Well, he was sick of surviving, sick of moving dully from moment to moment, sick of just watching the never-ending seconds of his life tick by. Sick of surviving. Fuck surviving. He wanted to live. He folded up the precious scraps and replaced them in the trunk, then locked it and pushed it back under the bed. He crushed out the cigarette and then settled back on the bed.
"Xander," the name sighed out, a prayer to the gods who abandoned him long before. "Xander."
He woke a short time later, the familiar creeping feeling of being watched tickling up his spine. He lay perfectly still, focusing only on that sensation. It wasn't threatening or he would have immediately torn out, ready to destroy whatever it was. No, it wasn't threatening; it was just there. And had been for the last few weeks. The same not quite there feeling that someone was outside. He couldn't place it, but it was there. He sighed again, turning and wrapping himself around the pillow tightly. It was there. And it was oddly comforting. His eyes drifted shut again as a moment of peace eased through him.
Perhaps tomorrow night he would see what it was. Perhaps tomorrow night he would open the door and stride out and confront whatever it was that was watching him. Perhaps tomorrow night he would have his heart broken when it wasn't who he longed for it to be. But for tonight he would stay right here, unseen eyes caressing his body while impossible dreams danced in his mind.