And All Was Said (Spike/Xander, NC-17) Part 8 (End)

[baudown]

Title:  And All Was Said (Part 8, the end)
Author:  baudown
Pairing:  Spike/Xander
Rating:  NC-17
Disclaimer:  Don't own them.  Very much love them..
Summary:  Xander's got a little something on the side.  Alternate season 5ish where nothing whatsoever is happening to any other characters.
Note:  Thanks to everyone who read this, and especially to those who were so encouraging with comments and figuratively held my hand and eased my anxieties about this story.
Feedback:  Please.  It means a great deal.

Parts 1-7 are here:  http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=baudown&keyword=And%20All%20Was%20Said&filter=all

Spike's AWOL for nearly a week, returning tense and tight-lipped, with a vicious slice across his cheek, and a limp.  No one inquires about his absence or his injuries, and he volunteers nothing.  

Xander expects rage, or bitterness, or scorn.  He's earned those things, deserves them, and he waits hopefully for punishment, but Spike doesn't deliver.  Instead, there's a strained solicitousness between them, a kind of after-you-no-after-you exaggerated courtesy.  But it settles down into something approaching a distant normalcy, and no one would guess that there had ever been anything out of the ordinary between them.  That they had touched each other with stroking hands and tasted each other with hungry mouths and clung to each other and cried each other's names when they came.  And when Thursday passes, and then the one after that, and then the next, Spike doesn't say anything, and neither does he.  They nod hello and patrol and wipe out a nest of Gak demons.  They share a table at the Bronze when Spike comes upon them celebrating Willow's birthday.  It's like it was before, more or less.

Except.  Except.

Except things draw to a close with Anya, and when the end comes, it's neither with a whimper, nor a bang.  

Thinking back on it, in a tardy attempt to make sense of their history, Xander remembers a time, early on, when he'd seen Anya the same way everyone else did.  Annoyed and put off by the rude bluntness, the embarrassing faux pas, the giddy greed.  The way she stuck to him, with gluey persistence.  But as days bled into weeks, and weeks into months, his thoughts adjusted themselves, like gears click-clicking into place; until one day, without his even noticing, those very things became a part of what he loved about her.  Became the reasons that he loved her.

Then, in equally imperceptible increments, the gears commenced shifting back.  And at precisely the same time, Anya began to see that neither a new apartment, nor a big promotion, nor her own valiant efforts would succeed in changing him.  Understanding, despite herself, that the divide between who he was, and who she'd hoped he would be was probably insurmountable.  That to him, she would never come first.  Hating him for it, and herself, too.  Holding on tight, because what else could she do; but injured, and desperate, and always, always angry.

All these months, he'd told himself that being with Spike allowed him to be more generous toward Anya; to see her again with loving eyes; to make her happy.  Of course, these were lies.  Deceiving himself, so that he could behave obliviously, callously, like the greedy prick he really is.  His father's son, after all.  Taking what he wanted with grabby hands, as if he were entitled to it.  Sex with Spike, and a life with her.  Using them both, and it disgusts him.

Anyway, Spike's gone now, or good as gone, and the less he dwells on that, the better.  Nothing for it, as Spike would say, and Xander can practically hear his shrugging inflection.  But Anya's still here -- tenaciously here -- and he vows to make it up to her.  He comes home wielding flowers.  He feigns interest in ceramics.

He's too late, though, by far.  Things have worsened while he wasn't looking, and he stares helplessly at the mess he's made.  For a time, the arguments escalate, and their life together is a minefield -- every misstep unearthing old allegations or fresh accusations, and then, the inescapable explosions.  But somehow, teeth gritted, nerves steeled, they pass through the perilous landscape, and into a safe, accepting, day-to-day dullness.  They grow polite and careful with each other, saying nothing that might give offense.  Saying nothing much at all, really.

They're eating dinner one evening, talking over the day's detritus -- a misrouted shipment of K'retl musk, a stolen bale of copper wire, a tune-up for the car.  And suddenly, he feels a nervous flutter beneath his ribs; and it takes a moment, but he recognizes the sensation as nostalgia.  He's nostalgic for nights like this, for the two of them, as if remembering, with wistful fondness, a time long past.  He breathes in sharply, and when he looks up, stricken, there are tears on Anya's face, and she's smiling a sad, crooked smile.  And although the next weeks bring harsh words and raised voices, that night, at least, they're kind to each other, sitting together on the couch, hands clasped; and lying in bed, holding each other close, until morning comes.

The apartment seems big, when she leaves.  Ghostly outlines hang below vacant picture hooks; drawers yawn emptily without her clothes; the kitchen's been stripped bare.  There's a sense of things gone missing.  Occasionally, he stumbles across something of hers, left behind -- an amethyst earring misplaced months before, an article about money-market funds torn from a magazine -- and these evoke in him a loneliness that's nearly unbearable.  

Xander walks through his days on mechanical feet.  Work, patrol, home.  Held together by the stitches of routine.  Forced forward only by momentum, and he's thankful for it, but it's not enough.  And there are times when the stitches no longer hold, and momentum no longer propels, and there are too many hours when he finds himself able to do little more than lift a glass.  Calling in sick, now and then, and begging off patrol, with one parroted excuse or another.  He sleeps poorly, restlessly, waking always in the uneasy grip of an unremembered dream.

It's true, he'd always been terrified of losing her.  But when the time finally came, it had been unavoidable, necessary, and he'd even believed himself ready.  So he's surprised, in some murky way, by his own response to her departure.  He must have been even more deeply anchored to her than he knew; or at least, to the idea of her, and of their life together.  Now, unmoored, he drifts.  Leaving the house seems like a lot of work.  Food can be delivered, if you want it.  Liquor, too.  Laundry piles in corners, and he decides to grow a beard.  Or anyway, he stops shaving.  It seems such a useless exercise, when it just grows back, and it's always the same stubbled face reflected in the morning mirror. 

The epiphany comes one morning, over coffee with Willow.  He's been dreading the one-on-one, face-to-face, post-break-up post-mortem.  Keeping to himself as much as possible, even when he manages to suffer the company of others.  Avoiding her phone calls, declining her invitations, dodging each attempt to cull him from the group for a private chat.  But she corners him at the apartment early one Saturday, appearing unannounced, with lattes and donuts and resolve face.  He holds up his hands in surrender.

Xander sees her consternation as they pick their way through the littered living room, sidestepping pizza boxes and beer bottles and dirty, discarded clothing.  He guesses it's pretty bad in here, but he can't bring himself to care.  It's comforting, in a way, to have his outsides match his insides.

She blithers for a bit about school, and Tara, and some research she's doing with Giles; and then, preliminaries dispatched, she turns to item one on her agenda.

"I know break-ups are difficult, believe me," she begins, "but you can't isolate yourself.  You can't just shut down like this."

"You're right, you're absolutely right."  He summons the will to nod energetically. "I'm gonna get better about that."

She looks around at the chaos with a frown.  "And, no offense, but -- well, I'm kind of amazed that you're taking it this hard.  I mean, don't get me wrong, of course you're upset.  But even so, I have to say, it's always seemed pretty much -- um -- inevitable to me."  She pokes idly at an overturned shot glass, and he watches it roll in a sticky arc between them.  "What I can't figure out," she continues, genuinely perplexed, "is how you never saw it coming.  Other than by being total avoidance-guy, that is.  Like, the two of you fought constantly!  And what did you talk about when you weren't fighting, anyway?  I could never imagine it.  What did you have in common?  You were like apples and oranges!"

"Although, tasty in a fruit salad," he says, a memory stirring at the feeble joke.  It's a reflex, really.  He's not arguing.

"Oil and water, then.  Unmixy things.  Let's face it -- you're not just from different worlds, you're from different centuries!  I mean, the age difference alone!  And, uh, the whole demon thing pretty much screams bad relationship choice."  

He nods some more.  Her logic is irrefutable.  It was doomed from the start.

She places a hand on his, and smiles a warm, encouraging smile.  "And, hey, best friend here!  Don't forget -- it's my sworn duty as such to ply you with cookie dough ice cream until your broken heart is fully mended."  Her brow scrunches thoughtfully.  "Or is that just for girls?  I don't want to undermine your masculinity, not that I could, 'cause you've got buckets of it, mister."  She pauses, processing the possibilities.  "Some kind of...sci-fi marathon, maybe?" she offers gamely.  "Or -- or whatever it takes to put her behind you."

Her.  Put her behind you.  She's been talking about Anya, of course; he knew that.  But he's shocked anyway, hearing clearly in that instant the telltale truth of his heart.  Beating away at him, from behind a bricked up wall.

He's been living for weeks with a hard, empty fist inside him; an absence as basic and consuming as hunger or thirst or grief.  It's Spike that he misses; Spike he's been mourning.  Spike's face he's seen, every night in his dreams.  Spike's face as it looked the moment Xander had answered.  The moment he'd told Spike no.

He feels battered, suddenly -- by regret, remorse, desire -- so powerful that he's punch-drunk and reeling with it.  Bright spots blaze before his eyes, and Willow's words recede into meaningless noise.  He isn't sure if time is moving slowly, or quickly, or just standing still.  But even when he's able to focus on her face, shining with misdirected sympathy, when he can hear her voice over the rushing in his ears, all he can think is that he needs to see Spike.  That he has to see Spike, right now.

He behaves for the interminable remainder of her visit like an actor in a well-rehearsed play.  Willow delivers her lines, and he gestures and smiles and answers on cue.  And the moment she exits stage right, he's grabbing his keys and he's gone.

He doesn't run the entire length of the cemetery; only the last hundred yards or so.  Still, he's winded, panting noisily as he bursts into the crypt.

"What's after you?" Spike shouts, tearing toward him.  He plunges heedlessly through the door, coiled and ready to pounce; but sunlight forces him to beat a reluctant retreat.  He's singed, and smoke trails from him in thin, climbing tendrils.

Xander blinks at him, eyes adjusting from daylight to darkness.  Spike looks pale and thin, which is stupid, because he's always pale and thin.  But this is different, somehow.  He seems brittle-boned, skin ashy instead of alabaster, the filigree of blue veins starkly prominent.   

"Nothing there now," Spike says.  He gives Xander a close, searching look.  "You hurt?"

"I...no, uh, I..."  It strikes him that it might've been the wiser course to prepare in advance what he was going to say.  Because all at once, he's utterly uncertain of what that is.

Spike eyes him narrowly.  "What are you doing here, Harris?"

"I guess...I guess...I came to see you," Xander says, but it isn't nearly what he means.

Spike raises his chin, head cocked at a stubborn angle.  He makes a sound that's not really a laugh.  "Did you, now?  So -- your girl tosses your sorry arse out, and what?  You come crawling back to me?  Take what I can get, that it?   As if I've been hanging about, just waiting for the likes of you to pay me a call.  And I'm supposed to be grateful, I reckon?  Roll out the red carpet?  Welcome you with open arms?"  His lip curls disdainfully.  "Or is it just my arse you want?" 

"It's not like that," Xander says, lamely.

"No?" he asks.  "I think our sordid little history proves otherwise."

Xander cringes at the words, at what's in Spike's voice, because it isn't rage, or bitterness, or scorn -- it's disgust.  As if Spike can't stand the sight of him, as if he hates him, the way he used to hate him, back when Xander couldn't care less whether Spike hated him or not.  When he welcomed Spike's hatred, even sought it out, provoked it.  But it feels to him like that was such a long, long time ago.  

Spike's pacing stiffly, fists and face clenched.  He whirls around, slamming his knuckles into the wall; and his hand comes away torn and bloody, though he seems not to notice.  I'm sorry hand, Xander thinks.

"I'm a fucking vampire, understand?  I'm the bloody big bad, I'm evil, I'm...I'm...and over a human, a child, a pathetic tosser who didn't even know how to fuck properly 'til he met me!"  He stops and fixes Xander with an icy stare.  And then he flinches, and there's a rippling under his skin, like he's about to slip into game face.  But when it passes, his face is still human, defenseless and bare; and when he speaks, he sounds resigned.  He sounds ruined.  "What do you want?" he asks.  

And there it is -- the million dollar question.  He wants Spike, of course, but the answer isn't that simple.  He wants what they had before.  But it seems like too much to ask, or too little, because Spike is after something different, now.  Something more, and Xander doesn't know that he can give it.  Doesn't know that he's got it in him.  And it's not about admitting to himself, to everyone, that he's...okay, that he's gay.  That part is surprisingly easy -- it only tilts his world a little.  But what spins it off its axis is the thought of being with Spike.  Of really being with Spike.  Of opening his life to this dead man.  Because whatever Spike's become, the fact is, he's still a vampire.  He always will be, and Willow is probably right.  It's probably impossible.  It's probably doomed.  It's foolhardy and dangerous, and Xander isn't brave.  And he'd have to be, wouldn't he?  To make room in his heart for a heart that doesn't beat?  To make room in his heart?

And yet, he yearns for Spike.  For the embrace of his body, for his shuttered kindness, to look forever on the shadowed planes of his face.

"I don't know," he says, weakly, ashamed. 

"You really don't, do you?"  Spike scoffs, and his face and voice are glacial again.  "Take on every nasty that comes your way, and you're still a bloody coward.  Worst kind of coward -- man who can't accept who he is.  What he wants.  Disgraceful, that.  Well, I'm not gonna do it.  Not again."

"Do what?" Xander asks.

"Waste my time mooning after something I can't have.  Not gonna wait around and play the lapdog while you get yourself sorted.  Got another thing coming if you think I will.  You're a thoughtless, self-centered, unfeeling...You're a rotten, selfish bastard, and I won't.  I won't.  You're not worth it, Harris.  It's me saying no this time, all right?  I don't want you."

Xander shuts his eyes, nodding, and in some ways, it's almost a relief to hear the worst.  He hasn't understood, until now, that he's been clinging by his fingertips to a hope he's kept even from himself.  Barely aware of the exhausting effort it's taken, and now he can let go, fall, crash.  It's not a surprise to him, not really.  The surprise is what happens next, because when he opens his mouth to say okay, to apologize, to offer a goodbye, what comes out instead is a loud, ragged sob.  And he's crying, in great, unstoppable, hiccuping gasps, sliding to the floor, curling in on himself, covering his face.

Spike is standing next to him, immovable and silent as stone.  Time passes with a tense tick tick tick.  And then, Spike sags a little, sighs a little, and eases himself to the floor.

"You're a right mess, you know that, Harris?"

Xander scrubs clumsily at his face.  "I need -- I need -- a shave," he chokes out between sobs.

"You need a shower," Spike says, sniffing at him with mock distaste.  Xander feels a palm glancing over his ribs.  "And a proper meal, looks like," he adds, which makes Xander weep even harder.

Spike puts a hand to the back of Xander's neck.  "It's all right," he says.  His thumb is rubbing in smooth, calming circles.  "Xander, it’s all right.  I'm not going anywhere.  I'm here, love.  I'm staying right here."

It's so selfless and unexpected, and he's so thankful for it, that Xander thinks he might never stop crying.  But instead, Spike's hand and voice, his words, his certain, solid presence, bring the tears to an end; and he feels himself relaxing, breathing more evenly.  He wonders whether this comes naturally to Spike, or whether it's the result of a century of practice: this ability to gentle someone out of feeling distressed, despairing, crazy.  This talent for tending to broken things.

He feels Spike's eyes on him.  Stares up into that endless blue gaze.  

"What do you want, Spike?" he asks.

Spike seems startled by the question, by Xander's emphasis on the word you, and it makes Xander ache for him.

"Doesn't matter," he replies.  But he's looking intently at Xander's face.  At his mouth. 

Xander takes a breath, and turns to rest his head on Spike's shoulder.  It's not quite right, it's not an answer, and they both know it.  But it's what he needs, what he can manage; and maybe it will get him by, maybe it's enough for now, because after a moment, Spike's head dips down, and he buries his face in Xander's hair.

They sit like that for a bit, and it's nice.  Xander feels peaceful and unhurried.  Spike's not pressing him, and he's not going to.  Spike wants more, he wants a world of more, but he's not going to demand it.  Xander could sit here forever, if he chose, with his head on Spike's shoulder; and Spike wouldn't push him away.

Xander gets it, then.  Gets that this is how Spike loves him: by waiting, and trying, and accepting what's given.  By taking care of what he holds dear.  By wanting, above all, for Xander to be okay.  For Xander to be happy.  And suddenly, it's more than just nice, sitting there with Spike, because Xander gets that he is happy -- really and truly happy.  That he's happy being with Spike.  That he's happy because of Spike.  That he can make Spike happy, too.  That he can love Spike, if he lets himself.  And he thinks that probably he's known this all along, and it's scared him, but he's not scared, anymore.  

A kind of serenity washes over him.  A perfect contentment, like he's where he's supposed to be in the world, and it's a pretty great place.  As if he's floating safely in the vast, gentle warmth of an ocean; and he can feel its rise and fall, see a wind-swept shore; and there are sun-capped waves like phosphorescence, the taste of salt, a sea-bird’s cry; and buoyancy, and bliss.  

He wants to stay just where he is; to never move again.  He's afraid to break the spell, to lose this moment.  But he can't help it, he shifts and wraps his arms around Spike, fingers twining in the cloth of his shirt.  He fits there so right that it makes him sigh with his whole body.  And he thinks that Spike gets it, that he knows what it means, but he lifts his head to see.

Spike is looking at him like a man who's touched a little piece of heaven, and isn't letting go.  Lit up inside, glowing, incandescently beautiful.  There's a light in his eyes, too, warm, and steady; and his lips are slightly parted, showing just the tip of his tongue.  Xander's pulse quickens, but his mind turns slow and dull with longing, and love.

Xander should say something, and he tries to think; but who knows, maybe a part of his brain has shorted out.  There are thoughts in there, but they keep skittering away before he can make out their meaning.  He can only grasp individual words as they drift through his head, disconnected from one another.  Words like yes, and you, and yours.  Words like please, and always, and us.  Until finally, one thought snags, and catches, and holds, long enough for him to understand it clearly; and this time, he even says it aloud.

"I'm here, love.  I'm staying right here."

Then he gives up trying to think, as he closes his eyes, and opens his mouth, to the vampire's kiss.

The End

                                              ****************************************

"How did it happen that their lips came together? How does it happen that birds sing, that snow melts, that the rose unfolds, that the dawn whitens behind the stark shapes of trees on the quivering summit of the hill? A kiss, and all was said." -- Victor Hugo

Comments

[mojee.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much. Your story has lifted and inspired me and taught me many thing about myself. I am enriched for having read it.

[baudown.livejournal.com]

I had to wait a while, and kind of catch my breath, before responding to this comment. And I'm still not really sure what to say, except that you've made me insanely happy. Thank you, thank you, thank you.