thismaz | Taming the Muse Prompt 31, BoaS Part 16, Not waving, but drowning, BtVS, PG

Another week when I've not been around much. But I will catch up tomorrow. *is determined*

Title: Not waving, but drowning
Part 16 of the Blood on a Sundial series. Previous parts, in reverse order, are here or in my memories.
Fandom: BtVS
Prompt: #31 - Hairbrush
At:

tamingthemuse
Disclaimer: here.
Rating: Pg
Word Count: 2,151

16. Not waving, but drowning

Xander finished eating his breakfast... supper... whatever meal it was. His life had become nocturnal. And wasn't that a weird thought? Counting back, he realised it was only two days. The day before yesterday, at this time, he'd been loitering on the way to school. Today he was sharing a motel room with a vampire.

Spike didn't move the whole time it took Xander to eat the sandwiches and fruit Spike had supplied. Stuffing the packaging and apple cores into a single paper bag, Xander laid it carefully aside. The light from around the edge of the blinds was brighter now. He gave the bracelet on his wrist another futile tug. Nope. No way was that getting past his hand. He knew, in a theoretical, distant sort of way, that he was tired, but the food had given him a boost of energy and fear was doing the rest. He visually measured the distance to the door. Spike was a lump of blankets on the other bed, his face turned away from the faint daylight. Xander watched him and started to count. Spike still hadn't stirred by the time he reached five hundred, so he began to edge slowly across the mattress. Moving very carefully, praying the bed wouldn't creak with his shifting weight, he lowered his feet to the floor and rolled off onto his knees, lifting his body evenly away, until he was sitting back on his heels on the floor.

He froze, waiting painfully to make sure his movements were undetected. All he could hear was his own breathing, which seemed incredibly loud in the still room. He had a flash of memory of a TV show from years ago - something to do with a hunt through a haunted house and he opened his mouth, breathing through it, instead of his nose. The silence deepened.

Placing his hands on the floor in front of his knees, Xander pushed himself upright. His sneakers made no sound as he backed cautiously towards the door, eyes fixed on the patch of stark whiteness that was Spike's hair. When his right foot met the edge of the carpet, he stilled again, checking. Then he turned and placed a hand on the door handle. One last look back and he twisted the knob, wrenched the door open and lurched out into the welcoming daylight.

Xander heaved a huge sigh of relief. Step one accomplished. He was safe. Now he just had to work out how to get home, before the end of the day. Leaving the door wide open, only regretting the fact that it faced northeast, so the direct light didn't penetrate far into the room, he staggered to the car and laid his head on his folded arms, braced on the roof, as he caught his breath and considered his next move. No car keys, so no chance of just driving away. He needed help.

Looking around, he saw that the motel consisted of a row of rooms joined by a shallow porch. At the end of the row was the city. The morning rush-hour seemed to be in full swing and the air was heavy with exhaust fumes as rows of cars crawled past the motel entrance. He considered hitching a lift, but they were hardly moving faster than walking pace. Between him and the road was the office. Of course, Spike would choose the room furthest away. Probably a habit developed over years, so the screams of his victims wouldn't attract undue attention.

Stepping away from the car, Xander walked out into the open and headed that way. It felt wonderful to have the sun beating down on his head. Elated and carefree, almost giddy with relief, he deliberately walked down the centre of the parking lot, past the few cars and the row of white lines which marked out the territories attached to each room. He stuck his hands in his pocket as he ambled, swinging his shoulders to some imagined music. As long as he stuck to daylight, he knew he was safe, in spite of the vague feeling of not-rightness that was attempting to crawl into his head and spoil his good mood.

He was twenty yards from the office when the first wave of dizziness struck, causing him to stumble and almost fall. Pausing he pulled his hands free and scrubbed his face, running his fingers back through his hair, tugging slightly in an attempt to clear his head. He looked around. Nothing had changed. The sun still shone brightly, the cars still crawled past, but it was as if a pall had been thrown over the world. Shadows lurked at the edges of his vision and the skin on his forehead and cheeks felt tight. He took a couple more steps and a second wave of dizziness hit him. As it slowly cleared, he found himself bent over, hands braced on his knees. His stomach churned and he fought the desire to lose his meal.

Taking slow, deep breaths, he counted them in and out: one, two, three, four, five. The air tasted foully of rubber, burning at his throat. Bending his knees slightly, he pushed himself up with his arms. He felt like an old man - stiff and achy. Concentrating on the office he took one more deep breath and continued on. As he walked, the dizziness gradually transformed itself into a low, throbbing pain in his temples and by the time he reached the two shallow steps up to the office door, he had to hang on to the hand rail and pull himself up.

He fumbled blindly at the handle, opening the door more by luck than judgement, and lurched through, collapsing back against it to close it, panting with the effort of staying upright. The air here was dusty, but lacked the nauseating chemical stench of outside. He opened his eyes.

The man sitting behind the desk looked up from the magazine he was hunched over and leant back in his chair. He was young, though older than Xander, and heavily muscled. Xander squinted across the room, suddenly realising the character of the establishment. He didn't look very promising as a source of help, dressed, as he was, in a faded flannel shirt with the arms ripped off, over a blue T-shirt with a gold logo across the front. His hair was shaved away on the sides of his head, leaving a bristly patch balanced on top, and he had a long moustache, which gave him an even more villainous appearance than the clothes and hair cut already did. A double page spread of sleek black motorbike was revealed on the desk in front of him. But appearances could be deceiving. He might be a real nice guy. He raised one heavily tattooed arm and a ran his hand across the top of the strange brush of hair as he stared at Xander, neither encouraging not questioning.

Xander wiped his brow. "I need a telephone," he said.

Tough motorbike guy shook his head with a grunt. "Broke." Okay, maybe appearances were right.

Xander concentrated on his breathing, feeling the sweat start up on his forehead. "Is there another?"

The guy looked at him critically. "Don't be sick in here. Go outside," he ordered, turning back to his magazine, apparently dismissing Xander from his thoughts.

Xander felt tears gather at the corners of his eyes and willed them back. "Please?" He whispered.

The guy looked up again, apparently surprised to see Xander still there. "Next door." He nodded vaguely to the left. "C-store's got one outside." He turned back to his magazine. That was definitely a dismissal.

Xander stared at him for a bit longer, but he didn't look up again. As he stood, trying to overcome the almost paralysing discomfort and summon the energy to move, Xander remembered Spike reading the instructions for his magical cuffs. Oh God! He tried to remember exactly what Spike had said. A hundred yards, was that it? He was feeling worse and worse with each passing moment, his skin itched and his bones ached and suddenly he knew, it was not going to stop. If he was going to call Giles, he would either have to go back to Spike, until he felt better, or be quick about it. Whatever the magic was, it didn't feel like a specific compulsion to return. And having been possessed twice, Xander knew what that felt like. But whatever it was, the urge to run back to the room and hide under the blankets was strong, and strangely, that was the very thing that finally made him realise he had to hold out. If he went back until he recovered, it would be twice as hard to set out again. Plus, who knew if he'd get another chance?

His hand found the door knob behind him and he stumbled back out of the office, turning right towards the street, hands braced on the wall. The darkness was encroaching ever further on his vision, the sweat on his nose and brow prickled like needles and the skin all over his body felt tight and sensitive. His left hand hit air and he almost fell. Raising his eyes from his feet, he realised he'd reached the corner of the building and was on the sidewalk. He looked around frantically, searching for the convenience store. There it was. The twenty yards between him and it, stretched away like the expanse of the Sahara. Focusing solely on the phone booth by the door, Xander allowed the darkness to take the rest of his vision. "Okay," he muttered. "On three." He took deep breaths as he counted. "One, two, three." With a lurching move he launched himself into space. Each step was exquisite discomfort, but by reciting Giles' number over and over, like a mantra, he managed to ignore that and keep his eyes fixed on his goal. Vaguely he was aware of other people rushing past, of the noise of traffic beside him, of the sun cutting into his brain. He held on to the sequence of Giles' phone number, as if they were the only thing in the world that mattered, as he forced his legs to move.

Then he was there. He was on his hands and knees, but he was there. The telephone hung above him like the Holy Grail, finally found. Walking his hands off the wall, he got himself upright and fumbled the handset off its rest. The buttons on the keypad were dancing all over the place and he had to close one eye and squint with the other to make the '0' stand still long enough to hit it. He got the handset up to his ear and leant his back against the wall, catching his breath and gathering his thoughts for the next challenge. The voice of the operator was cool and businesslike.

He forced the words out through teeth clenched against the pressure. "I need to make a collect call to a number in Sunnydale." He recited his mantra aloud and heard the connection going through.

The ring tone sounded. It sounded again. And again. And again.

"There's no answer from that number, Sir. Is there another you want to try?" She sounded almost interested, sympathetic. But Xander didn't know another number. His brain could hardly compute anything other than the ones he'd been reciting. The handset fell from his hands. Faintly he registered the tinny voice. "Sir. Are you there, Sir? Do you need me to call 911?" He was sitting on the ground, back against the wall and the handset swung in the air next to him.

For long minutes he didn't move, listening to the buzz of the dial tone, as the truth of his situation settled in his brain. The pain began to fade, slightly. Eventually, he realised that he was beginning to attract attention. Wearily he hauled himself to his feet and looked around. The cars still crawled by at walking pace. The sun was still bright in the sky. He turned and walked back towards the motel.

*****

Inside the room, standing back in the shadows, Spike watched Xander's approach. He noted the slumped shoulders and the defeated stance. With a smile of satisfaction he went back to bed and this time he went to sleep.

When he woke up seven hours later, he found Xander curled up on the veranda outside the door. He looked peaceful, although he was hugging his jacket tightly around himself in his sleep. It had been sunlit in the morning, but now the long shadows of late afternoon had probably robbed him of his warmth. Spike dragged a blanket off the bed and laid it over the boy, before going back inside. There was no rush, really and a long, relaxed shower would set him up nicely for the drive ahead.

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