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thismazTitle: DIY
Part 22 of the Blood on a Sundial series. Previous parts, in reverse order, are here or in my memories.
Fandom: BtVS
Prompt: #38 - Abacus
At:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
tamingthemuse
Disclaimer: here.
Rating: Pg
Word Count: 1,710
Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sparrow2000 for the prompt that helped me get into Xander's head for this one.
22. DIY
Over the next few nights Spike kept Xander busy clearing the garbage in the basement of the factory. It was mostly pallets, broken furniture and unidentifiable bits of old machines. Junk that had been shoved down there because it was easier than getting rid of it properly. It was a bit like sifting though the city dump and a bit like the biggest rummage sale of the century, and there was the occasional treasure which Xander put carefully aside - a box of unused accounts books, mostly undamaged by damp, a small and very dirty teddy bear, a strange black lacquered tray with rods strung with beads across it and the remains of gold decoration, a painting of a man in a top hat standing next to a big desk and a tin cup from some amateur boxing contest. Each morning Xander re-emerged into the apartment filthy and exhausted. Each day he slept like the dead.
One night when Spike went out, he came back carrying a long duffel bag which he stashed upstairs before coming to help Xander move some of the remaining, heavier rubbish. They set to together then, shifting the stuff to the sides of the room and clearing the floor. From somewhere Spike produced new tools and paint and Xander found pleasure in the way they seemed able to work together, sparking ideas and plans for the final layout as they progressed.
"This space," Spike said. "We'll keep it clear. Few mats on the floor. Make a good training area." He swept his arm out, indicating the other side of the room. "Over there. We'll have the firing range."
Xander eyed the area. "Do we need a wall? To mark it off... you know... to prevent accidents?"
Spike stood back appraisingly. "Could do." He nodded. "How high?"
"Nothing much. Just to stop anyone getting in the way, without knowing."
Spike laughed. "Who you got in mind, mate? Just us here. Wasn't thinking of having a party."
Xander grinned back. "Shot gun," he said.
Spike grimaced. "Point. Okay. Wall it is."
The next night there was a hammering on the main entrance doors which Spike answered. The procession of amiable looking creatures in work clothes and hefting tool boxes who entered, had Xander's eyes bugging out of his head. However, once they got to work rigging up new electric lighting and power in the basement he was only too happy to take kitchen duty and provide regular mugs of coffee for the labourers, between shifting stuff out of their way.
It was almost a week before Xander remembered his promise to himself, to phone Giles. He'd been so busy, he'd forgotten. That thought gave him pause and he was so distracted trying to work out why he'd forgotten that he almost split the batten he was fixing. He leaned his head against the wall, the stone cool on his forehead as he tried to figure it out. Part of the problem was that he didn't know exactly what he was going to say. His life was so messed up. He tried to count back over all that had happened since Spike grabbed him: a week of sleeping and driving and sleeping again, sitting in the car, gradually learning how to talk to Spike. Learning how to avoid confrontations. Learning. Then here. How long was that? Three weeks? Four? It seemed like forever. And Sunnydale felt like a dream. Like something he'd made up, or something from his childhood. He could picture the library, the gym, his bedroom with the posters on the walls, but they were distant. And he couldn't pull Willow's face clearly to mind. He could remember that his Mom had to call him every morning to get him up for school, but he couldn't remember her voice or the last thing his Dad said to him. There were individual moments, like photographs: his Dad sitting in his chair in front of the TV, his Mom at the kitchen table hunched over a mug of coffee, Willow and Buffy walking ahead of him past a row of lockers, but he couldn't remember their faces. It wasn't logical. He knew it was only three weeks, or maybe four, and if he thought about it he knew all the events of his life. But it was like he was remembering a film he'd seen. How could four weeks have changed him so much that his real life felt like a distant memory, or something that had happened to someone else? Only Giles was clear. Their last conversation in the corridor outside the library seemed to be the only memory that came with clarity of colour, scent and surround sound - Giles' face as he gazed at Xander with real approval for the first time and the warm rush of affection he'd felt to receive a look that was usually reserved only for Buffy or Willow.
He glanced across at Spike, wielding a paintbrush with careless abandon, his shirt, jeans and skin already covered in spots of white. Xander threw his screwdriver down. "Back in a while," he called as he ran out of the room, digging his hand in his pocket, feeling for loose change.
As it turned out it was not so difficult. There was a drugstore half a block down, the call went through with no problem and Giles was there. The way he said Xander's name, his accent and his concern, almost broke Xander's resolve. But he managed to hold firm and concentrated on the facts it was sensible to share, on recounting the length of their journey and the fact that they were somewhere in lower Manhattan and he was safe. It hadn't lasted long before his money was gone, just enough time to reassure Giles that he was surviving and to promise to phone again soon. Then the call cut out. Silently he returned to the factory, picked up the screwdriver and finished fixing the shelf in place.
Finally it was done and Xander allowed himself to take some pride in the sight of the large empty room with its concrete floor, clean walls and empty shelves. That night a delivery truck arrived and unloaded floor mats and an assortment of gym equipment. And as if that was some sort of trigger, his brain crashed back into gear and the question that had been nagging at the back of his mind, and which he'd been refusing to face, crashed with it - Why was Spike doing this? What was his game? And with that thought came another: Did he dare ask?
That morning, before exhaustion took him, he lay in his bed rewinding through the surreal conversation in the kitchen on the night after his first hangover. Spike had talked to him like a friend and Xander had allowed himself to be seduced by it. After days of being ignored and then the exhilaration of dusting three vamps and having Spike actually talking to him again, he figured he'd just gone a bit overboard. That was his excuse and he was sticking to it. But in spite of that, and almost without him noticing, he realised that he spent all his time walking on egg shells, being careful about what he said and how he said it. Hyperaware, listening for the signals that Spike's mood had changed and he'd decided Xander was more trouble to keep, than not. Spike's attitude to Xander was unclear. Spike's motives for everything he did were a mystery to Xander. For the life of him, he didn't know why he was still alive. Grateful to be so, but totally in the dark as to why. Spike had said 'company' and maybe it was as simple as that. Certainly, day by day, Xander felt a little more certain that Spike didn't have any immediate plans to kill him. And when Spike was helping him shift rubbish or paint a wall and laughing when Xander almost put his foot in the can, it was possible to ignore, or even forget exactly what Spike was. But he went out each evening, alone. And he didn't need to eat any of the meals Xander cooked for himself. It was those moments of realisation that caught Xander, like he'd hit a brick wall and suddenly he was frightened again. Frightened for himself, and frightened for the residents of New York.
In the early hours of the next morning Xander tried to call him on it. They were sitting in the kitchen and Xander had made hot chocolate for them both. He moved the dirty plate from his own meal into the sink and there was something in the way Spike looked up at him and smiled that gave him the courage.
"Did you find what you're looking for?" He asked.
Spike cocked an eyebrow. "What d'you mean?"
"That demon guy, the night we got attacked, you were expecting him to give you a book? Did you get it from him the next night?"
Spike's smile faded and Xander tensed, cursing himself silently, but Spike just seemed to be thinking about his answer. "No," he said eventually. "He didn't know where it was. Said he saw it at some sort of sorcerer’s estate sale about ten years back, but it was bought by a human and he couldn't track it."
"Was he telling the truth?"
Spike grinned wolfishly. "He was telling the truth. They always tell the truth. In the end."
Suddenly Xander felt sick, at exactly the same moment that he realised why Spike had been late home that night. He sat back in his chair and shoved the oversweet chocolate away, concentrating on calming his breathing and his stomach. "That's good," he mumbled just for something to say. "Err... well... I guess I'd better be going to bed." He pushed himself up and away from the table. "Night Spike. I'll see you in the morning." And he fled downstairs to the old factory restroom.
When he came back Spike was already in bed, apparently asleep. The mugs had been cleared off the kitchen table but the light above the stove was still on, so he could see his way across the room. He turned it off and clambered into his own nest, pulling the blankets over his head.
Next Part
Part 22 of the Blood on a Sundial series. Previous parts, in reverse order, are here or in my memories.
Fandom: BtVS
Prompt: #38 - Abacus
At:
tamingthemuseDisclaimer: here.
Rating: Pg
Word Count: 1,710
Thanks to
sparrow2000 for the prompt that helped me get into Xander's head for this one.22. DIY
Over the next few nights Spike kept Xander busy clearing the garbage in the basement of the factory. It was mostly pallets, broken furniture and unidentifiable bits of old machines. Junk that had been shoved down there because it was easier than getting rid of it properly. It was a bit like sifting though the city dump and a bit like the biggest rummage sale of the century, and there was the occasional treasure which Xander put carefully aside - a box of unused accounts books, mostly undamaged by damp, a small and very dirty teddy bear, a strange black lacquered tray with rods strung with beads across it and the remains of gold decoration, a painting of a man in a top hat standing next to a big desk and a tin cup from some amateur boxing contest. Each morning Xander re-emerged into the apartment filthy and exhausted. Each day he slept like the dead.
One night when Spike went out, he came back carrying a long duffel bag which he stashed upstairs before coming to help Xander move some of the remaining, heavier rubbish. They set to together then, shifting the stuff to the sides of the room and clearing the floor. From somewhere Spike produced new tools and paint and Xander found pleasure in the way they seemed able to work together, sparking ideas and plans for the final layout as they progressed.
"This space," Spike said. "We'll keep it clear. Few mats on the floor. Make a good training area." He swept his arm out, indicating the other side of the room. "Over there. We'll have the firing range."
Xander eyed the area. "Do we need a wall? To mark it off... you know... to prevent accidents?"
Spike stood back appraisingly. "Could do." He nodded. "How high?"
"Nothing much. Just to stop anyone getting in the way, without knowing."
Spike laughed. "Who you got in mind, mate? Just us here. Wasn't thinking of having a party."
Xander grinned back. "Shot gun," he said.
Spike grimaced. "Point. Okay. Wall it is."
The next night there was a hammering on the main entrance doors which Spike answered. The procession of amiable looking creatures in work clothes and hefting tool boxes who entered, had Xander's eyes bugging out of his head. However, once they got to work rigging up new electric lighting and power in the basement he was only too happy to take kitchen duty and provide regular mugs of coffee for the labourers, between shifting stuff out of their way.
It was almost a week before Xander remembered his promise to himself, to phone Giles. He'd been so busy, he'd forgotten. That thought gave him pause and he was so distracted trying to work out why he'd forgotten that he almost split the batten he was fixing. He leaned his head against the wall, the stone cool on his forehead as he tried to figure it out. Part of the problem was that he didn't know exactly what he was going to say. His life was so messed up. He tried to count back over all that had happened since Spike grabbed him: a week of sleeping and driving and sleeping again, sitting in the car, gradually learning how to talk to Spike. Learning how to avoid confrontations. Learning. Then here. How long was that? Three weeks? Four? It seemed like forever. And Sunnydale felt like a dream. Like something he'd made up, or something from his childhood. He could picture the library, the gym, his bedroom with the posters on the walls, but they were distant. And he couldn't pull Willow's face clearly to mind. He could remember that his Mom had to call him every morning to get him up for school, but he couldn't remember her voice or the last thing his Dad said to him. There were individual moments, like photographs: his Dad sitting in his chair in front of the TV, his Mom at the kitchen table hunched over a mug of coffee, Willow and Buffy walking ahead of him past a row of lockers, but he couldn't remember their faces. It wasn't logical. He knew it was only three weeks, or maybe four, and if he thought about it he knew all the events of his life. But it was like he was remembering a film he'd seen. How could four weeks have changed him so much that his real life felt like a distant memory, or something that had happened to someone else? Only Giles was clear. Their last conversation in the corridor outside the library seemed to be the only memory that came with clarity of colour, scent and surround sound - Giles' face as he gazed at Xander with real approval for the first time and the warm rush of affection he'd felt to receive a look that was usually reserved only for Buffy or Willow.
He glanced across at Spike, wielding a paintbrush with careless abandon, his shirt, jeans and skin already covered in spots of white. Xander threw his screwdriver down. "Back in a while," he called as he ran out of the room, digging his hand in his pocket, feeling for loose change.
As it turned out it was not so difficult. There was a drugstore half a block down, the call went through with no problem and Giles was there. The way he said Xander's name, his accent and his concern, almost broke Xander's resolve. But he managed to hold firm and concentrated on the facts it was sensible to share, on recounting the length of their journey and the fact that they were somewhere in lower Manhattan and he was safe. It hadn't lasted long before his money was gone, just enough time to reassure Giles that he was surviving and to promise to phone again soon. Then the call cut out. Silently he returned to the factory, picked up the screwdriver and finished fixing the shelf in place.
Finally it was done and Xander allowed himself to take some pride in the sight of the large empty room with its concrete floor, clean walls and empty shelves. That night a delivery truck arrived and unloaded floor mats and an assortment of gym equipment. And as if that was some sort of trigger, his brain crashed back into gear and the question that had been nagging at the back of his mind, and which he'd been refusing to face, crashed with it - Why was Spike doing this? What was his game? And with that thought came another: Did he dare ask?
That morning, before exhaustion took him, he lay in his bed rewinding through the surreal conversation in the kitchen on the night after his first hangover. Spike had talked to him like a friend and Xander had allowed himself to be seduced by it. After days of being ignored and then the exhilaration of dusting three vamps and having Spike actually talking to him again, he figured he'd just gone a bit overboard. That was his excuse and he was sticking to it. But in spite of that, and almost without him noticing, he realised that he spent all his time walking on egg shells, being careful about what he said and how he said it. Hyperaware, listening for the signals that Spike's mood had changed and he'd decided Xander was more trouble to keep, than not. Spike's attitude to Xander was unclear. Spike's motives for everything he did were a mystery to Xander. For the life of him, he didn't know why he was still alive. Grateful to be so, but totally in the dark as to why. Spike had said 'company' and maybe it was as simple as that. Certainly, day by day, Xander felt a little more certain that Spike didn't have any immediate plans to kill him. And when Spike was helping him shift rubbish or paint a wall and laughing when Xander almost put his foot in the can, it was possible to ignore, or even forget exactly what Spike was. But he went out each evening, alone. And he didn't need to eat any of the meals Xander cooked for himself. It was those moments of realisation that caught Xander, like he'd hit a brick wall and suddenly he was frightened again. Frightened for himself, and frightened for the residents of New York.
In the early hours of the next morning Xander tried to call him on it. They were sitting in the kitchen and Xander had made hot chocolate for them both. He moved the dirty plate from his own meal into the sink and there was something in the way Spike looked up at him and smiled that gave him the courage.
"Did you find what you're looking for?" He asked.
Spike cocked an eyebrow. "What d'you mean?"
"That demon guy, the night we got attacked, you were expecting him to give you a book? Did you get it from him the next night?"
Spike's smile faded and Xander tensed, cursing himself silently, but Spike just seemed to be thinking about his answer. "No," he said eventually. "He didn't know where it was. Said he saw it at some sort of sorcerer’s estate sale about ten years back, but it was bought by a human and he couldn't track it."
"Was he telling the truth?"
Spike grinned wolfishly. "He was telling the truth. They always tell the truth. In the end."
Suddenly Xander felt sick, at exactly the same moment that he realised why Spike had been late home that night. He sat back in his chair and shoved the oversweet chocolate away, concentrating on calming his breathing and his stomach. "That's good," he mumbled just for something to say. "Err... well... I guess I'd better be going to bed." He pushed himself up and away from the table. "Night Spike. I'll see you in the morning." And he fled downstairs to the old factory restroom.
When he came back Spike was already in bed, apparently asleep. The mugs had been cleared off the kitchen table but the light above the stove was still on, so he could see his way across the room. He turned it off and clambered into his own nest, pulling the blankets over his head.
Next Part
