thismaz | Bewitched, Chapter 22

Title: Bewitched, Chapter 22
Pairing: S/X. I promise it will get back there... eventually.
Rating: This chapter PG-13
Summary: Valentine's Day arrived and Dru dipped her finger in the brew, giving it a stir.
Word Count: 2,600
Betaed by

sparrow2000 and DJ, for which, many thanks. Thanks also to Sparrow for conflabbing on plot twists and forms.
Comments: Are greatly appreciated, loved and cherished.
Disclaimer: here.
Prologue here, with a link to the other chapters, or you can find the whole thing, in reverse order, in tags, or in the correct order, in memories. There's a menu of links on the right hand side of my main journal page.

Many thanks to

mwrgana for the beautiful banner.

Chapter 22

Sitting on the bed in his shabby motel room, Xander ate his supper. He was acutely aware that he needed to get a place of his own, before he ended up as depressed as the furnishings, and during his shift he'd spent some time calculating his resources. It would be another two weeks before he'd have saved enough to put down first and last on an apartment, even if he worked more hours. Until then, he was living in a room that required no invite. It was a scary thought.

Having made his last delivery at 1:15, he had hung around and helped Mr Donato tidy up, to avoid having to come back to the motel. He was bone tired, but he knew that he couldn't afford to go to sleep. Once the sun was up it would be safe, but until then... Reaching out with his free hand, he checked again that his cross and stake were close by. They were, nestled by his hip where he could grab them easily.

A perk of staying back and doing the boss a favour was that Mr Donato had given him the leftovers to take home. And eating helped him stay awake. And since he was staying awake... Taking a bite out of his pizza and leaning back against the headboard, he stared blindly at the picture of the little gypsy girl with the big, fat tears rolling down her cheeks on the opposite wall, while he tried to put his thoughts and feelings into some sort of order.

Spike had said he was looking for him. Buffy hadn't arrived until after that exchange, though, so the others didn't know about it. During the course of the long afternoon at Giles', Xander had thought about telling them, but a small part of him resisted the role of damsel in distress and a very big part of him didn't want to remind them about his night of madness in junior year, if they didn't need to remember.

And maybe they didn't. There hadn't been any sign of Spike during his shift. Every time he'd got out of his car, he'd checked the area with his cross in his hand, before he even picked up the delivery box.

Maybe Spike hadn't meant it. Maybe it was surprise at seeing Xander on the campus that made him say anything. He took another bite, tearing through the tough crust, and gave a silent snort. The real surprise was that Spike remembered his name.

When he came back to town during senior year, Spike had ignored Xander, even while they were fighting off a crazy vampire attack outside the magic shop together. There hadn't even been a raised eyebrow in acknowledgement of their one-time intimacy. Spike had focussed all his attention on Buffy and Angel, when he wasn't being distracted by the Mayor's vampire henchmen, trying to kill him.

Xander remembered the gleam Spike could get in his eyes when he was enjoying himself. He'd had it when he was mocking Buffy's strange relationship with Angel. He'd had it... no he wasn't going to think about that.

After the magic shop, Xander had been convinced that Spike wanted to pretend they'd never met, let alone done... stuff. They'd fought together. They'd ignored each other. Then Spike had gone, leaving Xander, Buffy and Angel standing in the wreckage of the shop.

They'd tried to tidy it up a little, once Oz and Larry came back with Willow, having found her by scent (and wasn't that a freaky thought?) After that, Buffy and Angel had gone off to do whatever it was they did together, when they couldn't actually do anything. Oz had taken Willow home and Larry had dragged Xander to the Bronze, where they'd had a flaming row about something; Xander couldn't remember what. With a pang of familiar regret, he realised that that was the night when they'd both begun to accept that being the only gay kids in school, didn't mean they were any good for each other.

But that wasn't the point. The point was that even at the end of junior year, when the Acathla thing went down and they'd met outside the mansion, Spike had behaved as if they'd never met. He'd been cool. Friendly enough, in an I'm-a-killer-and-I-could-snap-you-like-a-twig sort of way, but cool. And he'd done the same when he came back six months later.

So why had he acted differently that morning? Replaying the latest encounter, Xander tried to remember the exact words Spike had used and the exact tone of his voice. He hadn't sounded threatening. It was like he was happy to see Xander. He'd almost sounded eager. He'd said he'd been to Xander's parents' house!

Xander resolved to go and see his mom as soon as he woke up, just to check she was okay.

It didn't make any sense for Spike's strange behaviour to be caused by the ring, or related to him being out in daylight. Xander simply couldn't think of anything else that might have changed. That left him in an exposed position, with an inconsistent vampire on the loose.

Maybe he should say something.

During the afternoon, as they endlessly discussed the ring, Xander had considered begging for a place on his couch, from Giles. He'd even opened his mouth to ask, but then he'd pictured the two of them living together. He figured it would take less than two weeks, probably less than one, for them to drive each other crazy. That alone was sufficient reason for him not to impose. Having Giles' apartment as a place to visit during the day was too valuable to risk spoiling it.

Sitting on his bed, munching his now cold pizza and waiting for the sun to rise, Xander wondered if Giles had forgotten about junior year, or whether he simply assumed that it was old news. If Buffy had given a full account of the night they fought the Mayor's vampires, Giles probably thought there was nothing to worry about. Xander had believed the same, until this latest meeting.

He really, really didn't want to say anything, but if Spike started stalking him again... Except, Spike was inconsistent. He'd haunted Xander's backyard for weeks, and then he'd disappeared. He'd pretended they'd never met before, and then he'd come back and greeted Xander like an old friend.

But Spike wasn't the type to hesitate. Xander was pretty sure that if Spike wanted to kill him, they'd have had a confrontation at some point during the evening.

Maybe he'd done another switch and Xander was worrying about nothing.

And it wasn't as if he knew where Xander was living. As long as he took precautions when approaching the motel, Xander thought he could get through two more weeks okay. His life for the past three years had hardly been risk free.

Outside the thin curtains of his room, the faint first light of dawn was finally beginning to lighten the sky. Xander chewed through the last few mouthfuls of pizza and got up to throw the box in the garbage. As he got undressed and crawled into bed, he decided that he'd keep careful watch, and if he caught any sign of Spike in the shadows, he'd go straight to Giles to ask for asylum.

*****

Spike came to consciousness slowly. The first thing he was aware of was that he was lying on the ground and he had no memory of how he'd got there. He hurt. All over. In Spike's experience, if he woke up not knowing where he was, it was usually not a good thing. His innate awareness told him that the sun had risen, but he had no idea of how long ago. Since the last thing he remembered was waiting for Xander at the Watcher's place, just after sunset, that suggested that he'd been unconscious for at least eight hours. He'd obviously been knocked out by something, which also suggested that he was now some sort of prisoner.

He opened his eyes to a searing white glare. It was so bright, he couldn't bear to look, so he shut them again and concentrated on listening, while he collected himself. No one was actively trying to wake him up, so he felt relatively safe in continuing the pretence of unconsciousness. If he was lucky, he might manage to gather some useful information.

At first, the only sounds he could hear were a faint whirring, like that made by a ventilation fan, and the buzz of multiple fluorescents. Feigning a partial return to consciousness, he allowed his head to flop to the side and twitched his left foot, then went still again. This time, when he opened his eyes just enough to see through his lashes, he still saw only white, but it didn't blind him. After a moment, he made out lines marking the edges of panels on the walls, tiles on the floor and the stronger line where the two met. It wasn't much to go on, but it told him he was in some sort of purpose-built facility. A view that stark had to be deliberate.

Unfortunately, the lack of any solid objects was not giving him enough information to make an assessment of his situation. With the pain in his head slowly easing to a dull throb, he was contemplating the idea of letting go of pretence and taking a proper look, when the sound of footsteps heralded the appearance of a man, who walked across his field of vision. Judging by his height, he was less than ten feet away, yet he didn't spare Spike a glance. Either he didn't know what Spike was, or he was confident that Spike was no threat. He walked stiffly, like someone who had been drilled and Spike was reminded of a soldier on patrol. That could be a serious threat, given his condition.

Once the man had passed out of sight, Spike opened his eyes properly and rolled onto his side. Getting up was difficult; he was even weaker than he'd realised. Whatever he's been hit with, on top of the injuries he'd suffered while exposed to the sun, had left him dangerously weak. He managed to clamber painfully up onto his hands and knees, and then flopped over so he was sitting on his arse, supporting himself with his hands braced behind him on the floor, while he looked around. At a guess, he was in some sort of holding cell - white floor, white translucent ceiling, which was also the source of the bright light, and three white walls. He couldn't see a camera, but that didn't mean there wasn't one. Light this strong suggested some sort of observation was in place.

Where the fourth wall should be, there was a sheet of glass, as he discovered to his disappointment when he crawled over to it. Touching it, in an attempt to help himself up onto his feet, resulted in an electric shock that sent him reeling back to the floor.

He lay still and closed his eyes again. This close to the glass wall, he could hear more - the echoes of the soldier's footsteps, which suggested a long corridor, the sound of a door closing, more footsteps coming from the opposite direction, and voices that grew more distinct as they approached. There were two of them, a man and a woman. The woman's voice was clipped, as if she was accustomed to being obeyed, or at least listened to. The man's was deeper and held a note of respectful hesitancy.

Spike closed his eyes again, expecting them to be coming to see him, but they stopped before they reached his cell. There was a pause and then the woman spoke. "The arms," she said. "They're powerful, but I believe we can do better." There was an indistinct murmur of agreement from the man. "This one can join group 7A," the woman said.

"Certainly," the man agreed. "Yes, it will be a good addition to that study group. Saunders has been begging for a new subject, since last week."

The woman chuckled. "Well, let us hope that this will keep him busy and out of my hair." There was a pause before she added, "And the new one?"

"In the next cell, Professor."

The foot steps resumed, very close now and Spike relaxed all his muscles, allowing his joints to go loose, once again pretending unconsciousness.

"Hmm. How many of this species have we picked up, to date?" the woman asked.

"Sixteen, Professor, plus this one."

"And were any of them in such poor physical condition?"

"No, ma'am. This appears to be unusual." The man paused and when he continued, he sounded thoughtful. "Maybe a weak specimen, an outcaste from his social group?" he speculated. "There is some suggestion of pack behaviour - the first five were captured together."

That elicited a huff which sounded distinctly impatient. "Dr Briggs, that must remain speculation. I should not have to remind you that we cannot extrapolate from such a small sample. And given the way they turned to cannibalism, before we discovered their essential food source, I am disinclined to believe in a cooperative social structure."

The man's voice was suitable chastened when he replied, "Yes, ma'am, of course."

For a few moments there was silence again, until the man tentatively offered, "He is in very poor condition, but interestingly, he seems to be familiar with some sort of primitive weaponry. He had a number of arrows on him when he was captured."

The woman made another hrumphing sound. "Any sign of a bow?" she asked.

"No and the arrows were short. Maybe he used them as stabbing weapons?"

That suggestion was met with another sigh, more resigned this time. "All right, I'll play your game," she agreed. "I concede that this species has language and wears clothes. Human made clothes, which they no doubt scavenge or steal. But I find it very hard to believe that any species of HST is capable of a high degree of sophistication or possesses superior reasoning powers. If they did, given their physical strength, humanity would not be the dominant species on the planet." She stopped but the man didn't say anything in reply. "These arrows you speak of," she continued, "which I wish to see, by the way, might well have been something else it collected, without knowing their proper purpose."

"Yes, Ma'am, possibly," The man was still being respectful, but her concession seemed to have given him some courage, because his voice was firmer when he said, "but I have read Colonel Brewer's 1943 report."

The reminder was apparently not appreciated because the woman sounded annoyed again when she replied, "True. Although we have no evidence that that example was not an aberration. It is unfortunate that so few files survived. The disrepute that the DRI fell into when the Manhattan Project became fashionable requires that we be even more stringent in our methods, Dr Briggs." She didn't wait for his agreement, sweeping on with her next thought. "Give it whole blood. Last week, Dr Takashi made a speculative suggestion of accelerated healing in this species; this will be a useful test. If it turns out to be true, it might open up a whole new area of study."

There was another moment of silence, then the footsteps resumed, walking away. Spike listened for as long as he could still make out the words, but they seemed to have dismissed him from their minds, once he was no longer in their sight. Meanwhile, he was seething with anger. 'Bastard Nazis!' he thought.

Chapter 23