Chapter XI
"Favourite colour?" the wizened little man asked, peering over his glasses like that guy from Harry Potter, the one who squeaked a lot and made Dawn laugh - Xander couldn't quite grasp his name, just out of his reach, on the tip of his tongue and had the shaman actually asked him his favourite colour?
"Blue, I guess," Xander said. He would not make a list of all his favourite blue things because he wasn't some pre-pubescent girl who actually based her favorite colour on her boyfriend's eyes. He wasn't and didn't. Have a boyfriend, that is, because Spike was a lot of things but boyfriend wouldn't be a term he'd use and was the shaman speaking again?
"… vote for?" cue Xander panicking because there were so many questions that would end with 'vote for?'. The shaman could have asked who Xander voted for in last month's Presidential elections and there was no good answer to that. If he said "Bush", the shaman would think he was a right wing, yeehaw cowboy American Idiot but if he said Kerry, he'd be thought to be a left-wing, bleeding heart liberal who sat on the fence so long he had splinters in his spinal cord … that was the definitions according to Spike, anyway. However, the shaman could be asking something else entirely, like who he voted for the last American Idol (Fantasia for him, Tara and Dawn and when they managed to drag Spike to the TV he only cheered when Simon was meant to people) so what should he say? Come on Harris, spit it out, man hasn't got all day so just say something, Christ, could you be any more inept?
-
"You could have just asked him to repeat himself," Spike said calmly as they waited in the dingy room outside the office. Xander stared at him incredulously,
"If I asked him to repeat himself he'd think I drifted off into Happy-Crazy-Shiny-Land and wouldn't want to treat me," he said slowly, deliberately. Spike wasn't the only one who could patronize, no siree.
"That's bollocks," Spike said with a roll of his eyes, fishing around in his coat for what Xander assumed was a lighter, "Better to ask if you weren't listening – better than telling him you're a communist, opposed to voting altogether," he said. There was no mistaking the bemused hint to his tone, the slight shake of his head as he brushed his hand through his hair, a gesture he had repeated more in the past two weeks than ever before. His coat (black comfort, older than Xander which was a funny thought because that meant Spike was a dirty old man) rustled and creaked as he tugged and sifted through more and more pockets, pulling out bottlecaps, bits of hay and was that Xander's shampoo bottle?
"Is that my shampoo bottle?" way to verbalize thoughts there Xander, ten points to the soon-to-be-sane guy.
"No," Spike snapped, shoving the bottle into another pocket, "You're a nutter, remember? Seein' things," and wow, he had to be really embarrassed to pull the 'you're seeing things' card.
"Like you can talk, Mr. ThinksAnneRiceStalkedHim," he said, derisive snort and he was really getting better at that. He was only half joking with the crazy Spike joke, 'cause Spike ... was never much with the sane, he was just a better brand of crazy.
"Mr. Harris?" brusque tone, clipped accent looking ridiculous emitting from the purple haired, skinny teenager with a clipboard who stood before him. He remembered why they were there and he felt his heart drop into his stomach. But not literally because he'd be dead if that happened and despite his earlier blood-in-bathroom mishap, he was very happy to be alive, thanks.
"Yes?" it would come now, his answer, the answer to whether he had a shot at a normal life or Not. If he could walk into a room and sit by Dawn without having to worry about stabbing her with one of her own pens with the pretty designs on the plastic, and there was that image of Dawn lying beside him with flat eyes and pens with daisies on them sticking out of her neck oh sweet Jesuspleaseplease let this guy fix me…
"Shaman Albert," Albert? The guy's name was Albert? Not exactly shaman-like, he was supposed to be called something mystical, something Xander couldn't pronounce and for fuck's sake Xander pay attention. "Shaman Albert has decided that in this instance, rehabilitation in magical form is unnecessary, Mr. Harris is ..." like a medicine ball to the gut, except without the medicine because the shaman wasn't going to help him and Dawn would end up with daisy pens sticking out of her aorta, dead, ruined, gone all because of him and he'd be alonealonealone.
Spike was on his feet, yelling, back turned, focused on the purple haired boy with a grey folder in his hands, dangerous fury tasted like unripe plums in Xander's mouth, sharp and bitter. Xander didn't want to kill Dawn and he didn't want to go back to St. Peter's and Spike wouldn't take him to the roof. Xander was a man, perhaps a strange one, but a man all the same. So. He stood up and walked straight out the little waiting room, not looking back, then he was running, pounding on the pavement, thudthud with his heartbeat and London rain dripping into his eyes.
There were rooftops in London and he didn't need Spike to hold his hand when he jumped.
"W .. we have to call Spike and Xander," Tara said quietly, legs tucked beneath her as she stroked Dawn's hair, repetitive motion, calming, she hoped.
"I saw … you were … I saw Glory, weak, making fun of Buffy and then I was holding the troll's hammer and I just wanted to kill her, make her stop and then … your eyes, it was you and am I going crazy, Tara?" she whispered, little girl alone in a world of broken dolls. Tara hugged her closer.
"A few weeks ago I came in and I thought I saw …" Tara stopped, shut her eyes, bowed her head, "I saw someone in the apartment. He looked like Ben and I just … there was a baseball bat in my hands and I was terrified and angry so I swung but then he turned around and it was Xa .. Xander. This isn't us, Dawn. Something is happening here, something bad," she said, eyes casting to the silver gun sat glinting in the light like a malevolent spectre, watching, waiting.
"If the gun had been loaded … if," Dawn started to cry again and Tara rocked with her, her gaze strong and sure when she lifted Dawn's face to look at her.
"We'll stay at the Hyperion until Spike and Xander come back. We'll be alright. We're always alright," she said, warm strength with no need for a raised voice or a harsh word. She would keep Dawn safe.
Part XII
London - ten thousand people swarming through thick winter rain, talking into black plastic boxes in their palms, grey coats, burgundy umbrellas, innate knowledge of their city, grand and unforgiving.
And then there was Xander. Xander who was wet, cold, and searching for a place to die. Xander who had just realised his last words to Spike hadn't been "tell Dawn I'm sorry", or "I love you". Not like the movies, not like he had wanted. His last words had been a joke, a meaningless line – one of many that he kept stored in the wreckage of his mind because hey, if nothing else, Xander always had a line. Possibly lame, always facetious. So maybe it was apt that his last words had been so very inconsequential. After all, let's face it Harris, you know you've been inconsequential, expendable right from the get go.
"Watch where your fackin' going!" a woman snapped when Xander bumped into her as he ran down unfamiliar streets, fackin' not fuckin' because the woman's accent was heavy – heavier than Spike's ever was. Was. But Spike wasn't past tense, Xander was past tense only not yet, hey, still running, still grabbing for sanity that wasn't there, not anymore.
He would be past tense soon, in the past, dead and gone if all went to plan. However, Xander was never one to make the plans so no guarantees there. Always someone else who made the plan, who read the books and drew up their sketches because Xander was inept and perfectly content to be so.
He slid on the wet stone slabs beneath his feet as he ran around the corner, felt himself losing his balance, felt the harsh sting of cold when he landed in a puddle of water that actually looked far more like tar than water, which was a stupid thing to notice because that didn't change the fact that he was fucking freezing, fucking not fackin'. Foreign city or not, there was no way he was going to start speaking like the locals - he was still the obnoxious American, loud and obtrusive in a country that didn't want him, had never wanted him.
"You alright, son?" distinguished man with silver hair and polished shoes frowned down at him.
"I fell," Xander said, making no effort to get up. He sat with head resting on his hands, dragging deep breaths inout, wondering what his death rattle would sound like.
"Yes, evidently," the man replied, no sarcasm, casual agreement that bordered on a pleasantry which lead Xander to wonder - what sort of person went around talking to young American men sitting in puddles? "Would you like some help getting up?" the man continued, same tone as before, completely unfazed when Xander lifted his head, dark circles under his eyes and lips red raw and bleeding.
"No, thanks, I'm good. I'm good," I'm good, good, white knight who is broken. Can't you see the brand on my forehead? The one that tells you I should have died like a proper hero. Died, not lost my mind, not tried to kill my friends, not survived Xander thought the last part, didn't dare say it because saying it would make it true.
"It's really not healthy to be sitting in that cold puddle in this weather – if you don't catch a disease from the water, you'll defiantly get hypothermia at least. Trust me, I'm a doctor," the man said, the doctor, concerned, crouching down and Xander could get a better look at him. Xander was shocked to see the doctor was young, only looked in his thirties, handsome face, pronounced lines around his mouth that either meant he laughed or yelled a lot. Xander's dad had those lines – attributed to the latter. Tony Harris, the man who took the term 'repulsive' and turned it into a way of life, complete with the drunken, bitchy wife and their useless, idiot, ungrateful shit, wish your mom'd listen to sense and had you 'taken care of' son. Ah, family.
"I guess," Xander replied. He hauled himself up, staggered a couple of steps as his coat, heavy with water, weighed him down.
"I have a mobile here, do you need to call someone? A friend? A taxi?" the doctor asked, moving easily to his feet, brushing off his briefcase, eyes never leaving Xander's. Mobile? Mobile what? Mobile like a trailer, because that didn't make any sense and was sort of insulting because yeah, Xander wasn't exactly well bred but he grew up in the suburbs, sure suburbs with it's own hellmouth but it still was no trailer park and … oh. Click. Mobile was cell phone, come in number 9, England calling.
"No, I'm good," he replied, making a mental note to get himself a new phrase then remembering that he was going to be dead before long so that was sort of redundant.
"Are you alright?" the man pressed, stepping a little bit closer, smelling like mints, cologne and hospitals. A terrifying combination for an escaped mental patient.
"I'm fine, just fine," Xander rasped, turning on his heel and walking into the traffic, eyes shut because he just wanted to do it now or else he never would.
Shouting in the distance, someone shouting his name – odd because he'd never told the doctor his name. But he didn't have time to think about it because the blare of car horns was deafening and everywhere was pain.
The Hyperion hotel
"So … Xander isn't crazy?" Dawn asked, confused.
"Sweetie, he's still tall, dark and psychotic," Lorne replied, customary wince when he remembered the sound of a human fist cracking on his jaw. "Thing is, your apartment was infested with Majnoon– nasty specters that create illusions of what you most fear, then gives you the power to kill it. They feed off desires to hurt, desires to kill. That's why you were all seeing things – your friend though? Xander? He has problems of his own. Big, fat, after-school special problems," he explained.
"I know Xander isn't okay okay. But he's with Spike, he'll be safe. Nothing will happen to him with Spike," she said, staring earnestly at Lorne, something pleading in the halting smile, hair stuck to strawberry lipgloss.
"Yeah, you're right," Lorne replied. He didn't know if he was lying or not.
Before
Hyperion
Hotel
Spike kept a small axe in the blue vase by the door, a knife in the bedside table, two stakes under the mattress and a loaded crossbow in the closet. Xander wondered how much a psychiatrist would pay to write a book about him – because he found the littered weapons comforting. Evidently, Gunn? Didn't.
"Hey man, chill okay? I'm not going to come at you or anything – just put the knife down, alright?" Gunn said slowly, carefully. Xander rolled his eyes, wondered when it was that this encounter turned into an episode of NYPD Blue.
"I'm cleaning it, no need to freak out," he said simply, as though it were obvious.
"Xander, you're cut pretty bad," the façade of calm on Gunn's face shimmers for a moment, threatening to shatter. Xander stared, utterly confused. He glanced down and realised he'd nicked his arm, that's it's dripping thich red life onto the carpet. Ah. So that was why he was freaking out. It occurred to Xander this might be a good time for him to freak out as well – after all, it was his arm leaking everywhere. Strangely though, he was just annoyed at being pegged for a slit-my-wrists type. He looked back up, saw Cordelia standing in the open doorway, Gunn holding her arm.
Xander watched tears dribble down her cheeks, quietly marvelling at the strange sight. The tears were black with mascara black tears, like a mime, but Cordy was never silent and they slid down her pale face. Then she walked away and he heard her voice shouting. Which was never a pleasant experience. Except she was shouting for Spike, which wasn't so unpleasant because Spike would stop the leak in his arm. A plumber for humans - only when his trousers slid down his ass, Xander was more than happy to look because it was smooth, taught Spike Ass, not hairy flabby Nameless Plumber Who Overcharges And Eats All The Tuna Fish Sandwiches Ass.
He glanced up again from the blood, now pouring more steadily, and watched Spike shove past Gunn with a little more force than necessary. Gunn and Spike – if they stood next to one another long enough, they looked like a Benetton advert (as in United Colours of … wow Xander, doing better with the fashion references, soon you can get your own lisp and let your wrists flop around some more). Unnaturally pale, pink lips, crisp curled hair and dark, smooth skin with dark eyes that contained a warmth Xander imagined he once had. They were beautiful together. Xander considered that in the event of his death, he'd haunt the two until they got together, if only for some meaningless sex. Xander thought he'd make a great voyeur.
"Hell's fucking bells," Spike muttered, nodding to Gunn and sitting Xander on the edge of the bed, taking the knife and dropping it onto the floor. He then moved Xander's uninjured hand to the cut, pressing it there, to put pressure on the wound. Which, as a Sunnydale boy, he should have already known.
"Sorry," Xander muttered as Spike wrapped the cut with a bandage, eyes slightly narrowed. "But hey, at least you can suck on the carpet," he added, glancing at the small puddle of red on the ugly green carpet, red and green, festive colours heralding holly, mistletoe and screaming, mean drunks – and sometimes even he was aware his childhood was pathetic.
"Maybe I should let you bleed in different spots in the room. That way we'll have a 'suspicious brown stain' pattern on this carpet," Spike said finally, flopping down next to Xander, laying his arm across his eyes.
"Spike?" Xander asked, eyes trained on the open door. Cordelia hadn't returned. "You didn't … you didn't ask," he said, and he knew it was only half a sentence, that he wasn't making sense again but fuck he was tired and he knew what he meant, so Spike would just have to learn.
"It was a bit obvious. You had a bloody knife in your hand," Spike mumbled, not moving his arm, face contorting very slightly in what Xander presumed was a repressed yawn. Spike hadn't slept in three days – Xander kept waking him by mistake with his nightmares.
"No, I mean, you didn't ask if I did it on purpose," he clarified.
"Didn't need to, luv. You would have told me," came the reply; quiet, slurred. Xander smiled.
Now
The
funeral is small, though more people come to the memorial than they
had expected. The first few rows of the church are filled with people
who had taken a liking to the quiet, unassuming man who had often
been there - never saying much, always sketching, listening as people
poured out their worries. The front row is reserved for family.
Xander's real family. Tara holds Dawn, Dawn with big dark eyes and
no smiles left. Angel lets Cordelia nearly crush his hand as she
bites her lip and Doesn't Cry. Spike stands in the back of
the church, hands in his pockets. He refuses to say a eulogy, refuses
to change into a black suit like they want him to. He just stands,
stares at the coffin and knows that if anyone touches it, touches the
polished wood and starts talking about Xander, about how sweet and
quiet he was, shed a tear for the boy like they have a right to -
he'll rip their throat out. Because his Xan, his Xan couldn't be
in that coffin, that fucking Spike stands in the back of the
church, hands in his pockets, smokes a cigarette with his right hand
and pretends he isn't crying. Because Xander can't be dead.
And Xander really wasn't dead, so he knew he should stop imagining his funeral. There were limits to how many morbid scenarios could run through your head before you had to snap back to reality. Only, reality wasn't very much better. Orange plastic seats, booming nasal voice through the speakers and he's back in the smoking room, the smothering room, with Spike who's so very angry.
"Mom always said my impatience would be the death of me," Xander said, tone light. Spike didn't laugh. "So. How about them Manchester United's?" another joke falls flat, words like bullets on metal, clanging, making them both edgy. But not like literal bullets because they were in another airport and shooting bullets would make Xander a terrorist – which, he wasn't. No bullets, other than verbal ones. Glad we got that sorted out, Xan, care to pay attention to the furious vampire sitting on your left? The one who has barely said six words to you since he shoved your miserable ass out of the way of a car last night?
"Our flight leaves in an hour but we'll be stopping off in Amsterdam. Might have to spend the night if the weather's this bad when we get there," Spike snapped, eyes on the rain pouring onto the tarmac outside. Xander shifted, tried not to think and started counting the cigarette butts. 12, 16, 18, 23 … they were in a pile in the ashtray, some tipped with pink or red lipstick. Grey with ash, spark crushed out by some gigantic fucking hand who sucked on it, used all it's fire, threw it away when it was bleeding tobacco and there was nothing useful left in it and holy crap this line of thought was far much more with the 'angst' than he'd intended.
"So," he said suddenly, needed to speak, need to stop the thoughts leaking into his ears because he was afraid they might seep from his mouth and he'd bee one of those muttering crazies, rocking himself in an airport, "… this shaman guy. Said I didn't need rehabilitation because I wasn't a danger to anyone," Xander said, not asked, said, because he'd asked so many times today he already knew the answer. Normally, Spike would snarl or laugh, maybe roll his eyes and say something witty that ended up with kissing. But today wasn't normal.
"Other than to yourself. The incident in the flat was due to a Majnoon spectre," Spike agreed, flat, neutral tone – familiar territory, "Would have known that if you hadn't gone to top yourself - if you'd stayed and listed for a minute," low voice, flash of fury, then the cool indifference was back in his gaze and Xander wanted to hide from it.
"Well you didn't listen at first, either. You were too busy shouting at the guy to even see me leave," he shot back, and again with the bullet metaphors, accusing, hurt.
"My fault, then?" Spike growled, and wow if Xander had thought him angry before … "My fault that you decided you knew better, that it was better to be dead than sit still for one fucking second and listen?" he hissed, gold eyes, then back to cold blue.
Xander turned away, started counting the cigarettes in the ash tray again.
Part XIV
He'd called Dawn from the airport and told her they'd arrive tomorrow due to the bad weather. Her voice was sweet, fresh, innocence and cherry lip gloss that unfailingly tore a smile and a laugh from him. Facetious humor, promises of presents and a couple of really bad puns convinced her that he was okay. Tara was next and she took a little more convincing, complete with promises to get something to eat and to stop drinking tiny bottles of booze on planes because 'just because it's free doesn't mean it's compulsory'.
"So. Amsterdam. Heard good things about this place - prostitution and pot is legal ... Uncle Rory paradise," he said to Spike's back, filled the void of quiet because quiet meant thinking and Xander was far too tired to try that.
"Yes, you are," Spike replied. Xander blinked, wondered whether this weird answer was the result of his own brain malfunctioning and pulling a 'confuse Xander' whammy or if Spike was just not listening. So he decided to go for a subtle inquiry,
"Huh?" Subtlety, thy name is Xander Harris, king of fuck-ups.
"You're forgiven. If you started following a rational line of thought I'd probably stake myself in the confusion - I'm sorry for hassling you about it. So stop making inane comments about overweight family members and scaring the locals," roll of his eyes, slight shake of his head and he doesn't even pause to look at Xander, doesn't miss a step.
"That was ... easier than I thought," Xander said, unable to fathom what had prompted his sudden victory. It was an unexpected gain, a good one, and Xander wasn't sure what to do with it. He'd been prepared for days of angst, of screaming through slammed doors, attending regular therapy with some quack called Dr. Jay who had little to no hair and a red nose all year round ... he'd expected things to be harder.
"Life's too short," Spike shrugged, his hair in tight curls, soft and wet in the pouring rain, catching the moonlight so that it almost looked like he was walking with a halo.
"You're immortal," Xander said incredulously, deep drag of his own cigarette (discovery channel said crazy people liked to smoke and who was he to break protocol?), wondering why the ember didn't go out, even when the rain was coming down in sheets.
"You're not," the reply came with a pointed glance at the little happy stick of tobacco sitting between his fingers, yellowing his skin, pale winter sunshine yellow and a death wish all contained in one small package.
"You asking me to quit?" he asked, words wrapped in sarcasm and something else he couldn't put a name to.
"'M not asking," Spike replied easily, snatching the cigarette with unnatural ease, throwing it carelessly into a puddle.
"This is sort of becoming a tradition," Xander said, memories of London and Spike's right hand fag. Which sounded way more lewd than he intended, but hey, Xander liked lewd, could make with the lewd, had made with the lewd. And enjoyed it.
"Come on, we'll miss the bus," Spike said suddenly, taking Xander's hand and pulling him forward, up the street and past the blue of lights and movement of people, blurred in the rain like ink under a wash of tears.
Xander was used to Spike pulling him places - it was sort of necessary if they hoped to get anywhere. Xander was always distracted, mind wandering in circles, trapped in cocoons of safe thought and busy spinning lies for him to believe. Sometimes his soul wandered too, drifted over rooftops and peered into people's windows, watching humans, watching humanity as it pushed and struggled against the inevitable pull of death. Sometimes with dignity, sometimes without. Sometimes beautiful, though often ugly. But at the end of the day, everyone was the same, struggling to push through a life that they may not like but felt was their right to keep.
Xander had to be pulled because he wasn't one of them. Life was too big, too frightening, too red hot thrumming energy sitting right there, right in front of him, a chance, a gamble. One that Willow, Buffy, Anya and Giles lost. People who were smarter, braver, better than him lost their chance at more. A chance he could still take. It scared him, no, sctach that, it terrified him. He was the one who had to be tugged, always looking around him and determinedly Not Looking at the life sitting before him, colours so bright they made his eyes hurt and a cacophony of sounds he'd been deaf to for a long time.
For the first time in so fucking long, he wanted to be a part of it. Wanted to swim in that brilliant blinding colour and scream along, throwing his soul into the collective will to live, the will to survive and cling to what you're given and cherish it while is lasts. And this thing with Spike, this new family he's spun around himself - it might not last. It might give him pain, flood his mind completly, leave him drowning and surrounded by the dead sunflowers - crumbling, twisted, drained, gaping black expanse in his middle and no colour left. But even if it did? Xander wanted the chance to live it while it lasted.
On an unremarkable night in Amsterdam, cold, wet, his mouth tasting of smoke and coffee, something changed. Xander picked up his pace so that he and Spike walked side by side and Spike turned, smiled, leant in closer so their lips touched. The world around them stilled. Balance, an equilibrium found in the middle of beautiful, heaving chaos.
Xander didn't have a full mind to offer Spike and Spike didn't have breath to offer Xander. But Xander finally realised that they both had other things to offer each other.
Love being one of them.
The End
Epilogue
Click
Hey guys – it's, uh, me. Xander. The others are writing letters to you but I thought I'd record a message thing because you know me, man of few words. The written kind, that is. Plus the grammar would be all to hell and Giles, I know you'd turn in your gr … okay. That wasn't a very clever phrase to pick. I still forget sometimes. That you guys are – you know. It's been two years and sometimes I still pick up the phone to talk to you, Wills.
So. It's funny because I have all these things to tell you and I just … crap. Okay, I'll tell you about how the others are. Note I mean 'the others in the gang', I'm not talking about the others as in 'the Voices'. Not that I hear voices. I mean, sure, I have a not-so-healthy dose of the wacky, but I'm not American Psycho or anything.
Dawn. Well, she's grown. Upwards, that is. She's a tiny bit taller than Spike now, which is pretty hilarious. Particularly when you point it out. He's started wearing these huge leather boots with the two inch lifts so he can still growl at her without having to look up. Not that he growls at her a lot – she's the one to yell at him most of the time. It's about the cigarettes and second hand smoke, mostly. He gets all pouty and storms off, telling her that he'll 'do what he sodding likes'. But he only smokes on the balcony now, so, be proud Buffy – Dawn can kick his ass just as well as you can.
Uh, let's see … so, she's doing really well at school. No problems. Lots of friends, a boyfriend who was interviewed and screened and threatened, though not exactly in that order. I totally gave him the shovel talk and Spike actually bought one to emphasise the point. Dawn didn't speak to us for two days, but it was worth it. The look on her face when she caught Tara giving him her own version of the 'hurt Dawn and Die' talk was priceless.
Tara. She's – well, I think I can see the Tara you saw, Wills. She's more comfortable with us now and man, if she weren't gay and if I weren't … well, whatever I am. Yeah. I'd so have the hots for our resident witch. She's great. And she's doing great. She got a job working at this kindergarten for kids with magical abilities. Think Hogwarts with play dough. She's made some friends at work; Sandra, Caleb and Marie come over for dinner sometimes, so it's nice to have some people come around to remind me that there people exist outside our little group. Tara nearly went out of her mind the first time they were going to coming to dinner – she was barking orders in the kitchen and she actually scared Spike into wearing a tie. Seriously.
Which brings me to Spike. You have to hand it to me – my segues have improved. So, Spike. He's … still dead. Still leaves wet towels on the floor, doesn't clean the blood out his mugs and he's banned from using the remote 'cause he throws it at the wall when he doesn't like whatever's on TV. So, not much has really changed with him. Except that whole 'he's my boyfriend now' thing. Is boyfriend the right word? Not really. He doesn't buy me flowers and he's the cheapest guy I know when it comes to restaurants. I know what you're thinking Anya and no, I'm not his manbitch. Sorry Giles, I'm sure this is totally grossing you out and you're probably cleaning those glasses up at the pearly gates right this second. Hey, could've been worse. I could have gone for the other vampire staying at the Hyperion hotel. No offence Buff, but broody cavemen of doom just aren't my thing.
Okay, so this all leads back to me, which was what I'm supposed to be talking about anyway. I got a job. I design and make furniture, toys of the totally innocent variety … that sort of thing. Get paid really well for it, and I'm my own boss so there's not much chance that I'll get fired.
There are good days. Days when the sun sings. Only, it doesn't literally sing, still not that crazy, it's just a phrase I picked up from this book. Wills, get ready to say 'I told you so', because I do that now. I do books. Not that I do books because woah, serious paper cut issues there, but since we moved I started on that whole reading thing you always talked about. And shock, horror, Armageddon and locusts, Xander Harris had discovered he actually likes reading. I'm not reading Tolstoy but yay me for actually knowing who he is. I mostly read paperback novels – mysteries and detectives, not so much with the harlequin romance. Because sure, gay now, but 'quivering manstick' is enough to turn anyone off. Sometimes I tease Dawn about the one I found in her room just to watch her shoot the Glare of Imminent Death #304 – a freakish imitation of Spike's Glare of Imminent Evisceration #219.
Have you noticed how I sort of wander off topic? I thought it had to do with my new 'special' status, but Spike told me I never shut up way before everything that happened. What was I saying? Oh, right.
Good days, of which there are plenty. There are bad days too, but I'm getting used to them. Sometimes I get … I don't know. Sort of hyper aware and distant all at once. It feels like I'm sitting in this bubble and everything around me is sharp and too loud, faces and movement that's all too much at once for me to take in and all I want to do is get the fuck away.
Last year I tried to ignore it was happening – just get over it, suppress it. I nearly went over the edge. One night I just got up and walked out. Spike found me on one of the beaches, I think. I had walked. I can't really remember much, and he's never talked about it. Spike's good at dealing with me when I get like that. I think he takes comfort in knowing I need him. 'Cause I do. Need him - love him, even. And some days, I'm pretty sure he loves me. It's not a 'and they lived happily ever after' deal but it's good. Hope that doesn't squick you guys out too much.
Uh, so that's everything. The rest of the gang, good days, bad days and a lot of inane stuff in between. Huh. Inane, insane. I never thought about that before.
Signing out, this was the inane and insane Xander. I miss you guys every day and I think I always will. But I'm learning to accept that – yup, Mr. Denial is finally starting to get used to all this. And you know what? I think I'll be okay. I think … I think we're all okay.
Click
