TITLE: Ghost from the past 2/?
FEEDBACK: Yes! Please tell me if I did good, or bad.
NOTE 1: Thanks for excellent beta sis.
NOTE 2: Thank you for all the wonderful feedback I got for part 1. It made
me write faster. Special thank you to Cimmer, this one's for you.
Sunday morning: cartoons and cereals. Xander picked up the letter on his way to the couch, sat down and turned on the television. Willow had called back the previous evening; no one in Sunnydale had gotten a letter. She had asked about what it had said and he had told her that he hadn't opened it yet. But it was well past time to do so. He turned it over and slit it open with the back of the spoon. He took a deep breath, glanced over at Batman, who was busy saving the day and didn't glance back, and pulled out the thick folded paper.
Why was he so nervous about this letter? It was only a letter; he got them every week from Dawn and once in a while from Willow and Buffy. Even Giles had sent a few, very proper and formal, but still letters. They were all worried about him and he didn't really blame them, not with the way he had left. But that was all in the past and not something he liked to think about.
Spike had left a couple of years before Xander. No one really knew why, but they all had their theories. Xander knew, but that was just because he had been there, that night. He had never told anyone. Instead he let them believe what they wanted. It was easier that way, less questions.
He carefully unfolded the thick, expensive looking paper and read the short message. //An invitation to an art show?! This is what I've been tiptoeing around all week!?// He picked up the envelope again, he could have sworn it was Spike's handwriting. It still looked like it. He shrugged. //Well I guess I was wrong. I wonder why someone sent me an invitation to a vernissage?// He reread the invitation, looking for clues. It was at a local gallery that he passed too and from work every day. Next Saturday at 7 p.m. //a little late for a gallery, oil paintings, promising new artist yada yada yada, William Southfork. William. No, it couldn't be. But that would explain the handwriting. Painting? Spike?//.
*******
The next week went by in a haze. Even the crew's and Willow's nagging about what the letter said couldn't get to Xander. He was in his own little world. //Spike invited me. Spike wants to see me. Spike isn't mad at me anymore.// The thoughts kept running through his mind. It wasn't until Friday that he realised that there could be another reason for the invitation. What if this wasn't an all-is-forgiven-invitation, what if it was an I'll-kill-you-slowly-invitation.
This would be the first time he would see Spike after he had left Sunnydale. After the "incident", that he so eloquent had named it to be able to talk about it. Maybe Willow was right to worry. Three years and he still couldn't talk about it. Instead he had left, //run// his mind kept telling him, and buried himself in his work. His social life was non- existent, regardless of the crew's constant invitation to their weekly end- of-the-week celebration down at the local pub. He more often than not put in overtime, and if possible even worked weekends. He had only been back to Sunnydale for Christmas and birthdays, and the gang had only visited him once for his housewarming party.
He looked around his dingy apartment and couldn't really blame them. It had looked even worse those first months until he had had the money to renovate and refurnish it. Now he had the money to move out and into something nicer, but he didn't. He guessed he was punishing himself, and yes he had taken some evening classes at the university. Psychology being just one out of many. In the beginning it had been mostly to pass the time and later 'cause he found it interesting. //Imagine that, Xander Harris willingly doing schoolwork.// But it was a lot different to *have* to do it and to do it 'cause he wanted to. Another thing he had learnt was that it was unhealthy to keep secrets and that feelings should be talked about not locked away. Maybe he would get to do that tomorrow.
*******
He spent all night tossing and turning. Going through all possible outcomes of the next night. It was only in the morning, after a mug, or three of coffee, that he realised that he had never been to a vernissage before. He had never even been to a gallery before. So he had no idea what to wear, if he should be on time or if it was practice to be fashionable late. Art was one of the few classes he hadn't taken.
He finally decided on plain black slacks and a grey shirt: discreet but still dressy. He also decided to be late. Hopefully a room full of art- critics would keep Spike from coming after him in a worse case scenario. It would also keep it from getting to emotional if it turned out to be a better case. He couldn't decide what would be the best scenario, but with his luck it would be highly unlikely to happen anyway.
He arrived an hour after the proclaimed time and after finding somewhere to park, walked over to the gallery, which was the only one opened at this time of night. The sun had set an hour ago and the stake in the back of his pants dug into the small of his back. The cross around his neck hangs heavy, illusions of safety. Some habits never die. It never even crossed his mind that it wasn't all that polite to go to a meeting armed.
He unconsciously straitened his clothes and pulled his shoulder length hair away from his face. On second thought he let it fall back to cover the left part of his face. Through the window he could see people mingling, sipping champagne and talking in small groups. He opened the glass door, took a deep breath and walked inside.
Sunday morning: cartoons and cereals. Xander picked up the letter on his way to the couch, sat down and turned on the television. Willow had called back the previous evening; no one in Sunnydale had gotten a letter. She had asked about what it had said and he had told her that he hadn't opened it yet. But it was well past time to do so. He turned it over and slit it open with the back of the spoon. He took a deep breath, glanced over at Batman, who was busy saving the day and didn't glance back, and pulled out the thick folded paper.
Why was he so nervous about this letter? It was only a letter; he got them every week from Dawn and once in a while from Willow and Buffy. Even Giles had sent a few, very proper and formal, but still letters. They were all worried about him and he didn't really blame them, not with the way he had left. But that was all in the past and not something he liked to think about.
Spike had left a couple of years before Xander. No one really knew why, but they all had their theories. Xander knew, but that was just because he had been there, that night. He had never told anyone. Instead he let them believe what they wanted. It was easier that way, less questions.
He carefully unfolded the thick, expensive looking paper and read the short message. //An invitation to an art show?! This is what I've been tiptoeing around all week!?// He picked up the envelope again, he could have sworn it was Spike's handwriting. It still looked like it. He shrugged. //Well I guess I was wrong. I wonder why someone sent me an invitation to a vernissage?// He reread the invitation, looking for clues. It was at a local gallery that he passed too and from work every day. Next Saturday at 7 p.m. //a little late for a gallery, oil paintings, promising new artist yada yada yada, William Southfork. William. No, it couldn't be. But that would explain the handwriting. Painting? Spike?//.
*******
The next week went by in a haze. Even the crew's and Willow's nagging about what the letter said couldn't get to Xander. He was in his own little world. //Spike invited me. Spike wants to see me. Spike isn't mad at me anymore.// The thoughts kept running through his mind. It wasn't until Friday that he realised that there could be another reason for the invitation. What if this wasn't an all-is-forgiven-invitation, what if it was an I'll-kill-you-slowly-invitation.
This would be the first time he would see Spike after he had left Sunnydale. After the "incident", that he so eloquent had named it to be able to talk about it. Maybe Willow was right to worry. Three years and he still couldn't talk about it. Instead he had left, //run// his mind kept telling him, and buried himself in his work. His social life was non- existent, regardless of the crew's constant invitation to their weekly end- of-the-week celebration down at the local pub. He more often than not put in overtime, and if possible even worked weekends. He had only been back to Sunnydale for Christmas and birthdays, and the gang had only visited him once for his housewarming party.
He looked around his dingy apartment and couldn't really blame them. It had looked even worse those first months until he had had the money to renovate and refurnish it. Now he had the money to move out and into something nicer, but he didn't. He guessed he was punishing himself, and yes he had taken some evening classes at the university. Psychology being just one out of many. In the beginning it had been mostly to pass the time and later 'cause he found it interesting. //Imagine that, Xander Harris willingly doing schoolwork.// But it was a lot different to *have* to do it and to do it 'cause he wanted to. Another thing he had learnt was that it was unhealthy to keep secrets and that feelings should be talked about not locked away. Maybe he would get to do that tomorrow.
*******
He spent all night tossing and turning. Going through all possible outcomes of the next night. It was only in the morning, after a mug, or three of coffee, that he realised that he had never been to a vernissage before. He had never even been to a gallery before. So he had no idea what to wear, if he should be on time or if it was practice to be fashionable late. Art was one of the few classes he hadn't taken.
He finally decided on plain black slacks and a grey shirt: discreet but still dressy. He also decided to be late. Hopefully a room full of art- critics would keep Spike from coming after him in a worse case scenario. It would also keep it from getting to emotional if it turned out to be a better case. He couldn't decide what would be the best scenario, but with his luck it would be highly unlikely to happen anyway.
He arrived an hour after the proclaimed time and after finding somewhere to park, walked over to the gallery, which was the only one opened at this time of night. The sun had set an hour ago and the stake in the back of his pants dug into the small of his back. The cross around his neck hangs heavy, illusions of safety. Some habits never die. It never even crossed his mind that it wasn't all that polite to go to a meeting armed.
He unconsciously straitened his clothes and pulled his shoulder length hair away from his face. On second thought he let it fall back to cover the left part of his face. Through the window he could see people mingling, sipping champagne and talking in small groups. He opened the glass door, took a deep breath and walked inside.