Holy crap, I was just sitting at the computer listening to music when this just about hit me in the head. The longest and the fastest thing I've ever written, which may or may not make for badness. I should probably wait to post it so that I can tell more clearly, but I have no patience.

Following the Garbage song by the same name, which I was listening to when I began writing it.

Pairing: S/X
Rating: R
Warnings: angst-tastic. I have never written a more angsty thing. I'm almost disgusted with myself.
If some bits repeat similar phrases several times, it's on purpose.

The noise of the espresso pump has ceased around them, and it isn't until Xander sees Spike's lips moving again that he realizes that the silence is only in his own mind. He should be listening, the completely foreign look of earnestness and guilt on his- lover's face (and his mind skips jerkily over the fact that this isn't his lover because no because) driving home the seriousness of the words- the words-

He doesn't love me. And he wishes the thought was insecurity or jealousy or anything but the cold truth.

Spike has stopped talking now, evidently having realized that Xander has likewise stopped listening. There is some half-formed expression on his face and Xander's eyes dart away instinctively, protectively, before it can coalesce into either pity or indifference.

"I- Look, Xan-" and the automatic endearment almost rouses Xander enough to flinch, almost- "I'm sorry. When I began it, I only meant it to hurt you, to hurt- hurt Buffy, but…" There is a sigh, and Xander sees Spike rake his hand through his gelled hair as clearly as if he had been looking. "I can't keep doing this. I get- you're not as bad as I- oh, bollocks." He does look back at Spike now, who is rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily. It occurs to him that Spike has never been on this end of things before, and even through the numb buzz of shock his heart feels a twinge of guilt for being the cause of Spike's obvious pain. It's so wildly inappropriate that he cringes.

He doesn't realize that the silence between them has stretched too long until Spike finally opens his eyes to look up at him from under his lashes, confusion and growing discomfort begging Xander to say something, throw something! React, but he can't even be angry, and it frightens him in a far-away sense. He wishes he could feel angry. Could feel anything but this pathetic kicked-dog bewilderment, need to discover what he could do to fix it, to please Spike. It's too much to bear, and he drops his look of disgust down to his paper placemat so that Spike doesn't think it's directed at him.

When he looks up again, Spike is gone. He continues to sit alone by his cup of cold coffee for some time.

He realizes only then that he hadn't spoken at all.

The car is parked on the street, the tail end angled carelessly away from the curb in a way that is achingly Spike. And Xander isn't waiting there for him. No, he's just waiting outside the Chinese takeout a few stores down, trying to decide on an order before he goes in. Not waiting for Spike. It would just be rude to stand around for twenty minutes inside the store trying to pick an order. Not waiting for Spike.

After half an hour, he remembers that he doesn't even like Chinese.

He stares at the ceiling of his too-empty apartment, eyes resting deliberately on the only place where he doesn't see the obvious Spike-shaped gaps around him as if they weren't in front of him every time he closed his eyes. As if it helped.

His mind fills the blankness of inactivity by methodically revisiting every memory they'd made together these past few months, and adjusting it accordingly.

Breaking into the pool together at night. Spike's derisive laughter at Xander's lack of swimming skills changes suddenly from playful to cruelly real, making the goofy grin he'd returned seem even more pathetic.

Clubbing together, Xander allowing Spike to dress him and even (under protest) judiciously apply the makeup he claimed made him look 'delicious'. But he had looked ridiculous, hadn't he? And it had been so easy for Spike to make him smile with a whispered lie and send him out onto the dance floor looking like a clumsily painted doll.

Spike flirting harmlessly with a pretty waitress, and smiling at Xander's barely-hidden jealousy. He'd soothed it with sweet words and assurance that he would have no one but Xander, and half an hour later had disappeared on an errand back in the direction of the restaurant. But he'd trusted him, because didn't he love Xander?

He didn't.

The loss of it all tears at him, but they come and they come and are taken from him with equal efficiency.

He's just sobbing helplessly, harder than he has for more than a decade. Hating himself because he can't hate Spike, hating himself because he can't let go. Hating himself because he's sitting alone in his car outside the cemetery where Spike lives, holding an old black shirt that smells like nothing anymore but the little still-damp spatters of his own cum to his chest and knowing how sick it all is.

He's such a fucking sicko.

He lights a cigarette when the shaking subsides enough, telling himself it's to calm his nerves. He never used to smoke.

Beep!

"Xander? Well, if you get this in time, there's a Scooby meeting tonight. Try, um five-ish. Some big ugly around town, probably just the garden-variety baddie, but Giles thinks we'll need to get with the cracking of books, and I need you to share my pain. Ha. Well, see you tonight, then!"

Beep!

"Hey, Xander? It's Willow. Um, Buffy says she left you a message, but… I guess you were busy last night. So, Bronze today? I just got my course syllabus for this year, and I need my Xander-fix. Umm, call me!"

Beep!

"Alright, I called your work and I know you've been coming in, but I didn't catch you there either. I guess you've been busy or something, but you know, it wouldn't hurt to at least call someone and say so. We're kinda worried about you, Xander. Okay. So, tonight at the Magic Box? Call me whether you're coming or not, I'm forgetting what your voice sounds like."

Beep!

"Xander, this really isn't funny. I-it's, um. Xander? Are you there?
…
I just want to talk to you, Xander. Tell me what's wrong when you're ready. You know you're my best friend, and I love you."

Beep!

"…'Lo, Xan. I noticed you ain't been around much-"

click "Spike?"

"Xander?" A weak chuckle. "You screening your calls now or somethin'?"

"Yeah. Or something."

"…"

"So…"

"Sorry. Just bloody awkward, you know? I was just… Do you want to go out for a drink? Just, not as a, just as friends. At the Bronze. To, uh, talk."

"…"

"Xander?"

"…I… I don't think I can do friends right now, Spike. It's not a great idea to… I should…" click

They meet at the espresso pump again, when Xander feels that he is finally ready. When he has built up enough walls, when he's perfected his fake smile in the bathroom mirror. He spends weeks preparing himself, yet when the time comes he finds that it's all been in vain.

"I love you."

And as everything falls apart for the second time, Xander can do nothing but stare and wait for the rest of it to come. Watching from his empty place as Spike explains and pleads, telling the story of loss and realization and Xander waits for the happiness to begin. He waits for the fulfillment, for the sense of rightness, for some part of him to realize that it's all okay now.

He waits and he waits and he's still waiting, when he looks around and realizes that his silence has been taken as an answer.

Part of him should want to go after Spike, to tell him that everything's forgiven and they can live happily ever after. But it's quiet in his head, and so he keeps waiting, alone now with a cold cup of coffee.

A few hours later, the waitress takes it away.