Sabbatical [Spike/Xander]
Title: Sabbatical
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: R
Word Count: 1000
Disclaimer: Not mine
Feedback: Yes, please.
Warnings: It's a bit on the dark side, though Spike and Xander remain physically unharmed.
Summary: Xander's lost year, Thanksgiving, 2004 (roughly six months post-NFA) through Thanksgiving, 2005.
Many thanks to electricalgwen, the best beta a girl could ask for.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Sabbatical
It takes Xander a year to forgive Spike. He thinks of it as his missing year and adds it to the list of things he’s lost. It’s a long list.
It still aches sometimes, the hole where that year should be. A phantom pain. Another phantom pain.
Twelve months pass like a century, and Xander understands what it means to feel old. He throws out a pile of birthday cards unopened, buys one share of Hallmark just to have something to read in the morning paper.
For a year, Thanksgiving to Thanksgiving, he lives in Dawn’s living room. He transforms the sofa into a bed every night, and it’s like a work of art. He’s had practice. It’s not the kind of thing you forget.
There’s a window with a view. Street, grass, park bench. The light enters in even intervals that ebb and flow with the seasons. The shadows fall hard every night only to be collected by the morning sun, snatched away from him as though he were the thief that stole them. He doesn’t complain; he’d snatch back what he’s lost in an instant if he could.
On December first, he asks the post office to hold the mail. In January, he claims the pile and drops it in the nearest dumpster. Life goes on, if you let it. Xander doesn’t.
He doesn’t go home. After a while, he figures there’s no more home to go to, and that makes twice that his life has been erased. It doesn’t matter, though. He stays for Dawn. He won’t leave her.
Paychecks keep coming from the Council, though Xander can’t quite figure out his current job description. He figures if he’s needed, someone will call. He stops answering the phone.
He uses Dawn’s laptop, learns a bit about computers. He dabbles in online trading because it reminds him of Anya, and he configures an auto-responder so he doesn’t have to respond to Willow’s emails. He reads them, though, text and subtext. When he gets the one that says nothing at all, but means if you don’t call, I’ll be on the next flight, he calls.
Willow tells him about summer in Devon, and he curls his lips into a grotesque parody of a smile when he replies, thinking she’ll be able to hear it. She falls silent, and he summons a well of dishonest chatter that leaves him exhausted. He’s fine. The cat’s fine, too. The apartment’s great. It’s a beautiful place. College town. Great scenery. He’s thinking of enrolling. No, not Smith, like Dawn. He’s not a girl. UMass, like a true Scooby.
Xander spends the rest of the day staring at the ceiling and the next day searching the apartment for the cat. He’d forgotten there was supposed to be one, and it’s long gone. He considers putting up signs, but he doesn’t remember its name or what it looks like. He hopes it found a good home.
He takes up reading, loses an entire month to the stack of books on the kitchen table. He’s fascinated by history and ancient cultures, and he considers phoning Giles, asking to borrow some of the Council’s historical texts. He decides against it because he can’t imagine what else he’d say.
When the weather gets colder, Xander spends hours looking out the living room window. He’s seen the dead of winter, but watching it creep in, day by day, is consuming. The scene doesn’t change, just a street and some grass and a park bench, but the scenery looks different every day. Darker. Colder. Deader.
He wakes just before sunrise on Thanksgiving. He smells coffee and pie and love, and he flees to the street, lets the frozen air burn the aromas from his lungs. He looks at his door but walks forward instead, across his street, across his grass, to his bench. He sits, waits.
Thanksgiving is quiet and cold; all of the warmth is sucked indoors, to be shared between family and friends. Xander shares what warmth he has with the wooden bench beneath him. It’s almost dark when he feels weight settle on the opposite end.
“It was my fault.” The words, soft from Spike’s lips, reveal their own absurdity.
The remaining light fades from the sky, and streetlamps that weren’t there a year ago cast soft shadows on the ground.
Spike shifts his weight, and Xander realizes that sometimes, things just happen.
Sometimes, prophecies come true and vampires become human, get invited to Thanksgiving dinner. And sometimes, years spent wondering how something so evil could be so beautiful feel like wasted time.
Sometimes, two men finally run out of reasons to hate.
And sometimes, men who’ve run out of reasons to hate each other fall just a little bit in love, walking in the moonlight. And sometimes, they forget that they’re walking, talking.
Sometimes they kiss, cautiously, delicately, two hearts pounding.
Sometimes, the sweetest tip of a tongue and fingers threading through blond curls drown out the world, drown out the shouting, screaming until it’s too late.
Sometimes, things just happen.
Xander can still see Dawn’s blood coating the bench, Spike doubled over, shaking, vomiting at the sight of it. He remembers fumbling at his cell phone with blood-slick hands, calling nine-one-one, yelling at Spike to get help.
He can still feel his hands putting pressure on the wound, the anger that surged as he watched Spike trip and fall twice on the way back to the apartment. He remembers blaming Spike. For being slow, for being too beautiful not to kiss, for being human. A vampire would have heard the mugger coming, saved Dawn, turned her, something besides throwing up in the grass and being too slow to get help.
Xander wonders whether Spike can forgive him those thoughts.
He reaches out, covers Spike’s hand with his own. It’s the first person he’s touched in a year. Since Dawn. Spike shifts closer, and his body is warm against Xander’s.
It’s something to be thankful for.
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: R
Word Count: 1000
Disclaimer: Not mine
Feedback: Yes, please.
Warnings: It's a bit on the dark side, though Spike and Xander remain physically unharmed.
Summary: Xander's lost year, Thanksgiving, 2004 (roughly six months post-NFA) through Thanksgiving, 2005.
Many thanks to electricalgwen, the best beta a girl could ask for.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Sabbatical
It takes Xander a year to forgive Spike. He thinks of it as his missing year and adds it to the list of things he’s lost. It’s a long list.
It still aches sometimes, the hole where that year should be. A phantom pain. Another phantom pain.
Twelve months pass like a century, and Xander understands what it means to feel old. He throws out a pile of birthday cards unopened, buys one share of Hallmark just to have something to read in the morning paper.
For a year, Thanksgiving to Thanksgiving, he lives in Dawn’s living room. He transforms the sofa into a bed every night, and it’s like a work of art. He’s had practice. It’s not the kind of thing you forget.
There’s a window with a view. Street, grass, park bench. The light enters in even intervals that ebb and flow with the seasons. The shadows fall hard every night only to be collected by the morning sun, snatched away from him as though he were the thief that stole them. He doesn’t complain; he’d snatch back what he’s lost in an instant if he could.
On December first, he asks the post office to hold the mail. In January, he claims the pile and drops it in the nearest dumpster. Life goes on, if you let it. Xander doesn’t.
He doesn’t go home. After a while, he figures there’s no more home to go to, and that makes twice that his life has been erased. It doesn’t matter, though. He stays for Dawn. He won’t leave her.
Paychecks keep coming from the Council, though Xander can’t quite figure out his current job description. He figures if he’s needed, someone will call. He stops answering the phone.
He uses Dawn’s laptop, learns a bit about computers. He dabbles in online trading because it reminds him of Anya, and he configures an auto-responder so he doesn’t have to respond to Willow’s emails. He reads them, though, text and subtext. When he gets the one that says nothing at all, but means if you don’t call, I’ll be on the next flight, he calls.
Willow tells him about summer in Devon, and he curls his lips into a grotesque parody of a smile when he replies, thinking she’ll be able to hear it. She falls silent, and he summons a well of dishonest chatter that leaves him exhausted. He’s fine. The cat’s fine, too. The apartment’s great. It’s a beautiful place. College town. Great scenery. He’s thinking of enrolling. No, not Smith, like Dawn. He’s not a girl. UMass, like a true Scooby.
Xander spends the rest of the day staring at the ceiling and the next day searching the apartment for the cat. He’d forgotten there was supposed to be one, and it’s long gone. He considers putting up signs, but he doesn’t remember its name or what it looks like. He hopes it found a good home.
He takes up reading, loses an entire month to the stack of books on the kitchen table. He’s fascinated by history and ancient cultures, and he considers phoning Giles, asking to borrow some of the Council’s historical texts. He decides against it because he can’t imagine what else he’d say.
When the weather gets colder, Xander spends hours looking out the living room window. He’s seen the dead of winter, but watching it creep in, day by day, is consuming. The scene doesn’t change, just a street and some grass and a park bench, but the scenery looks different every day. Darker. Colder. Deader.
He wakes just before sunrise on Thanksgiving. He smells coffee and pie and love, and he flees to the street, lets the frozen air burn the aromas from his lungs. He looks at his door but walks forward instead, across his street, across his grass, to his bench. He sits, waits.
Thanksgiving is quiet and cold; all of the warmth is sucked indoors, to be shared between family and friends. Xander shares what warmth he has with the wooden bench beneath him. It’s almost dark when he feels weight settle on the opposite end.
“It was my fault.” The words, soft from Spike’s lips, reveal their own absurdity.
The remaining light fades from the sky, and streetlamps that weren’t there a year ago cast soft shadows on the ground.
Spike shifts his weight, and Xander realizes that sometimes, things just happen.
Sometimes, prophecies come true and vampires become human, get invited to Thanksgiving dinner. And sometimes, years spent wondering how something so evil could be so beautiful feel like wasted time.
Sometimes, two men finally run out of reasons to hate.
And sometimes, men who’ve run out of reasons to hate each other fall just a little bit in love, walking in the moonlight. And sometimes, they forget that they’re walking, talking.
Sometimes they kiss, cautiously, delicately, two hearts pounding.
Sometimes, the sweetest tip of a tongue and fingers threading through blond curls drown out the world, drown out the shouting, screaming until it’s too late.
Sometimes, things just happen.
Xander can still see Dawn’s blood coating the bench, Spike doubled over, shaking, vomiting at the sight of it. He remembers fumbling at his cell phone with blood-slick hands, calling nine-one-one, yelling at Spike to get help.
He can still feel his hands putting pressure on the wound, the anger that surged as he watched Spike trip and fall twice on the way back to the apartment. He remembers blaming Spike. For being slow, for being too beautiful not to kiss, for being human. A vampire would have heard the mugger coming, saved Dawn, turned her, something besides throwing up in the grass and being too slow to get help.
Xander wonders whether Spike can forgive him those thoughts.
He reaches out, covers Spike’s hand with his own. It’s the first person he’s touched in a year. Since Dawn. Spike shifts closer, and his body is warm against Xander’s.
It’s something to be thankful for.