Happy Birthday to savoytruffle!
savoytruffle remains one of my favourite writers in the fandom. I adore her Spander. Her writing is so beautiful, though, that she's made me read other pairings - I would never have read G/X, for instance, if I hadn't trusted her to do it well. (Which she did.) I don't know her outside her writing, and her comments on other people's writing - but what I have seen is thoughtful, highly intelligent, sexy, at times screamingly funny, and calm. Smooth.
Today's her birthday, and I really wanted to write her something nice. Contrary to expectations, I produced something that is a) not Spander, and b) rated PG (and yes, I'm aware I'm not selling it particularly well and I won't be surprised if no one reads it, least of all its intended recipient. *g* But I do recall her once, somewhere, commenting she was intrigued by this pairing.)
ETA: apparently other people do like it! This has been nominated for, and won, more awards than anything else I've written. *blush* Shinies at the end, under the cut.
There's this one fic she's written, titled "Not Noisy or Excited" (which you should read, if you haven't already), and the title seems to me to sum her up. And it's the general feel of this just-over-1,000-word ficlet, too.
Many, many thanks to madame_meretrix for the beta. Oh hey, and a shout-out to entrenous88, who *cough* a very long time ago *cough* challenged me to slash Xander with somebody other than Spike. I finally found someone I could stand to pair him with.
Aftermath
After three years in Africa, Xander decides he’s done. He’s had enough dust in his hair, his eye socket, his soul to last a lifetime. He phones Giles - who he’s pretty sure is surprised that Xander lasted as long as he did - and gets the next flight home.
Except home is a vague concept these days. London isn’t home. Willow is rarely around, Giles is kind but distractedly busy, and he stands out enough with the eye patch. He doesn’t need to be the clumsy, continually-insulted foreigner. Also, he can’t get used to the rain. Africa’s sun burned him up inside and out, but he misses the gentle sunshine of home.
California’s home.
Giles forces the Council to provide three years of back pay and a decent severance package. Xander ends up in LA, and doesn’t acknowledge he’s in Angel’s town. He’s heard rumors that something big went down a couple of years ago, but he doesn’t care and doesn’t ask. He doesn’t drive up to the crater formerly known as Sunnydale, either.
He doesn’t need to get a job. The freedom is terrifyingly aimless.
He enrolls at UCLA. He’s not entirely sure what he’ll do with a degree in criminology, but studying something simply because it interests him is a luxury he’s seldom had before. He thinks Willow would approve, but he doesn’t call her.
He grins in pleased disbelief when he gets his class schedule in the mail.
After the first couple of weeks, he discovers that the vast empty blocks of space in the schedule really are necessary for “library time”. He imagines that Willow is laughing quietly somewhere.
Sitting at a large oak table day after day, piles of hardcover books littering the table in front of him, leaning back and stretching every so often as the shadows lengthen and the sun drops below the sill - not so different. Just, no doughnuts. No demons.
No best friends across the table.
After the first couple of months, he notices that there’s another regular in the library. Lots of kids come and go - and yeah, he calls them kids in his head, even though he’s not that much older - but this one is there most afternoons, with his own pile of books and wall of quiet.
Once in a while, Xander will glance up and catch the kid looking thoughtfully at him. Intense gray eyes through a screen of jagged, shiny hair. The kid never seems fazed at being caught watching, doesn’t blush or drop his eyes hurriedly. Just stares at Xander measuringly, appraisingly, and goes back to his book in his own sweet time.
Xander surprises himself by doing well on the end of term exams. He should know by now that library work can pay off, but he still blinks and rereads the grades next to his student number, six times over.
Christmas is a subdued affair, marked only by a chattery phone call from Dawn and a card from Willow which scatters glowing stars all over his living room carpet. He does the recommended reading for next term in advance. The stars don’t fade for days. He still doesn’t call Willow.
After the holidays, he sits in the first lecture of Psychology 204. He’s in the front row, as usual; his eye gets tired easily. For an hour and a half, he feels a gaze on the back of his neck. He knows without turning around that the library kid is taking the same class.
He learns his name when the kid is called upon one day to answer a question. Connor provides a startlingly succinct, mature analysis of psychopathy and the desire for vengeance. Xander wonders just what the kid has lived through that gives him that level of insight. They nod at each other in the hall now when they pass. Connor still gazes at Xander in the library, and they still don’t speak.
The day before the midterm, the library is pretty full. After a couple of hours, Xander wanders downstairs to the canteen. Coffee and bagel in hand, he heads for a table. Realizes he’s forgotten sugar, turns back and bumps into someone on his blind side. Coffee goes everywhere.
“Sorry,” says Connor. He relaxes so quickly Xander isn’t even sure he saw him tensed. He has a weird mental flash of Buffy, poised and ready to fight.
“It’s okay. I’m sorry.” Xander steps back. “Didn’t see you.”
“No,” Connor says apologetically. “I got on your bad side. Sorry.” He takes the mostly-empty cup from Xander’s hand. “Where are you sitting? I’ll get a refill.”
He’s at the counter before Xander can object, returns with two coffees. And sugar. They sit and drink in silence.
“How’d it happen?” Connor indicates Xander’s eye.
“Work accident.”
“Dangerous job.”
“Yeah.”
“You quit after that?”
Xander considers a moment. “Taking a break, anyway. Might go back to it someday.”
Connor looks at the ceiling. “Friend of mine’s having a party Friday night. Wanna come?”
He can’t imagine how that could go well. He’s too old and broken inside. He’s barely managed to talk to this one kid, and the thought of being surrounded by them - young, whole, chattering, oblivious - fills him with dull horror. He’s set to decline.
His mouth, though, is reluctant to say the words. He takes a breath, rubs the back of his neck, looks at the kid. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Connor doesn’t try to jolly him into it, for which Xander’s grateful; that would have made him flinch, feel even older and more staid than he is. Instead, the kid smiles mildly and says, “Not your thing. I get it,” with a hint of regret.
Xander almost takes it at face value. Almost misses the undercurrent. He catches the slight change in the set of Connor’s shoulders, though.
“Not really,” he says. “I don’t think I can cope with a houseful of drunk freshman girls.”
Connor grins. It’s beautiful, lights up his face and dances in his eyes. Xander realizes he’s never seen him smile.
“It’s an apartment,” he says. “And I can’t stand those girls either.”
Xander smiles back. “So we’ll stake out the couch, get drunk ourselves, and spend the night annoying them?”
Connor nods thoughtfully. “Hide their shoes.”
“Hog the bathroom.”
“Horrify them by making out.”
Xander splutters and chokes on his coffee. The glint is back in Connor’s eyes. He looks like a pixie. Except a lot taller.
Just the right height, in fact.
fin
Today's her birthday, and I really wanted to write her something nice. Contrary to expectations, I produced something that is a) not Spander, and b) rated PG (and yes, I'm aware I'm not selling it particularly well and I won't be surprised if no one reads it, least of all its intended recipient. *g* But I do recall her once, somewhere, commenting she was intrigued by this pairing.)
ETA: apparently other people do like it! This has been nominated for, and won, more awards than anything else I've written. *blush* Shinies at the end, under the cut.
There's this one fic she's written, titled "Not Noisy or Excited" (which you should read, if you haven't already), and the title seems to me to sum her up. And it's the general feel of this just-over-1,000-word ficlet, too.
Many, many thanks to madame_meretrix for the beta. Oh hey, and a shout-out to entrenous88, who *cough* a very long time ago *cough* challenged me to slash Xander with somebody other than Spike. I finally found someone I could stand to pair him with.
Aftermath
After three years in Africa, Xander decides he’s done. He’s had enough dust in his hair, his eye socket, his soul to last a lifetime. He phones Giles - who he’s pretty sure is surprised that Xander lasted as long as he did - and gets the next flight home.
Except home is a vague concept these days. London isn’t home. Willow is rarely around, Giles is kind but distractedly busy, and he stands out enough with the eye patch. He doesn’t need to be the clumsy, continually-insulted foreigner. Also, he can’t get used to the rain. Africa’s sun burned him up inside and out, but he misses the gentle sunshine of home.
California’s home.
Giles forces the Council to provide three years of back pay and a decent severance package. Xander ends up in LA, and doesn’t acknowledge he’s in Angel’s town. He’s heard rumors that something big went down a couple of years ago, but he doesn’t care and doesn’t ask. He doesn’t drive up to the crater formerly known as Sunnydale, either.
He doesn’t need to get a job. The freedom is terrifyingly aimless.
He enrolls at UCLA. He’s not entirely sure what he’ll do with a degree in criminology, but studying something simply because it interests him is a luxury he’s seldom had before. He thinks Willow would approve, but he doesn’t call her.
He grins in pleased disbelief when he gets his class schedule in the mail.
After the first couple of weeks, he discovers that the vast empty blocks of space in the schedule really are necessary for “library time”. He imagines that Willow is laughing quietly somewhere.
Sitting at a large oak table day after day, piles of hardcover books littering the table in front of him, leaning back and stretching every so often as the shadows lengthen and the sun drops below the sill - not so different. Just, no doughnuts. No demons.
No best friends across the table.
After the first couple of months, he notices that there’s another regular in the library. Lots of kids come and go - and yeah, he calls them kids in his head, even though he’s not that much older - but this one is there most afternoons, with his own pile of books and wall of quiet.
Once in a while, Xander will glance up and catch the kid looking thoughtfully at him. Intense gray eyes through a screen of jagged, shiny hair. The kid never seems fazed at being caught watching, doesn’t blush or drop his eyes hurriedly. Just stares at Xander measuringly, appraisingly, and goes back to his book in his own sweet time.
Xander surprises himself by doing well on the end of term exams. He should know by now that library work can pay off, but he still blinks and rereads the grades next to his student number, six times over.
Christmas is a subdued affair, marked only by a chattery phone call from Dawn and a card from Willow which scatters glowing stars all over his living room carpet. He does the recommended reading for next term in advance. The stars don’t fade for days. He still doesn’t call Willow.
After the holidays, he sits in the first lecture of Psychology 204. He’s in the front row, as usual; his eye gets tired easily. For an hour and a half, he feels a gaze on the back of his neck. He knows without turning around that the library kid is taking the same class.
He learns his name when the kid is called upon one day to answer a question. Connor provides a startlingly succinct, mature analysis of psychopathy and the desire for vengeance. Xander wonders just what the kid has lived through that gives him that level of insight. They nod at each other in the hall now when they pass. Connor still gazes at Xander in the library, and they still don’t speak.
The day before the midterm, the library is pretty full. After a couple of hours, Xander wanders downstairs to the canteen. Coffee and bagel in hand, he heads for a table. Realizes he’s forgotten sugar, turns back and bumps into someone on his blind side. Coffee goes everywhere.
“Sorry,” says Connor. He relaxes so quickly Xander isn’t even sure he saw him tensed. He has a weird mental flash of Buffy, poised and ready to fight.
“It’s okay. I’m sorry.” Xander steps back. “Didn’t see you.”
“No,” Connor says apologetically. “I got on your bad side. Sorry.” He takes the mostly-empty cup from Xander’s hand. “Where are you sitting? I’ll get a refill.”
He’s at the counter before Xander can object, returns with two coffees. And sugar. They sit and drink in silence.
“How’d it happen?” Connor indicates Xander’s eye.
“Work accident.”
“Dangerous job.”
“Yeah.”
“You quit after that?”
Xander considers a moment. “Taking a break, anyway. Might go back to it someday.”
Connor looks at the ceiling. “Friend of mine’s having a party Friday night. Wanna come?”
He can’t imagine how that could go well. He’s too old and broken inside. He’s barely managed to talk to this one kid, and the thought of being surrounded by them - young, whole, chattering, oblivious - fills him with dull horror. He’s set to decline.
His mouth, though, is reluctant to say the words. He takes a breath, rubs the back of his neck, looks at the kid. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Connor doesn’t try to jolly him into it, for which Xander’s grateful; that would have made him flinch, feel even older and more staid than he is. Instead, the kid smiles mildly and says, “Not your thing. I get it,” with a hint of regret.
Xander almost takes it at face value. Almost misses the undercurrent. He catches the slight change in the set of Connor’s shoulders, though.
“Not really,” he says. “I don’t think I can cope with a houseful of drunk freshman girls.”
Connor grins. It’s beautiful, lights up his face and dances in his eyes. Xander realizes he’s never seen him smile.
“It’s an apartment,” he says. “And I can’t stand those girls either.”
Xander smiles back. “So we’ll stake out the couch, get drunk ourselves, and spend the night annoying them?”
Connor nods thoughtfully. “Hide their shoes.”
“Hog the bathroom.”
“Horrify them by making out.”
Xander splutters and chokes on his coffee. The glint is back in Connor’s eyes. He looks like a pixie. Except a lot taller.
Just the right height, in fact.
fin