Dancing About Architecture

AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis
FEEDBACK: *pointed look*
DISTRIBUTION: List archives, my site. Or just ask.
RATING: Eventually NC-17 for m/m nummies and more angst than reasonably allowed by law.
PAIRING: X/"S"
SUMMARY: And the twain shall meet again.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I've actually *researched* this story. This is how involved in it I currently am. Hopefully I'll entertain someone other than me with it. Unbeta'ed.

I refuse to look up. I know what she's doing, I can feel her
stare boring into the side of my head. She's relentless. But, I
can deal with that. I've spent most of my existence with
relentless females; Cordelia Chase and her stare-downs are barely
a threat. I ignore her and keep humming.

It's a beautiful summer day. Sunny and breezy, even from in here.
The atmosphere in the Hyperion is great; everybody - me included
- feels energized and unusually happy. And yes, I'm humming.
Leaning against the counter reading through a file Wesley threw
in my direction earlier. What a nifty little team we've got here.
I flip a page and change songs. She snaps.

"Angel, are you *humming*??"

"Yes, Cordy. I'm humming."

"Well, cut it out! It's wrong! You don't hum. You brood. Brood!"

I look up at her and smile. "It's a beautiful day, Cordelia.
Enjoy it."

She gives me a look and shivers. "You're creeping me out."

I grab another file from the pile. "Well, I'll make sure to go
back to my usual gloomy self soon, just for your peace of mind."

"Damn straight."

Wesley appears from the back with bottles of juice for himself
and Cordy, and a nice warm glass of blood for me. With a straw in
it. I throw him a look and take it out, flinging it in the
wastebasket. "Cute."

He smirks at me and loosens his tie a little. He's already rolled
his sleeves up, and small sweat stains are appearing through his
blue shirt under his arms and on his back. Cordelia periodically
tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and her golden skin
is covered by a thin sheen of sweat. Okay, so it's a little hot.
I wouldn't know.

The doors swing open behind me and with perhaps a little too much
enthusiasm I twirl (yeah, twirl) around on my heels to greet our
newest client.

And suddenly it doesn't feel so sunny anymore.

My throat dries up and I wish I'd taken a sip of that blood. I
take a few steps forward. The floor feels uneven.

"... Spike?" Cordelia. I just stand there, mouth open, unable to
make a sound.

That is not Spike. Not my Spike. Dirty clothes, disheveled hair,
sunken cheeks. How he stands, submissive, broken, eyes pleading.

"Please, please you've got to help me. I can't... Angelus, you
have to..." His voice breaks into a sob, and tears steam down
reddened cheeks. His eyes are wary and there isn't a trace of
blue in them. All grey. My hands tighten into shaky fists.

"Spike, what's the matter." I sound a lot calmer than I am.

He stumbles forward and almost falls down the few stairs, and I
rush to help him, only I stop before I can reach him. Sunlight
shines directly onto the marble floor before me. Mind reeling, I
look up at my childe who's standing in the light, crying and
walking to me. Then he's against me, his arms wrapped tightly
around me, holding on like his very existence depended on it. And
a hundred years just slip away.

I wrap my arms around him tightly, his small body nestled against
mine, and bury my face in his hair, inhaling deeply, closing my
eyes. Something inside me tightens at the smell, confirming my
suspicions. But I push it away, focusing on making it better,
protecting him, whatever it is he needs so urgently. He felt he
could come to me, and it's making Angelus come back full-force.
Angelus, who would kill whole villages for his family. And right
now, it's like he never left.

"Angel, you--"

My head snaps up and I hiss out a warning at the intruder, game
face on. Cordelia stops mid-movement and stares at me, wide-eyed,
frozen into place. It briefly occurs to me that I should
apologize, that this is my friend, Cordy, that... that she
doesn't want to hurt him. But it doesn't come out, and I'm left
just peering at her with golden eyes, battling conflicting
emotions.

Wesley hurries to her and takes her gently by the shoulders,
backing her away from us slowly. God bless him, he knows. His
understanding of what I'm going through right this second might
be purely academic, but at least there's that. There's someone
who knows Angel and Angelus are the same person, separated by a
very thin, very tempting line. Fought against every single day,
and so easily crossed.

His movements are slow and deliberate, and he avoids looking
directly at me. "Angel. Do you need anything for Spike." His
voice is careful and even.

I consider the shaking body against me, the... the *human* smell
coming off it in terrified waves. I'm not ready to deal with that
just yet. It takes a moment for me to make sense of my jumbled
thoughts. "Food... he needs food. Bring him food."

Wesley nods over Cordelia's shoulder, while she's still looking
at me with a horrified look in her eyes, betraying her otherwise
calm expression. Her heart is thumping madly in her chest, and
the sound, suddenly enhanced, only feeds my confusion over
everything going on around me. Angelus wouldn't be this
disoriented.

"Go away," I let out before shutting the rest of the world off,
barely noticing my coworkers cowering away as soon as the words
are out of my mouth.

Soon I am only aware of him, and I sink gently to the ground,
cradling him closely. I bring a hand to his wet cheek, caressing,
desperate to soothe away some of the nameless pain. Shakily, I
smooth his hair away from his brow. Strangled sobs shake him and
he lets me touch him, nestled in the crook of my arm, impossibly
close. He'd climb into me if he could, and I'd let him. I run my
hand over his arm, his back, his leg, feeling for anything wrong,
anything hurt. All I find is this warmth, this unsettling warmth,
and the beat of a heart under my palm, against his skin. I blink
away sudden tears, unsure what they are.

Human. Spike's human again. He's... William, just like I remember
him. His smell has never left me since that night in London, when
Drusilla turned him and I took him as my own. It was almost a
shame to lose that boy, to make him bad; his innocence had
something infinitely tantalizing about it. I adored Spike, what
I'd made him become, because he was William according to Angelus.
And now... Whatever this is, it makes both sides of my psyche
ache with an unexpected, passionate need to protect. To heal.

Forcing my human guise to come to the fore, I bring a heated kiss
to his warm forehead, shifting my hold on him to support him as
he grows weaker. "It's okay. I'm here. You'll be okay, childe."

"Angel... what happened..." His voice is broken and hoarse, and
rings of panic dulled by exhaustion.

I run a gentle thumb over his cracked lips, swallowing my own
uncertainty. "We'll figure it out. You'll be okay. You need to
rest. Spike..."

He looks up at me under heavy lids, dark circles under his eyes.
I can see a tinge of azure in the dull grey of his irises. That
gives me hope. His grip tightens on my shirt. I hug him fiercely
to me.

"You'll be okay. I'll make it okay."

***

The radio was counting down the Top 50 rock tunes of
the decade, and normally I would've been annoyed at the
static of the two stations coming in at once through
the tiny speakers. There was a discreet, unkempt battle
between The Boss and Asia going on in my bright
kitchen, but I hardly noticed.

Bosco sat next to my feet by the refrigerator, looking
up at me and wondering why I'd stop paying attention to
him. As big a dog as he was, he still had the puppy
eyes working for him, and he was most likely shooting
his best pitiful look at me right about now. His doggy
pants barely overlayed the battle of the bands going on
on the counter a few feet away.

The two little mundane noises only served to make the
quiet of the afternoon even more oppressing. It
would've been fine, I suspected, had I not been holding
this particular piece of paper in my hand.

See, this wasn't supposed to happen. We were fine. I,
was more than fine. I had grown up and grown old, not a
whole lot but just enough to feel comfortable in the
normal everyday task of making a living. I had a job I
loved, and a nice apartment in a town that never heard
of a hellmouth. I was done poking at what goes bump in
the night, and admittedly, I didn't miss it much. I
still had all of my friends, thankfully all alive and
well, and they all had jobs and lives of their own. I
had a dog, and a nice car. I wore clothes that made me
look my age, I had an assistant, and I didn't have to
wear a tie, or go to any office five days a week. I was
turning 30 in two years, and I was doing good. Really
good.

This train of thought lead me to look up and at what I
could see of my apartment from where I stood by the
kitchen doorway. Bright. Mostly white. Walls covered
with framed photographs, my work, my livelihood.
Bookshelves ready to collapse from the weight of books
and hundreds of photo magazines collected over the
years. Momentos, here and there, of travels, of people,
of times passed. A comfy, well worn couch. Hardwood
floor scratched by the dog's nails. Prints and negs and
equipment covering most flat surfaces. And, it smelled
good. It smelled like home.

That bit of observation over with, my gaze returned,
hesitant, to the letter I still held in both hands.
Thoughts, trivial, crossed my mind randomly. How not
ten minutes ago I had picked up this letter along with
a half dozen other pieces of mail, coming home from an
assignment with about my weight in equipment slung
around my shoulder. How I had dropped off most of it in
the darkroom before coming back to listen to my voice
mail in the kitchen. How I had reached in the fridge
and grabbed a beer, tossing junk mail around as I had
listened to the disembodied voice of Sarah - the
assistant - detailing certain going-ons I apparently
needed to be aware of. How Bosco had slalomed between
my legs excitedly, happy to have me home. How I had
been halfway towards the living room when I noticed the
last piece of mail I had kept in my hand. Handwritten,
with a return address I did not recognize. Had ripped
the white envelope open without much care, half
expecting a cleverly disguised ad from someone wanting
to do something to my carpet for an amazingly low
price. Instead, I got eight years crashing back into
me, and he signed it, "Spike".

* * *

If I peered over my shoes, I could see the tiny ribbon
of pink tainting the sky on the horizon, promising of
yet another sunny day. I blinked and stared listlessly
at the coming dawn, slumped in the big armchair with my
legs stretched out in front of me on the matching
ottoman. Both forearms propped up on the large
armrests, I uncrossed my legs and crossed them again at
the ankles. My shoulders started to feel numb from
sitting like this with my chin resting on my chest, but
I was unsure as to how else I should deal with this
sudden case of insomnia. Boring myself to sleep seemed
like as good an idea as any. If only I were bored. If
only my racing mind could acknowledge my conscious
efforts to side-step the issue at hand. I took great
care to avoid looking at the coffee table next to me,
where the disruptive missive had been abandoned, hours
ago, in favour of something - anything - less
upsetting. Sunrise, as it was, was barely cutting it.

Annoyed, I blindly reached for the letter but was
caught mid-movement by the ring of the phone right next
to my head. I jumped and cursed, my heart racing from
the sudden loudness. I grabbed the cordless and hit
'talk' with a shaky thumb before bringing the cold
plastic to my ear.

"It's five in the morning, Sarah," I said tonelessly,
sinking back in the armchair.

"Hey, you're up. Listen, about today's shoot, you need
to get there at two instead of three. Mr. Caldwell
called last night and he's saying you said two the
first time."

"Sarah. It's five in the morning."

"Yes. Do you need anything? I'm on my way to the pastry
shop now, I'll get something fresh. I know you like
those almond things, but they're always out when I go
later, so if I go now I can get them, plus I love the
smell of freshly ground coffee beans. The women there
are really nice. You should go sometime."

"I'm hanging up now."

"It's five in the morning - what are you doing up?"

"Goodbye, Sarah," I sang at the phone as I hit 'end'.

I stared over my shoes again, phone in hand because I
didn't want to make the effort to put it back on the
table. Then the room got too silent and I glanced at
the phone again, thoughts actually forming inside my
head this time. I hit 'talk' again, and the second
speed-dial button. It rang once.

"Hello?"

"I thought you were going to the pastry shop."

"I'm on my way out."

"Cancel my two o'clock."

"Xander!"

"Cancel my two o'clock. Did I ever tell you about this
guy Spike?"

"No. What do you mean cancel your two o'clock?"

I reached for the letter and shook it open, getting up
with surprising energy. "He's this guy I used to know
back home."

"The British guy?"

"Yes. Well no, not him. But he's British too."

"You never told me there were two British guys."

"He wrote me a letter."

"Just now?"

"Got it yesterday."

"Xander, I can't cancel your two o'clock."

"He wrote me a letter."

"So you said. What about it."

"He's dead, Sarah."

"He's dead?"

"Did I mention he wrote me a letter?"

"How can he be dead and write you a letter?"

"I don't know."

"I'll cancel your two o'clock."


* * *


Sarah stared at me from behind her steaming cup,
looking like I had just attempted to explain the choas
theory to her.

"So he's an asshole."

I sighed. This wasn't going very well. But I had to
tell her. Kinda. "He's not an asshole. He's... Spike.
Yeah he's a jackass, but he's a part of 'home', you
know?"

"I thought you didn't miss home."

"I don't. But I don't regret my time there either,
Sarah. I grew up there. That stupid town, it made me
what I am today."

"If you're going to wax clichés at me, you should've
told me beforehand, I wouldn't have gotten decaf."

"I thought he was dead," I sighed, and it felt like the
most off-target delivery.

"See, this I still don't get. How can you think he was
dead, then oops, he's not. I mean how does that
happen."

"He..." How could I go into this without bringing up
the whole demon thing? I loved Sarah, but her current
neuroses were quite enough without adding to the fold.
"Spike was always getting in trouble. Then he got into
really BIG trouble one day with a- with this guy, and
he got injured in b- in a fight." Dammit, way to
maneuver around a vernacular that still came naturally.
"He layed low for a while, then one day he disappeared.
We... it looked very much like-" I swallowed awkwardly.
"Like the other guy won."

I picked up my danish and put it back down again at a
different angle, knowing that if I were to look up I'd
only encounter a concerned female frown. I didn't know
how to deal with that, because I didn't know how to
deal with me in the first place.

What the hell was this? Spike. So he was alive.
Presumably well. Well enough to suddenly, out of
nowhere and after eight years of utter absence, reach
out and randomly pick me to send a note to. 'Hey, I'm
alive. See ya.' Lot of good that did. But more
interesting yet, why was *I* feeling like I'd been
knocked the wind out of?

So he was evil. But if there was something I had
learned from years of running around Sunnydale, it was
that evil didn't always mean evil. There was Angel.
Anya. And tipping the scale at the other end, there was
Faith. All of them together prooving once again that
labels were just that - labels. As far as I could tell,
Spike had, if not a soul, at least a heart. And in the
last years the chip had changed his ways ultimately for
the better. Hey, it wasn't perfect, but the Big Bad
had, along the way, become a little good. Maybe a bit
contrived at first, then almost willingly so. Near the
end, you would've asked anyone within our group, and
the reluctant answer would've been that yes, Spike had
actually belonged. So I figure, that's why this sudden
news shook me so. Yeah, that was it.

And now what. Now... now he was alive. Somewhere.

Sarah excused herself and went to the washroom, and I
took the letter out of my pocket. It was already
wrinkled, like an old love letter. Ha. Right. I twirled
the envelope between my fingers, mind still wandering.
I looked at the written surface blankly. Then less
blankly. I brought the paper closer to my face and read
the return address, which I had readily dismissed the
first time.

It read, "William Sawyer, 1202-642 East 58th Street,
New York, NY." Alive, in New York City. Hiding under a
pseudonym.

Now what.

***

I'd been thinking. Long and hard. So long in fact that
when I had decided to finally get out of the apartment,
Bosco had practically chased me out. So that morning I
stormed into the big loft I shared with my business
partners, and promptly tripped over a trash can that
stood in the middle of the floor. I kicked it away and
into a pile of empty boxes.

"Godamm- SARAH!" I yelled, arms full of papers. She
appeared from the back at the sound of my voice,
sauntering over. "What is this."

"This? Oh, that. Matt and I were playing basketball."

I dumped a couple of packages in her arms. "Well, not
to spoil your fun, but here's a little work for you.
Savour it."

Matt came out of the back too, holding an impossibly
large sandwich to his face. I pointed at him, starting
in his direction. "YOU."

He grinned at me around a bit. "Hey, you're back."

"Matt-"

"You look like shit."

"Hey, guess what. Goodies for you. Don't chew too
fast." I handed the rest of the packages to him and
went over my work table to gather some things.

Matt handed the sandwich to Sarah and made his way to
me. He always looked like a hacker when he needed a
haircut. He watched me rummage through my mess. "So.
Where're you going again?"

"N-Y-C, baby."

"Uh huh. And what for?"

I opened a drawer, then closed it again, looking for a
particular strap for my camera. "Visiting a friend."

Matt turned to Sarah. "He's going to see a boy," he
teased indirectly.

"Have you seen my blue strap?"

"Over there."

I grabbed it from under my phone and shoved it in my
bag along with my camera and a book I'd been reading. I
shouldered the bag, grabbing my jacket from the chair.
I pointed a menacing finger at Matt, moving towards the
door. "Touch my toys and die."

"I never do."

"Like hell you don't."

"Xander!"

"Whatever. Sarah." I gave her my house keys and kissed
her on the cheek, heading for the door. "He's almost
out of food. Grab some of the expensive stuff. He's
going to hate it that I'm gone."

"You are so good to that dog."

I ran down the metal stairway, shouting over the sound
of my own clanging footsteps. "I've got a cab waiting!
I'll call you on Friday! Oh, and feed Matt too!"

I ran out of the building and jumped into the taxi,
throwing my bags next to me on the backseat. The car
peeled off and the cabbie looked at me in the rearview
mirror. "It's going to be pretty tight, buddy."

"Just get me there." I slumped back, exhaling shakily.
I peered out the window at the blurry scenery, and I
knew at this point that I couldn't change my mind. Well
I could, but I'd feel like a jackass doing it. So it
was all or nothing.

"Where's that plane taking you?"

"New York."

"What's in New York?"

"I..." I gave this a little thought, then smiled
lightly, watching traffic, tapping my fingers on the
bag next to me. "I don't know."


* * *


I sat down, leafed through American Photo, ate peanuts,
sat some more, and suddenly I was in New York, feeling
stupid. Truth was, aside from my harebrained plan to
come here and see Spike, I had nothing. I had a hotel
reservation, and three days' worth of clothes. I had
nothing. If there was a way to go at this even more
half-assed, I was sure to get to it shortly.

I checked in and threw myself in the shower, where I
stood under the hot jet, thinking. I did that a lot,
whether or not I had something to think about. I
certainly did today. I was still boggled by my own
reasons for coming to New York and seek the prodigal
hellion. Those exact reasons still escaped me; it was
like trying to grasp a wisp of the steam around me,
while all I could really do was run a wet finger on the
slick glass door. It left a sleek, clear mark, and I
looked at the word I had written. Spike. I stared at my
work for a moment, then added quotation marks to it,
and stepped back to lean against the cold wall. That's
how he'd written it. "Spike". I briefly wondered why
that was, then pushed the thought to the back of my
head and grabbed the bar of soap. Tomorrow. I'd go
tomorrow. Rested, and hopefully a tad less clueless.

Hours later, as I lay in bed watching the news on mute,
I reached and grabbed my cel phone, barely giving any
thought to what I was doing. I dialed, yawning
explicitly.

"Hello?"

"I'm going tomorrow."

"Good."

"How's Bosco?"

"Sleeping like a baby. I, by the way, am fine too."

"That's a given."

"Go to bed, Xander."

"Yeah."

"What are you gonna do?"

"I don't know. Just... go, I guess. Say hi. See what
eight years did to him. Get it done and go back home."

"Okay."

"This is silly, Sarah."

"It's not silly."

"It's silly. Why am I here? I don't know why I'm here."

"You'll know when you see him."

"You think?"

"Just enjoy your time away, for one thing. You deserve
a break. You've been working your ass off lately."

"I love my job. You know that."

"You can afford to spend some time in New York giving
yourself ulcers over this guy."

"I am, aren't I."

"Yes. Go to sleep. You still remember how that's done,
right?"

"I'll call you tomorrow."

"Yes. Night, Xander."

"Night."

I flipped the phone shut and put it back on the night
table, turning the light off. I left the TV on.

I still felt stupid.




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