Waiting Here
By Alexandria Brown

Chapters 1 - 5



Part 1 ~ Part 2 ~ Part 3 ~ Part 4 ~ Part 5 ~ Bottom

Part One

The flickering of candlelight provided the only brightness in the room, all the rest was shaded in black. It was essential that this be so, that all other sources of light be blotted out, that the focus of everything was this, this square of black silk and the gleam of the silver. But it was not easy to make this so, indeed that was part of the ritual. Removing the dark cloth, swathing it over any other source of light. Draping the windows, the doors, the television, the stereo, anything that might glow. After the room was shrouded, the music was set. The same way everytime, lift the fabric, insert the cd, select track fourteen, hit repeat, lower the draping.

When all that remained was the glow of the two pillars, he slowly reached into the chest for the bolt of silk. He took his time in unwinding the fabric, relishing the way the silk caressed his fingertips. He draped it over the now clear surface of the table, piling it up slightly on the sides but making sure the center was flat and smooth. He brought the candles closer, placing one directly in front of each hand. The pool of silk reflected the light, rippling across his skin.

Dipping back into the chest, he pulled out an intricately carved box. The box was of dark wood, some vaguely Celtic design weaving across the top. It was long and thin and smelled faintly of polish. The latch and hinges were gold but old and worn, contributing to the sense that the box had seen many years. He placed it reverently in the center of the circle. The light danced across the surface of the wood, seemingly making it glow. It was time.

He slowly leaned up, hit play then felt more than heard the whisper breathe into the room, the words exactly reflecting his soul.

I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel

The words slowly wrapped themselves around him, as he continued to stare at the box. Slowly he reached out a hand and slowly lifted the latch.

I focus on the pain, the only thing that’s real

He reached out and ran a finger along the blade. He remembered when he first saw it sitting in the shop window. He had been walking somewhere, alone as always, when a gleam caught his eye. He slowed, glanced over, and then stopped. He saw it there, sitting in the box, the lid open, the blade pure on the background of red velvet. It was perfect. Long, thin, the edge razor sharp with a short, maroon handle. He had no idea how long he stared before yanking the door open. Within moments he bought it, not caring that he could ill afford it, not caring that it meant another month of spaghetti and ramen noodles, not caring for anything but the need to hold it in his hands, to feel the edge of the blade run up the pale skin inside his wrists.

He reached out and lifted the blade from its secure place in the box. He lifted it, twisting it in his hands, watching the flames reflected there. He clearly remembered the first time he had cut his own flesh, the memory was the cleanest in his mind. His first kiss, his first orgasm, his first time diving into the flesh of another were nothing compared to that. He had been fourteen. His father had been in a drunken rage and had beaten him to within an inch of his life. When he was broken and bruised and lying motionless on the floor he had felt his father ram into him, again and again, until the pain in his body and the pain in his mind has merged into some indescribable blackness. His father had left him there to bleed, uncaring as to whether he lived or died. He had been dragging himself across the floor, some animal instinct still reaching for survival, when he had crawled through the broken glass of his mirror. His forearm brushed through the glass, and he caught his breath as this fresh pain hit. Propping him against the foot of his bed he had looked down to see a piece embedded there. He had been trying to pull it out when he accidentally ran the jagged edge up his arm. His eyes had shot open at the feel. It was like nothing he had ever experienced before. All the pain in his body and all the pain in his mind had concentrated on that one line, the heat and length of it burning through his soul. When that edge had parted his skin he *felt*, just *FELT*, and the purity of it was overwhelming. Hands shaking, he had reached down again and this time drew the tip slowly along his arm. The most exquisite pain arced through him, shutting down all thoughts, all emotions, all sensations other than this burn. He knew at that moment he had found his home.

He turned and tilted the blade, unwilling to start just yet. The anticipation was part of the thrill, letting the heat and anger burn in him, knowing the whole while that release lay in his hands. He had never told anyone of this, knowing instinctively that they would not understand. As he had grown older he secretly read everything he could find on the subject. He had learned that his instinct to conceal was the right one, that his talent at finding portions of his body to score which no one would see had been essential to his charade. He remembered the words of one of the books, “Ritual self-mutilation, expressed primarily through purposeful cutting, is a signal cry for sexual abuse.” He wanted no one to know, no one to guess. And no one ever had.

Through the years the desire had waxed and waned, overwhelming at times, completely dormant at others. He had once gone nearly two years without reaching for a blade. But he always came back, always returned to this one true thing, the only constant in his fucked up life.

In recent months the desire had become overwhelming. It had started slowly, beginning when Buffy and Willow had started college without him. They had slowly pulled away, leaving him even more alone than before. Then his father’s attacks had become more frequent. What had once been a rare event became more frequent, more violent, evolving to the point he was afraid to sleep, never knowing when those hands would strike. As he pulled further and further into himself, the blade became his savior, his safety, his line to reality. This was true, this was pure. If he could feel this, then he was still alive. Some part of him knew the insanity of these thoughts, but he no longer had any idea of how to stop. He became ever more adept at hiding the lines, reverting back to using broken pieces of glass, sharp edges of metal, even his own fingernails if forced to that point. He had long ago learned that no one, even Anya, looked closely at the soles of his feet, or under the wristband of his watch. Besides, the effect of the lines was heightened if he could feel them as he walked or used his hands.

Then Spike was forced on him. He knew, as soon as it was decided, that he would have to stop. No matter how careful he was, he always drew blood. And Spike would smell the blood. This was something else he had never shared with the Slayer or any of the others. He understood the bloodlust that raged through the vampires they killed. It was not merely the burn of the cut, the slow, agonizing thrill of watching his skin grow red then part. No, an equal part was watching the blood ooze through, lifting his arm to his lips and drinking it down. That was the best of all, saved only for the truly desperate times, the times were the game hit its highest peak. At its best, it was a dance. To creep up to that line that separated release from true danger, to dance on that edge where the blood would not seep but pour. To know that one more push, the tiniest bit of extra force and his escape would be final, that his blood would pour from his veins and down his arms and carry him away forever. That was the truest and purest of them all.

But not with Spike there. He had been forced to stop. Thankfully, whatever gods still took amusement in his little life had seen fit to make sure his father did not touch him during that time. He did not know if he would have been strong enough to stop otherwise. But his father had left him alone and so he poured his pain into sex, driving into Anya again and again, the fury of it burning to his core. So good, so sweet but not quite enough. Just enough to dull his fever.

Then Spike had gone and he was alone again. He had shocked himself when he did not reach for a blade the second the door had closed behind the leather duster. He was still for some time after that, entranced in the idea that Anya could make him whole. He began to hope again, to think that someone could heal him, ease that ache.

Then she had left him. One week before. They had been sitting on his bed, doing nothing really, just idly talking about the day. Anya had suddenly stood and swung around to face him.

“I have to tell you this and there will never be a good time. I am leaving you.”

“What!”, he blurted out, unable to think of anything else to say.

“Yes, I am leaving you. You do not love me, you just use me for sex. And while I know that is what men do, I do not want a man doing it to me. I deserve better.” And with that she walked out the door. He had tried to run after her, but the look on her face made him stop cold.

Since that time she had been nothing but pleasant to him. She had told the Scooby gang that Xander and she had decided they were too different to be together, that her lack of restraint had been too much for him. They were eager to accept this explanation and other than Willow’s quick, “I’m sorry, Xan, do you want to talk?”, not too much had been said.

He had sleepwalked through the week, going to work, going to slay, going home. He felt bereft, his anchor yanked from his life. Then last night his father had come home, drunker than usual, and had burst down the stairs and slammed him into the wall. He had been knocked out immediately and regained consciousness to find himself being kicked repeatedly in the ribs. Eventually, as he knew he would, his father had ripped down his pants and proceed to pound into him, ripping him to shreds. When the violation ended, he crawled to the bathroom. He had showered, trying to clean the blood away, oddly thankful that his father had not ruptured anything. He woke that morning stiff and sore and covered with bruises. He had called off work, slept some more and then made his decision. No more. He could take no more. He needed the release only his blood could bring.

So here he sat, twisting his salvation in his hands. Finally, the rage and the pain became too much. Grasping the blade in his left hand, he pushed up his right sleeve. The perfectly clean expanse of arm sang to him and he pulled the blade across. He hissed in a breath as his head fell back. Heaven. It was heaven. Slowly he moved down his arm, each slice bringing some relief to the screaming in his mind. Looking down, he saw the ten parallel lines stretching down his arm. Too soon, too soon he needed more, had to have more, craved it like nothing he had ever known. He switched the blade to his right hand and began on his left arm. The cuts were faster now, more frantic, the need burning bright. It had been so long and there was too much pain to ease. The precision stopped and slashing began.

Reaching his left arm high into the air, he brought the tip of the knife to the outside edge of his wrist. With one final yank, he drug the blade diagonally down the length of his arm to the inside of his elbow.

**Too much, too much, too deep, gods no stop stop stop no no no NO NO NO!**

He knew immediately that he had finally crossed the line. Blood began to pour out of him, the cut much, much too deep. His control had snapped and what was meant to be salvation turned to danger. He jumped up and leapt for the bathroom and the gauze he kept there. He had to stop the bleeding. He did not want to die, not really, he had just wanted some relief from the pain. Frantically he grabbed a towel, pressing it firmly down. Still the blood flowed, coating everything around him. He slumped against the tub as the dizziness struck him. Too much. Too much. Red everywhere, the smell of it assaulting his senses. He yanked the towel away and grabbed a fresh one, reaching for a belt to tie it on. It had to stop, had to stop, he hadn’t meant it. He did not want to end like this. His eyes began to flutter and he sank down to the tile, his arm falling across his face. The blood continued to flow.

Part Two

Spike walked slowly down the street which led to Xander’s house. He wasn’t sure why he was there, just that he had felt compelled to see the boy that night. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was something wrong in the way Xander had smelled recently. The whelp usually smelled of heat and light and humor and lust. But over the last week, since that bitch of an Anya had dropped him flat, the scent had changed. He didn’t believe for a second that the breakup was mutual. He had learned a lot about Xander during the time he lived with him and knew that the boy was besotted with the little ex-demon. Besides, he didn’t really believe that she had stopped torturing men, he thought that she just did it in a subtler way now.

The boy had held up well though. Didn’t flinch when he saw her, didn’t try to blame her, didn’t do anything which would give away his pain. Spike respected that, there was no better measure of a man than the way he took a punch. And it was clear to anyone who could be bothered to look that Xander had taken a punch. His usual sarcasm was more bitter, his wit more brittle. Xander wouldn’t look anyone in the eye nor would he allow any true attention to be paid to him. He was trying to slip away, and Spike wanted to know why. He hated to admit it but he had grown to admire the boy, the way he fought on no matter what, the way he saw the humor in any situation, the way he faced down death like it was no big deal. To watch that slip away troubled the vampire on some deep level.

That was why the events of the night before had scared him so badly. He and Xander had been paired together. Spike had slowly grown to look forward to these times, to the chance to listen to Xander talk about everything and nothing, to hear those little quips. But Xander had been quiet, not responded no matter what bait Spike had thrown at him, not bantering back like he always did. Then they had come across a group of vampires, eight in all, and Spike had thrown himself into the battle, confident that Xander could take care of himself. He had thoroughly enjoyed the fight, snarling and spinning and kicking away, when he realized that his were the only shouted taunts. Snapping the neck of the fledgling he had been fighting then staking the vampire before he could hit the ground, Spike had turned, an insult rising in his throat.

“What’s the problem, pet, cat got your…” he stopped in shock at the sight before him.

Xander was fighting an older vampire, but not with his usual heat. The other vampire was on the offensive and it was clear it was only a matter of time before Xander lost. Just as Spike began to move towards them, Xander tripped over a tree root and fell heavily back. The vampire he had been fighting pounced and leaned down. Spike saw a flash of something, relief, joy, something else, flick for a second in Xander’s eyes before they closed. Horrified, Spike yanked the vampire off the boy and staked him.

“Holy shit, Harris, what the hell was that, you were almost killed,” Spike screamed at him as the dust slowly settled.

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t so just shut up,” came the weary reply. The lack of heat behind the words had stopped Spike’s lecture in its tracks. They had finished patrol quietly and then parted ways without saying another word.

So here he was, heading towards that basement, determined to find out what was wrong. Spike knew he probably wouldn’t be welcome, but was truly fascinated by whatever Xander was experiencing. It was a mystery to Spike and Spike did not like mysteries. Besides, he had spent the whole day preparing a lecture on how the Slayer would stake him if anything happened to Xander while he was on patrol with Spike and how selfish that made the human.

Spike stopped at the door to the basement and pounded.

“Come on, pet, open the door,” he called. There was no response.

Spike pounded a little harder. “I said open the door, whelp.” This time with a growl and a snarl. Still, there was no response.

Spike began to worry, just a little. He could see the flicker of candlelight through the window and hear the low tone of some song. It was obvious someone was there. He tried the handle but the door was locked. Growing more concerned by the moment, he pushed on a window, tipping it open. He leaned down to yell in.

“What are you doing, pet, spanking the…” He flinched back as the overpowering scent of blood, Xander’s blood, slapped him in the face. Without thinking, he kicked the door open and rushed in.

“Xander, pet, luv, where are you?” His eyes darted around the room, taking in the odd altar and the strange black hangings.

“Xander, can you hear me, what happened?” The scent was overpowering, intoxicating and Spike was rapidly becoming frantic. Moving towards the bathroom, he called out again, an odd waver to his voice.

“Xander, are you all right?” He stopped cold at the sight before him. Xander, slumped against the bathtub, blood pooled around him, gouges down his arms and a knife in his hand. One small part of Spike’s mind spoke up **well at least he did it right** while the rest stopped cold.

“Bloody fucking hell,” Spike whispered as he crouched beside the still body. He could hear the slow heartbeat, hear the faint trickle of the blood. He carefully reached out to move the arm from across Xander’s face. As he did so, Xander’s body slid further down the tub, revealing his right arm. Glancing down, he saw the lines on the other arm. He looked up sharply. He knew what this was, he had seen this before. Suddenly, the picture clicked. This boy, this goofy manchild, this supposedly blithe soul had fooled them all. The pain had always been etched there for anyone who cared to look.

Spike knelt there, concentrating solely on hearing that heartbeat, ignoring the bloodlust which was keening in his ear at the sight of all that blood. He knew at a glance that Xander had lost several pints and that anymore could be fatal. However that heartbeat, though slow, was steady and strong. Carefully, Spike lifted the boy in his arms and carried him to the bed. His first instinct had been to run out the door and get him to a hospital but he had stopped on the first step. This would look for all the world like a suicide attempt, and Spike knew that he could not explain otherwise without revealing Xander’s secret. The heartbeat was still holding steady and the flow of blood had stopped. With a quirk of his head, Spike thought of his only other choice.

He reached for the phone, dialing the number by rote. It was answered on the sixth ring.

“Willy, it’s Spike, you will listen and do exactly as I say. I need a doctor, someone discrete, to come to where I tell you and he needs to bring five pints of human blood, whatever that universal type is along with whatever he needs to perform a transfusion. The doctor will be here in fifteen minutes with all his supplies or I will make sure your life is a living hell.”

Spike listened to the sputtering on the other end for a few seconds before growing impatient.

“I don’t care what have to do, just get it done. You know what I’m capable of.” The last words were delivered calmly but with such icy menace that there was no question as to the threat. There was a short pause, then Spike heard the bang of the other man’s head on the bar.

“Good, then we understand each other. I’ll be watching.” Spike gave him the address then hung up.

He sat down on the side of the bed and listened again. That heartbeat was still there, faint, slow but steady.

“Hold on for me, luv, just a little while longer.” Spike slowly looked him over, hissing a little as he saw just how flayed the skin on Xander’s forearms truly was. He could clearly see the progression, the slipping of the control, in the length and depth of the wounds. What troubled him was the control the first ones showed. There was an art to cutting enough to hurt but not to HURT. He knew how difficult it was to learn that art and this bespoke of years of practice.

“What drove to this, pet, who did this to you. You have to hold on, you have to wake up and then you have to tell me,” Spike whispered softly. He reached a hand out and ran it down Xander’s face. Something had been ripped from Xander’s soul and Spike had to know what and had to know who and had to know why. He wasn’t sure why but he knew it to be true. Xander had never backed away from anything and to run like this – whatever it was he had to know. And then he would try to fix it.

Part Three

The room was quiet and still, the only sound the slow, steady breathing from the inert form on the bed. The very air seemed heavy, all attention drawn to the sound. In. Out. A slight wheeze on the exhale from the constriction of the bandages wrapped around his chest, holding still the battered ribs. In. Out. Slowly counting the seconds in between, making sure the rhythm continued, that nothing interrupted the pace. In. Out. No longer haggard, no longer desperate. In. Out. The quiet and calm peace of sleep.

The other figure in the room suddenly stirred, breaking the spell. Reaching down he grabbed the lighter and cigarettes, suddenly desperate to move, in frantic need of some activity. Spike tapped out a cigarette and sparked the flame. He lit it smoothly and paced away from his vigil at the foot of the bed, not wanting to disturb Xander’s sleep. It had only been an hour ago that Xander had crossed that threshold from unconsciousness to peaceful sleep. As much as he craved the nicotine, Spike did not want to wake him yet, knowing that Xander desperately needed the sleep to recover from the ordeal of the night.

Spike moved around the room, trailing the smoke behind him. He had not had the opportunity to examine it before now, as preoccupied as he had been with ensuring that Xander would survive. The entire time, however, the strange nature of the room had tugged at the back of his mind. He reached out and smoothed his hand down the cloth with swaddled every light emitting item in the room. It was obvious that great care had been taken to deaden all light, to make the basement as dark and dank as a cave. Or as his crypt. He reached up and felt the thick fabric. It was clear that this was some ritual, some deep and private need, some religion to which all care was lavished. He circled around again to windows, seeing the small gap where the weight of the fabric had pulled away. This was where he had been able to see the flickering of the candle. Crossing back again he saw the mounded hump of the television and stereo. With a start he realized that whatever song he had heard when he first opened the window was still playing. He reached out, uncovering the stereo. He saw the cd player was set to repeat the same track. Fourteen. Hitting eject he pulled out the cd. His eyes widened slightly, he knew this record. Nine Inch Nails. The Downward Spiral. Hurt. His eyes squeezed shut, a tic running up his cheek as he ground his teeth.

Finally, he moved to the true center of his attention. The altar. There was nothing else to call it, really, it was clear that was what it was. His eyes roamed over the table. A pool of black silk. An opened box. Two candlestick holders, the candles long since guttered out. The stain of dark blood spreading out and running over the side of the table. He stalked his way along the path of the blood. The large gap between the initial pool and the next splash on the carpet. The stream which must have trailed behind Xander as he ran. Into the bathroom, the huge stain which was congealing on the tile. Two blood drenched towels with the imprint of Xander’s forearm. The white stamp of the hand where he had desperately held the towels blazing out from the black stain of the blood. The smear along the tub where Xander had collapsed. Spike’s head dropped a little and a huge sigh escaped him. He felt his shoulders slowly unclenching as a small amount of the tension which still vibrated through him was released. He had been almost entirely sure that he had read the situation correctly, that Xander had not been trying to commit suicide but rather that he had been purposefully cutting himself and had somehow slipped too far. This scene confirmed that. Spike could still faintly scent the smell of fear and desperation that permeated the space. Underneath it all was that familiar scent, that deep musky smell which set Xander apart.

Spike cast another glance around, then set to work. He quickly gathered the towels and threw them in the washing machine. He was tempted to set them aside to burn, but remembered that Xander had almost nothing and this small loss would mean much to him. That done, he pulled out the cleaning supplies from under the sink. He remembered where everything was from the time he had spent there. It had surprised and amused him to discover that as messy as the rest of the apartment may be, Xander was almost compulsive about keeping the bathroom clean. He efficiently wiped down the tile, fighting back the urge to taste. Not like this. He would be lying to say that he did not want to learn the taste of Xander’s blood but he would be damned if he would do it now. Stepping back, he cast a critical eye around the room. It softly gleamed back; showing no trace of the agony it had recently contained. The only jarring note was the knife that still lay on the tile. Spike could not bring himself to touch it, eyeing the blade as if it were a living thing that could turn on him at any time. He recognized the fine craftsmanship, the burnished silver glowing softly through those spaces not drenched in blood. The finely honed edge, the blade able to smoothly slice through flesh. Spike stared at it for some time and then turned his back, unable to stand the image of Xander’s still body which had greeted him when first entered the room and which was still burned in his mind as he looked at the room.

Spike returned to the living room. As much as he wanted to strip everything down and return it to normal, to erase any sign of what had happened, he knew that this was something that Xander needed to do. He paused for a moment at the foot of the bed and listened. The breathing was still calm and true, the heartbeat growing stronger and steadier. Satisfied, he moved to sit on top of the washing machine, his eyes locked on Xander’s face.

He lit another cigarette and let his head slowly drop down, unfocused eyes staring at the floor, his only movement the slow rise and fall of his hand to his mouth. He let the events of the night play out in his mind.

Part Four

Xander lay perfectly still, trying desperately to keep his breathing even and calm. He was trapped. He could fell the constriction around his chest, the heavy chains wrapped up both arms, some cold, dead weight draped along his legs. He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see what it was that finally captured him. He had always known this day would come, that he would wind up separated and alone from his friends, caught by some evil being and then tortured, long and slow, before finally being given the blessed release of death. All the hours he had thought about it, concentrated on it, preparing himself for the reality of it had done nothing to help. A wave of panic ripped through him and he forced himself to open his eyes, prepared for whatever horror awaited him.

Any horror that is, but the sight of his own ceiling.

His eyes darted desperately around as the familiar patterns of stains and mold registered in his mind. He heard the familiar noises, the slow drip of the faucet, the neighbor’s dog, a creak as someone walked across the kitchen. He could tell by the glow around the dark curtains covering his windows that it was midday. He blinked slowly, his mind finally clearing a little.

He was on his bed. In the basement. The basement. The basement where he had… His mind stopped at that thought as he suddenly came wide awake. He closed his eyes again and tried to remember how he had gotten to the bed. The last clear memory he had was of running to the bathroom and then sinking to the floor, unable to stop the spill of his blood. A wave of shame washed over him and he shuddered slightly. God, what kind of sick fuck was he. He had done it again. Done it after he swore never again. Done it despite knowing everyone would see. Done it so bad he had almost died.

It was that thought that snapped him back, forcing him to figure out what happened. He had flashes of arms carrying him, a hand on his cheek, some kind of growling, a prick on his hand. That was it. Nothing else. How had he gotten on the bed? He opened his eyes and started to sit up. He was shocked when he felt the heavy bandages around his chest as he tried to bend.

**What the hell, who taped my ribs?**

He reached his arms out to help push himself up. He glanced down and saw the heavy bandaging running up both arms from wrist to elbow.

**WHAT the hell is this, who bandaged my arms?**

Shaking his head, he let out a heavy sigh and looked up. It took everything he had not to start screaming in terror when he saw the back of the white blond head lying next to his knees, saw the right arm protectively wrapped around his legs, the rest of the vampire curled up at the foot of his bed.

“Spike,” he practically yelped, trying desperately to pull away from that iron grasp. “Holy shit, Spike, what are you doing here?” Xander began to pant as he tried harder to pull away.

Spike’s eyes flew open at the sound of his name. He hadn’t realized that he had fallen asleep, let alone that he had wrapped himself around Xander. **You wanker, you wanker,** he cursed as he yanked himself up and away from the bed. He stood, paused a moment to compose himself, then turned to face the boy.

“What, luv, don’t remember asking me to stay the night,” he drawled, a cocky grin on his lips and an arch to his eyebrow. The grin quickly faded as he saw the confusion cloud Xander’s eyes. Sitting back on the foot of the bed, he sought the boy’s eyes with his own, the doctor’s words sounding in his head.

“Pet, I was just joking,” he quietly said.

There was no response from the human staring down at the bed.

“Xander,” he continued, feeling panic rise in his chest, “Xander, do you know where you are?”

It was the worry behind those words that snapped him out of his fog. He was thoroughly confused. Here he was, sitting on his bed wrapped like a mummy with Spike acting all concerned. It was much too weird. He realized he had to answer the question.

“The Bahamas,” he snapped back, looking up to catch the vampire’s eyes. Startled by the look of worry he saw, he continued. “Come on, I’m in my luxurious basement hell hole, what did you think I was going to say?”

Spike’s panic eased some at the mocking response. Now that was Xander, insecure, uncertain of what was going on around him, so making a joke to hide. A bad joke to be sure, but a joke nonetheless.

Xander looked back down at himself then back at Spike. He could see the cloth still draping the room, could just make out the candlesticks and open box on the table behind Spike’s head. **Oh gods, oh gods, how do I explain THIS, what did he see, why is he here, of all the people to find out.** He sighed and looked at Spike.

“When did you get here?” he asked. He might as well get this over with as soon as possible – see just how bad it was.

“Last night,” came the short reply. Xander was caught off guard. He was prepared for some smart ass comment, some mocking words, some insult, but not this quiet response. This was worse than he thought.

“Um, do you know who cleaned me up?” he asked. Maybe that would jar something out of the suddenly evasive vamp.

“Yes,” came the simple reply. Nothing more, no mocking, no other information. **NOW he decides to give straightforward answers?** a small voice asked.

“That’s it, just yes, no big long explanation, no mocking, c’mon, Spike, give it up.”

Xander couldn’t believe it. The vampire was just sitting there watching him with an odd look on his face. Nearly a minute passed with the two just staring at one another. Spike finally sighed and looked away.

“Why don’t you go get cleaned up, when you’re done I’ll tell you what happened.” He knew this offer would surprise the whelp, maybe buy him some more time to brace himself for what he knew would be a long day and night.

Xander flinched back, startled. Spike, volunteering to answer questions? He slowly nodded. He did want to wash his face. And he really needed to use the bathroom. He started a little at the thought of going in there, of seeing the blood. However, he could think of no way to refuse without being obvious.

“All right,” he said, “Back in a flash.” He swung his legs off the side of the bed and stood up.

The world suddenly tilted sideways, spinning round and round. He began to fall, shocked by how weak he was. He felt the cold arms reach out and catch him, settling him back on the bed.

“Be careful, whelp. You’re probably still pretty weak from the blood loss. Just move slowly.” Spike jerked his head back as he heard the words spill from his mouth. **Oh hell, that’s just great, you pillock, just the way to ease into the topic there, mate.**

Xander’s eyes turned to bore through Spike’s.

“Blood loss, the blood loss, holy fucking shit, what did you see,” he hissed out. It was clear that the vampire knew at least some of what had happened – he just wasn’t going to tell Xander how much.

“Look, just get this over with – what did you see, who all was here, who did you tell,” Xander’s voice began to rise. “Who, Spike, huh, who, who did the bandages, Buffy, don’t think so, she’s too impatient to do them this tight. Willow, nope she would be busy crying too hard. Tara, maybe. Anya, no, she would make sure my dick was strapped down too. Giles – sure what would he care. He could do it. So who did it Spike? And why did they leave you here, you draw the short straw, you get stuck on psycho duty? Or did they just figure that with all your experience with Dru you would just know how to deal if I lost it, is that it?”

Xander hadn’t realized he was standing and screaming until he suddenly started to sway. “C’mon, Spike, what the fuck happened. You get a taste, they let you lick me is that it? Look, you bastard, just tell me.”

Xander was nearly sobbing now, the shame and the pain burning through him. The voice started in his head.

**All over, it’s all over, they know, they know. I’m a freak and they know. I’m insane and they know. They know, they know.** No wonder they left him with Spike, no one else could stand to be near him. He sank back onto the bed and hung his head, bringing his left arm up to rub across his eyes. He hissed as the movement caused the bandage to pull against the wounds.

Spike just sat and listened to Xander yell, listened to the pain pour out of him. He knew Xander needed this, needed to lash out, to try to take control of the situation. Of course he assumed the Slayer and her gang had fixed him, why shouldn’t he, it made the most sense. He could smell the fear and shame pouring off Xander’s body, the fury and fear dark and rich. Spike let him rage, let him turn the anger onto Spike and away from himself. He felt the weight drop next to him on the bed, heard the hiss of pain.

“Xander, I will tell you what happened – and I will tell you the truth,” Xander snorted as he heard that. “But I do think it would be better if you cleaned up first. Make you feel better.”

Spike chanced a quick glance over. The frantic pace of Xander’s heart had slowed and the sharp scent of fear had faded some.

“Look, pet, I’ve got more bandages, some cream you’ve got to rub on those cuts,” Spike carefully looked away as he felt Xander tense up, “and I don’t really feel like doing it myself.”

Xander slowly nodded. It was true, he would feel better if he showered. He carefully stood up, not wanting to collapse again. He cautiously made his way to the bathroom, dreading what he would find. Opening the door, his eyes widened in shock. It gleamed in the light, perfectly clean, fresh towels hanging on the rod. No trace of blood anywhere to be found. He glanced around again, startled. It was clear that someone had taken the time to do this, to erase any trace of what had occurred. He took another step into the room and looked down. There. The knife. It was still lying where it had fallen from his hand, dried blood now turning the blade black. He stood still for long moments, staring at the blade. He swallowed again, shaking slightly as the memory of the pain crashed into him. How had he been so stupid. How could he have lost so much control. Gods, he sickened himself. Swallowing hard, he closed the door.

Spike heard the bathroom door slam shut. He leapt from the bed and grabbed his cigarettes. He quickly lit up and began to pace back and forth. **At least that cloth has some use,** he thought as he passed under the windows. **Couldn’t have put them up while I was staying here, though, could he?** It actually had not gone as badly as he had anticipated. He had been prepared to try to defend himself from an attack. The anger was actually good, he would have had no idea what to do if Xander had started to cry.

He still couldn’t believe that he had fallen asleep. He had been determined to stay awake until Xander regained consciousness. However, the stress of the night had caught up with him and he had basically collapsed. Still, he had stayed awake for a long time, merely watching Xander as he slept. It had given him time to think – to determine why he had reacted as he did. It had only been when the phone rang about 9:00 a.m. and when he heard Red’s voice leaving a message that he realized that it had never occurred to him to call the Slayer, the Watcher, Red, any of the whelp’s friends. At first, he told himself it was because there simply hadn’t been time. He had to get the boy help immediately or he would have died. That excuse didn’t last long. If that had been the case, he would have just taken him to the hospital. Spike knew that he hadn’t called the Scooby gang for the same reason he hadn’t taken the boy to the hospital: too many inconvenient questions. Spike didn’t want to answer the questions and he sure as hell didn’t want to watch while Xander tried to answer them either.

Spike continued to pace the room, striding faster and faster the more he thought of listening to the idiotic questions he could just hear coming from the group. They would never understand the purity of blood, the craving that always existed, the need to feel flesh part under your hands. Spike now understood why he had always felt an odd kinship with Xander, it was that faint hint of bloodlust that ran in his veins.

But it was more than that. He stopped in front of the altar, looking down at the silk and blood. It reminded him of Dru. She too loved blood play, loved to trace a blade across his throat while he fucked her, to wait until he would whisper out the words of love that she dragged from him, then to trace the tip across his throat. In those early days, before she had become completely his, she would return from her time with Angelus and reach for her knife. She would trace and trace circles on her skin, whimpering out her pain and pouring it into herself. He would hold her and run his hands in her hair.

He had instantly known what those lines on Xander’s arms meant, just as he had known that Xander did not want to die. That was the dark beauty of it, the way that those who did not taste the blood would never know that it was life that those cuts sought, life that the blade represented.

But he knew. He knew and he understood. And now he understood a little more about that dark boy. He had always seen something more there, something deeper than Xander let on. The boy was bright, no matter what his friends thought, and he was braver than the rest. The Slayer had her strength, the Watcher and the witches their craft, Anya was an ex-demon. The whelp was just a boy. And he went out there just as they did. And they treated him like shit.

Spike tilted his head towards the door, listening to make sure Xander hadn’t collapsed again. He heard the sounds of the running water, the slight splashes as he washed. Spike began to pace again. So, now he knew one secret. But where there was one there were more. Like where those bruises were from. And how the boy had learned this in the first place. And what had pushed him over that edge. It was obvious that the boy had been doing this for some time and that he knew what he was about. It had taken all of Spike’s control not to strip him down and search for the other scars. And he knew the secret places they would be. To be pushed this far, something outrageous had to occur. Spike was determined to find out just what that was. He heard the water stop and moved back to lean against a wall, waiting for Xander to appear.

Xander slowly unwound the bandages around his chest, wincing at the pain in his ribs. Looking in the mirror he gasped. His chest was a mass of black, no single bruise standing out. He was grateful that none of his ribs had been broken, this he could hide. He next turned to his right arm, slowly unwrapping the covering. Ten perfect, parallel lines greeted him. They started as faint shadows by his elbow, deepening down to dark gouges by his wrist. He would have to wear long sleeve shirts for about, oh three weeks, he figured, eyeing the wounds with long practice. He ran his finger along the second from the bottom, his eyes misting slightly at the sensations it produced. Shaking his head, he turned to his left arm. This took much longer to uncover, with portions of gauze still clinging to the skin. He looked down, appalled at what he saw. His forearm looked as if some madman had gone after it with a cleaver. No perfect length, no matching lines, no discrete space in between. Instead, it was a mass of wounds, deep, shallow, jagged, thick, thin. All were there. And finally, the master cut. It ran the length of his arm and he knew it would scar. He had finally done it. Made it impossible to hide. A bitter smile unconsciously crossed his face. Well, this would take some explaining. He could always blame it on some demon or other.

He adjusted the water then stepped in the shower. He gasped a little when the water hit his bruises and ran down his arms, but the soothing heat soon dulled that pain. He leaned against a wall and just let the water run down him. He was so weak it was frightening. He wondered how much blood he had lost. He also wondered how it had been replaced. And why. And who.

His thoughts finally settled on Spike. Why was he there? What had he done? It was obvious that Spike had helped him for some reason, but why? And why hadn’t he made any comments on the state of the basement? And was he the one who cleaned the bathroom? Xander suspected that was the case, Spike knew where everything was. And the towels had been folded just how he liked them. Not too many people knew that piece of trivia. Why was Spike still here – well, all right it was day so it wasn’t like he could go anywhere, but why was he there in the first place? Xander sighed heavily. Well, he would deal with one disaster at a time. A small, hidden part of him, however, was thrilled. He could tell that Spike knew, if not the details, then the basic nature of what he had done. And he wasn’t disgusted. Maybe even understood.

The water began to run cold, and Xander started to shiver. Turning the taps off, he got out, dried off and then rubbed the antibiotic cream onto his arms, smiling slightly as he thought of the look on the vampire’s face when he had pressed in into Xander’s hand. The look that made it clear that Xander would be using this one way or another. He quickly and expertly rewrapped his ribs, having grown used to the process by now. He carefully bandaged his arms, wincing at the pain. He grabbed his clothes, dressing slowly. He turned back, thinking of anything else he could do, any reason to stay here and not look Spike in the eye. He brushed his teeth for the second time, ran a comb through his hair again but was finally forced to admit defeat. Time to face the music.

Spike looked up as the door opened. A burst of steam came out and Xander appeared in the mist. He looked noticeably calmer, but still very pale and shaky. He moved over to the chair in which he had chained Spike and looked up at the vampire. They stared at each other in silence.

“So, why don’t you tell me just what the hell happened last night.”

Part Five

Two sets of shocked eyes stared at each other. The words hung in the air between them, spoken in unison and with the same note of anger, curiosity and fear. Long seconds ticked away as they locked eyes, neither willing to speak first. A small smile suddenly curled the corner of Xander’s mouth.

“Jinx,” he said, catching Spike completely off guard.

“What,” came the incredulous reply. “Why the bloody hell would you jinx me?” The vampire was thoroughly confused now. He felt the rage beginning to build in his chest.

“Here I help you, hell only knows why, get you a doctor, clean you up and you want to JINX me, bloody ungrateful if you ask me.” Spike pushed himself away from the wall and began to stalk towards the boy in the chair. “Ungrateful whelp, should have left you there to bleed…”

Xander flinched back, shocked both by Spike’s reaction and by the revelations unwittingly being divulged by the furious vampire. He reflexively raised his hands as Spike stopped directly in front of him, yellow flickering around the rims of his eyes.

“Um, Spike, it’s just a thing, you know, when two people say the same thing at the same time, one says jinx and the other has to buy him a drink.” He knew he was babbling, but he was desperate to calm Spike down before something happened. He knew that Spike couldn’t really hurt him, but he didn’t particularly want to have to replace whatever it was that Spike threw across the room. “Didn’t mean anything by it, I’m glad you helped me, please calm down, I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

Spike glared down, trying to force the anger away. As strange as the explanation was, he could see that Xander was telling the truth. The boy hadn’t been trying to curse him. He had just been trying to break the tension.

“Bloody humans, playing with things they don’t understand, jinx, indeed.” He shot Xander another angry glare, then returned to leaning against the wall. His eyes suddenly closed when he realized what he had said. A low growl rumbled through him at his stupidity. **Oh, you’re just the master of discretion today aren’t you. Pillock!**

Xander cleared his throat, trying to work up the courage to ask the questions swirling through his mind. **C’mon, he said he’d tell you.**

“You said you would tell me what happened after I got cleaned up, well, I’m cleaned up, so tell me. What happened last night?” He tried to keep his voice calm and steady, but he could hear the slight waver underneath the words. He closed his eyes, not wanting Spike to see the tears which had suddenly filled his eyes.

Spike looked over at the boy, scenting the anguish coming off him in waves. He sighed, knowing that the only reason he had attacked Xander was to try to delay this moment. It was going to hurt, no matter what. He had decided during those long hours of watching over Xander as he slept that he would tell him the truth, just not all the entire truth. There were some things he wasn’t sure of himself, and he was not about to bring up certain subjects until he figured out his motives first. He moved to sit on the bed, staring straight ahead, in profile to the boy.

“I stopped by last night, wanted to talk to you about why you suddenly lost all ability to fight. Knocked, no one answered, knocked again, still no answer. Could see light, hear music, knew you were there. Opened a window, smelled blood. Kicked open the door, found you in the bathroom. Saw the blood, knew you needed help. Called Willy, got him to send a doctor. Doctor gave you a transfusion, checked you over, saw your ribs, strapped you up. Finished the transfusion, said you would be fine, left. It was almost dawn so I stayed.” His voice was flat and emotionless, the only sign of tension being the clenching and unclenching of his hands.

Xander stared at him in shock. He hadn’t really expected Spike to answer him, or, if he did, he expected some story about being forced there by Buffy and everyone and how they found him. Not this. He mind raced as questions poured through his head. Finally picking the most important one, he turned to look Spike in the eye.

“So, you found me. None of the rest know?” Again, that damned waver to his voice. Shit, he was such a wuss. He stared at Spike, dreading the answer.

“No, they don’t know.” Spike steadily met his gaze, the truth apparent there.

Again, the simple response shocked him. This was completely unexpected. Here was the ultimate item to blackmail him, to humiliate and destroy him. But apparently not only had the vampire not told anyone else, he had gotten help from sources which would never tell his friends. Knowing he was pushing his luck, he still had to ask.

“Why, why didn’t you call them or just take me to a hospital? Not that I don’t appreciate it, I do, but why?”

Here was the question that Spike had been dreading, why. Why had he done what he did. He had known that would be almost the first thing that Xander would ask, it was what was foremost in his mind as well.

“Because a hospital would have thought you were trying to kill yourself and the Slayer would think that somehow I had done it. Don’t want to get staked now, do I.” He watched carefully, hoping this half-truth would be sufficient. He really didn’t want to have to tell the truth, that he understood the need and the pain behind it and that he knew that the whelp’s friends **Yeah, such wonderful friends that they never noticed!** would only make things worse.

Xander slowly nodded. That made sense and he truly was grateful that he did not have to explain. He didn’t think he was up to it, he was too exhausted to think up some believable lie.

“Well, thanks. I mean, for everything, not just getting me a doctor. I appreciate it.” He sighed as he looked around the room, still draped in the black cloth with a trail of blood leading to the bathroom. **That’s going to be a bitch to clean.** He went to stand, to begin stripping down the room when a cold hand shot up and pushed him back.

“My turn, now. What the hell happened last night? And no joking around, I want to know. And just because I haven’t told that little gang of yours – yet – doesn’t mean that I won’t if I don’t get answers. So, what happened?” Spike’s eyes burned into him, pinning him to the chair. It was obvious that he wasn’t going to be able to get out of this with some story, some joke or evasion. He knew the vampire, knew he was serious, knew that if he did not answer the questions then Spike would have no hesitation about telling everyone exactly what he had seen. He looked up, trying to get the words together, to find some means to explain.

Spike watched the emotions play across Xander’s face. He wasn’t sure what response he would get, but he had to know. He knew that Xander would never willingly tell him, but he also knew that the threat of telling the boy’s friends would get him some type of response. He needed to know what had pushed Xander to this point, what had caused this loss of control. He needed to make sure that it wouldn’t happen again, that whatever, whoever, had hurt him would never have that chance again.

Xander dropped his eyes to his hands. He didn’t know where to begin, how to explain what he had done. He didn’t want to speak, didn’t want to have to try to put into words the sheer necessity of the pain. He opened his mouth, then closed it, at a loss for how to start. He heard a low growl begin above him, then felt a cool hand reach to lift up his chin. He saw that Spike was kneeling in front of the chair, gently grasping his chin, forcing him to look in the vampire’s eyes.

“Pet, I know it’s hard, but you need to tell someone about this. I’m certain you would rather it be me than someone who wouldn’t know how much the pain can cleanse.” A small sigh, then the hand dropped away. “Don’t worry, as long as you tell me, I won’t tell them.” The voice was quiet and soothing and the eyes were concerned. “Luv, please tell me, it will help.”

It was those words that pushed him over the edge. Tears started to roll down his face, unbidden, unwanted. He couldn’t stop himself as the sobs racked through his body. It was all too much. Just too much. First Anya leaving, then his father and now Spike knowing how sick he was. His world had fallen away and there was nothing left. His only method of survival had nearly destroyed him. He tried to bury his head in the chair, humiliated to his core. On top of everything else, he was crying like a baby in front of the one person who would most delight in seeing his pain. He was shocked when he felt himself wrapped in a tight embrace, heard soothing words muttered into his ear, felt a hand trace through his hair.

Spike just held Xander as he sobbed. He hadn’t expected this, wasn’t sure what to do. His reaction to wrap himself around the boy had been instinctive and immediate. He was stunned that the boy didn’t try to push him away, then realized that he was in so much pain that any comfort would be acceptable. He continued to run his hand through that dark hair, whispering words of comfort. He could feel the tension drain from the body in his arms with every sob, could feel the pain which burned like a flame. It tore through Spike, drawing out every protective instinct he had. Whatever was causing the boy this agony went deep through him. It was obvious this was the rage and pain of years being poured out in his arms. Spike just held on, hoping his presence would help somehow. Slowly, the wrenching sobs quieted and turned into hitching breaths. The tears slowed and Xander’s breathing began to steady. Spike loosened his grip slightly, pulling back to look in Xander’s face. He reached a hand up and pushed the hair out of Xander’s eyes.

“Luv, you all right, how are your ribs, that had to hurt.” He was careful to keep his voice even and low. Xander’s eyes were still closed and he could sense the embarrassment. “Do you want some water or something…” His voice trailed off, unsure of what to do now. Whenever Dru had wept like that it was followed by sex. He was fairly certain that wasn’t next in this case.

Xander forced himself to open his eyes, afraid of what he would see. Spike looked back at him, the only thing present in his eyes concern, some understanding and a little confusion. No mocking, no laughter, nothing but care. Xander shook his head slightly, trying to clear his mind.

“Water, water would be good. Throat hurts.” Spike nodded, released him and went to the sink. The vampire grabbed a glass, filled it and handed it to him. He drank slowly, wincing a little as his ribs let him know they did not appreciate what they had just gone through. He eventually finished the water and put the glass on the floor next to the chair. Spike had moved so that he was sitting on the table facing him, the black silk pushed to the side. He ran his hand slowly through his hair then took a deep breath. **The sooner you start the sooner it’s over, so buck up little camper and just do it.** He released the breath and began to speak.

“Sometimes, whenever things get to be too much, I, I, I cut myself. It helps. Makes me feel, lets me know that I’m still alive. I mean, if I feel pain then I feel something, you know. And when things are really bad then I need it the most, I need to see and taste my blood. It’s just so pure, so good and right. And I know it’s sick but I can’t stop. Well, things have been bad for months, my friends all leaving for college and I’m stuck in this basement doing work I hate. Feeling more and more useless with the gang, I mean, I don’t have Buffy’s strength or Willow’s magic. Then I had Anya and everything was okay for awhile, she made it better. Then she left me, said I was just using her. After Anya left, it just seemed that everything was gone, that there was no reason for me to be around anymore. Then that vamp almost killed me and I just didn’t care. I think I wanted him to do it on some level, just wanted everything to stop. I came home,” he stopped, catching another breath. There was no way he was going to tell Spike what actually happened next, there was no way he would let anyone find out about that. He started again, “I came home and hurt so bad from the fight. Called off work. Needed it, needed it more than ever before. Got the room set up. Got out my knife. Started to cut,” his voice began to waver again. **Shit, haven’t you made enough of a fool of yourself?** He took another deep breath. **Almost done, just a little more.** “I just lost control, I never meant to really hurt myself. I mean the whole reason I do it is so that I don’t want to kill myself. And I know that doesn’t make sense but it’s true. Anyway, I realized as I was making the last cut that it was too much, but I couldn’t stop. When the blood started to gush out I ran for the bathroom, tried to stop the bleeding, couldn’t, then I passed out.” He could feel his whole body shaking, desperately waiting for Spike’s reaction.

Spike just stared at him for a moment. He couldn’t believe that Xander had actually told him all that, he had expected some brief explanation, some defensive response. Not this honest baring of Xander’s soul. His insides twisted at the echoes of the pain underlying every word. Another part of him raged at the thoughtlessness of those people who were supposed to be his friends. No one had ever sensed the anguish, the horror which was obviously eating Xander alive. Yet another part realized that there was more unsaid, that this explanation didn’t account for the bruised body. He could also sense some deeper pain which Xander has holding close and that he would not share. Spike could see that Xander was afraid of how he would react, could see the tension in every line of his body.

“Well, pet, as much as you may need it to stay alive, this time it almost killed you,” Spike now heard an answering waver in his voice as the image of Xander sprawled bloody and still on the floor of the bathroom appeared before his eyes. He shook his head, trying to wipe the vision away. “I’ve seen this before, you know, and I know that you’ve been doing this for years. I know that there’s something else there. If you don’t want to tell me now, fine, but know that I will find out.” Xander’s head shot up at that but Spike didn’t stop. “Your ‘release’ almost killed you, still might, what if those cuts get infected. And what if I hadn’t found you, what if it had been the Slayer or Red or the Watcher, then they would know.” Spike stopped, wanting to see the reaction to his words.

“Yeah, well, they’ll know now, won’t they,” came the quiet response. “This is gonna scar and scar bad.”

Spike turned, picked up the card the doctor had left and handed it across. He saw Xander take it, read it and look up, confusion written on his face.

“The doctor who took care of you left that, I called this morning, we have an appointment for 9:00 tonight. I know you don’t want anyone else to know and, for some reason, neither do I. Won’t help and will only result in that lot asking a bunch of stupid questions. Here’s the deal, I won’t tell but you are *never* doing this again. Never. And to make sure of that I’m moving back in here.” Spike’s voice had taken on an air of command. It was clear that this was not negotiable. “We’ll just have to find something else for you to do.”

Xander stared at him in shock. He wasn’t sure what surprised him most, that Spike wanted to help him, that Spike wasn’t blackmailing him too much or that Spike actually sounded like he cared what happened. Xander clearly recognized that a deal was being offered to him, let Spike stay or Spike would tell. He was surprised that the prospect of Spike staying with him actually brought a sense of relief. As much as it hurt to discuss, he actually felt slightly better now that someone else knew. Besides, Spike actually was fairly good company, once you got used to his odd sense of humor. **What about your father, what will you do when he finds out?** a small voice asked. He decided to ignore it. He would deal with that when the time came. It would be nice to have some company. He knew he had to object, just for form’s sake. Had to have some dignity left.

“And what if I tell you that you can’t and get Willow to do the uninvite spell?”

Spike leaned forward, yellow again flickering in his eyes. “Then you won’t have this little secret anymore and you can explain to them.”

Xander nodded, swallowing hard, no matter how much his mind knew Spike couldn’t hurt him, his body still hadn’t quite gotten the message. “All right, deal.”

“Deal,” repeated Spike. He looked at the clock. 5:00. Three hours to sundown, four to their appointment. “Well, I’m going back to sleep, didn’t get much this morning. Red called, you might want to call her back. Make some excuse for not seeing them tonight. The doctor said you had to get that arm stitched today to avoid scarring. And since I went to the trouble of making the arrangements you’re going.” He threw himself on the bed, drained from the events of the last night and day. “And clean up this room, even I think it’s odd.”

Xander looked down at Spike and then moved for the phone. He was still confused, still shaky and weak and still a little in shock at finding Spike protecting him. He decided to push all those thoughts aside for later. For whatever reason, Spike had helped him, wanted to help him and wanted to continue to help him. That was enough for now.

On to Parts 6 - 10



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