Will it never stop snowing???
Dec. 6th, 2003 10:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
angelchickenI am bored. I have written and addressed fifty Christmas cards (yeesh. I know fifty people?) and have watched TFotR and "The Chamber of Secrets" and I am all movied out. And I have read fic. And written a bit of fic.
So I am going to post my *unbetaed* continuation of this fic. I will definitely get a beta. Any suggestions, though, thus far, would be greatly appreciated. *Especially if I slip out of tense. I have been trying to be really careful about that (my worst Achilles heal in writing) but I miss things sometimes. Grr.
Untitled Spander story- parts 2&3a
Summery: Enter the Spike. Sort of.
Disclaim: I own nothing. ME/Joss/Fox- pour a shot for my homies.
Notes: There is a clothing line out there called F.C.U.K. Right. Ha ha. It used to annoy the fuck out of me. Especially since my ex has one of these shirts, and it really doesn't suit him at. all. And he thought it was soooo cool. What. Ever. Then I found out that the label is fairly popular in gay communities and I now giggle madly to myself whenever he wears it. Snerk. Anyway, I hated the label, but when I was thinking about names for a club in L.A., F*C*U*K was all I could come up with. So, the club is after the clothing label, which still annoys me, but not as much as it did. Also- I don't own the label. Shocking, I know.
Rating: I guess PG unless there is swearing then PG-13. Thirteen year olds know swear words, even if they shouldn't. Also- there is a hint of the slash, just so you know. Implied, impending slash type feelings, if you will.
The Beach
Xander, Andrew and Knox are at the beach on a warm July Saturday, soaking up some rays and basking in weekend lethargy. The weather is beautiful: mid-eighties, low humidity, and a few puffy clouds in the sky. There are people everywhere; on the boardwalk, the beach, in the water. Xander can see kids on boogie boards and sand castles being constructed every couple of yards. It’s kind of a perfect day.
Or would be if Andrew would just shut up.
Knox is feigning sleep, leaving Xander as Andrew’s sole audience. He would throw sand at Knox, or something equally as juvenile, if he hadn’t feigned sleep himself several times before. It’s not that they don’t like Andrew. He’s an okay guy. But he’s like the puppy that is just desperate for attention, and no matter how much you pet him he is always jumping up and wanting more, more, more until you eventually just want to shut him in the kitchen for a few blessed moments of reprieve. Only, you know, human.
Eventually Xander has had enough. His brain is going to melt. So he gets up, grabs his goggles and announces that he is going for a quick dip. He is fairly certain that Andrew won’t follow as the younger man is incredibly afraid of sting rays, and though Xander has calmly explained that sting rays don’t live off the coast of California where the water is too cold, Andrew won’t be swayed. It’s a good thing, and after the first time, Xander stopped trying to convince him.
He fixes the swimmers goggles over his patch- he can take it off, but would rather not. Besides, then his “patch tan” will be obvious and fashion dictates that tan lines are a major faux pas. Heaven forbid he fly in the face of fashion. He knows he should just suck it up and go get fitted for a glass eye, but glass eyes make him think of Sandy Duncan and Sammy Davis Jr. and a whole host of glass eyed people who you can’t have a conversation with without noticing that while one eye is firmly trained on you, the other is blankly staring off somewhere over the other persons shoulder and it’s kind of creepy and probably rude to boot.
Or so he imagines.
As he wanders down the beach he notices a few appreciative stares shot his way and he smiles to himself. The last two years before the end of Sunnydale he knew he had been puffing up. The stress of the not-wedding, followed by the stress of the job promotion and the stress of the original evil showing up to obliterate mankind starting with his friends, had him reaching for the HoHo’s and Doritos more often than anything fruit or vegetable related and it showed. But once he got established in L.A. he joined a gym and is now down to his high school size. Well, he’s older, more built. And he sure as hell isn’t eighteen any more. But it’s close enough. And while he will never be able to compete with the men on Muscle beach, he can admit that he’s a little ripped. Not a six pack, per se, but maybe a four pack. Three.
He double checks that his goggles are secure and then runs into the surf and dives into the waves. He loves this. He has always enjoyed swimming and knows he is good at it. So he dives in again and starts a crawl, parallel to the beach. Occasionally he will look up to make sure that the undertow hasn’t pulled him too far out. He heads south for a few minutes and then, knowing from experience that Andrew will get a lifeguard if Xander is out of his field of vision for too long, heads back. A few hundred meters from his towel he gets out of the water and stretches on the beach, one big full body pull, to get the kinks out. While waking back to his towel he sluices the water out of his hair and tugs the goggles down around his neck, adjusting the patch without even thinking about it.
He’s distracted by random, pointless thoughts that float through his head and evaporate into the ether of mindlessness that seems to blanket people at the beach, which is why he is so startled when he plows into some unsuspecting girl just as she is rising from her towel. Surprisingly fast reflexes on his part keep her from landing flat on her ass and before he can apologize for his clumsiness she starts to giggle.
“I’m sorry. It’s just, the look on your face. Priceless. You just looked so stunned. I’m sorry.”
“Ooookay. And I’m sorry for almost knocking you down.”
“No worries. I didn’t see you either. Which is kind of a surprise, since you’re very nice to see.”
Xander’s intrigued. “Really. You’re pretty nice to see yourself.” And it’s true. The girl is tall and thin, though not the breastless twig that so many L.A. women long to be. Her brown hair has a few bright red streaks that actually match the two-piece she’s wearing. He wants to assume that it is just a coincidence, but this is L.A. and he has heard of and seen much more ridiculous things than people matching their hair color to their clothes.
Random girl adjusts the bottoms of her suit, running her thumbs along the back of the leg holes in a move that Xander finds incredibly sexy in its unconsciousness. She then flashes him a toothy grin and holds out her hand, “I’m Cindy. Well Cynthia, actually. But Cynthia sounds so soccer mom and Cindy only sounds like I’m from the Valley. Lesser of two evils and all that.” Pause. “And I have never had a lisp.”
Xander takes her hand, smiling, “Xander. Really Alexander, but the only people who call me that are . . . well, no one, actually. You can just call me Xander.”
She looks him in the eye saying “Hi Xander!” and Xander knows that he has found a new friend. Too many people try to avoid looking at him. They mostly look at his forehead or just off to his right, and so the people who aren’t intimidated by his pirate look are people he wants to know better. The thought of a new friendship gives him a slight case of the warm-fuzzies. He is about to say something witty, he’s sure, when Cindy continues, “Um, I think that guy abusing the zinc oxide is trying to get your attention”.
He turns around, and sure enough Andrew is waving frantically at him with one arm and pointing towards the boardwalk with the other. Xander rolls his eye, though not in a mean way, and gives Cindy a smile. Andrew has a tendency to make things much more urgent than they actually are, especially since this particular wave is usually reserved for celebrity sightings. Xander, fully expecting to see Hugh Jackman or the latest Enterprise captain, signals to Andrew that he sees him (just a short wave. Not the complex hand movements Andrew thought would be so cool) and follows the smaller mans pointing arm.
It’s not Scott Bakula.
He thinks maybe hysterical blindness is the reason he only sees the roller-blader as parts of a whole at first. Tousled white blond hair, the kind of color that comes from a natural bottle of peroxide. No shirt (and oh, that would be a six-pack) on his tan upper body and a pair of gray sweat-shorts on his lower half. The gray is a darker at the waistband where the sweat, glistening on his back (and *no* he did not just think glistening), has collected. Other than the blades (and he assumes a pair of socks because – ow – blisters) and a water bottle holstered to his left calf he is wearing a really nice pair of shades, with what appears to be a small radio and headset secured to the hemp cord attached to the stems.
Xander rubs his eyes- yup, even the patched one- and looks up again.
This time there is no doubt in his mind. He’s looking at Spike.
He continues to watch as the man (which Spike has to be as it is a bright sunshiney day and there is no bursting into flames) suddenly jumps up, grabs a low hanging signpost and uses the momentum to start doing aggressive reps of pull-ups. Now he knows it’s Spike. Who else on the planet would have that kind of ego? Well, he thinks, a lot of people, probably. But Spike is definitely one of them.
A woman walking by smacks the ass (literally and figuratively) but before she can walk away he grabs her hand. Shooting her an unreadable - though not necessarily bad - look he brings her hand to his mouth and licks her palm. Slowly. Sensually. His tongue travels all the way up to the tip of her index finger and then he gives the finger a nibble. The woman - an attractive but plain red head, plastered in freckles - looks like she is about to melt into a puddle of come.
Xander hears a gasp and realizes that Andrew has joined Cindy and him and looks about as melty as random Woman-snack on the boardwalk. They watch a brief dialogue and then the red-head reaches into Spikes blade and pulls out what Xander realizes is a pen, when she starts writing something on the inside of Spike’s right calf. Spike, who has gone back to hanging by two arms, instead of one, smiles when she replaces the pen in the footwear then leaves him with a smile and a quick ass pinch.
Spike pulls up a few more times and then releases his grip and continues on his way.
There is quiet. Then, from Cindy: “He’s quite the hottie.”
Andrew sighs a “yeah” while Xander yelps a “no!” Then tries to defend his staring by stating “He’s dead,” and oh that helps.
“Not so much,” Cindy argues, “what with his aliveness and all.”
“It’s true. He died last year in the Sunnydale earthquakes. In fact, he was kind of the cause of them.”
“He was in Europe during the earthquakes.”
“He. . . . what? He was where? How?” And then a light turns on. “You know him?”
Cindy gives him a smug knowing grin and explains, “He dated my roommate for a second last winter. He’s a real sweetie. Kind of a whore. And my roommate’s a bitch. It didn’t work out.”
Xander is thrown by this as he is *so sure* that the man he just saw was Spike. The mannerisms, the build, the fucking bright white hair. The only way it couldn’t be Spike is if it’s a Spikebot and Xander knows for a fact that Warren died two years ago. And a Spikebot wouldn’t sweat. He thinks.
Andrew, as it turns out, asked the relevant question. “Who is he?”
Cindy, still grinning, replies “His name’s Will something-or-other. He’s a lowly grad student by day, bartender extraordinaire by night. He works at that club, F*C*U*K? The really popular one that waitlists celebrities?”
“A bartender.”
“Yes. A bartender. One who tends bar?” There is humor in her voice and Xander smiles faintly. He likes his new friend.
Coming to a decision Xander asks, “Does he work tonight?”
“Most likely. Saturday is usually a busy night.”
“Want to go to a club?”
Cindy laughs at him. “Do you honestly think that you can get in? I mean, Jennifer Garner has been seen waiting in line.”
Now it’s Xander’s turn to smirk. “No worries. I have connections.” He starts towards his towel and his bag, Cindy and Andrew in tow. Andrew looks giddy and has started singing “A clubbing we will go” which leads Xander to believe that this will be a double date.
Xander grabs his cell and flips through the preprogrammed numbers until he finds what he’s looking for. He winks at Cindy, though the gesture is lost on the fact that with one eye a wink looks like a blink. Something he will never get used to, he’s sure. He settles for a smirk.
“Hey Lorne? Hi, Xander Harris . . . I’m doing good, work is kicking my ass, but that’s nothing new. How are things on the side of evil?” He mouths ‘lawyer’ to Cindy whose smiles knowingly. “Yeah, listen, have you heard of that club, F*C*U*K? . . . Yeah, that’s the one. . . Uh huh. . . Really. . . Babs, eh? That’s disturbing.” He’s gesturing with his hand now, trying to rush Lorne along, telekinetically, perhaps, and cuts in when Lorne finally stops for a breath “Yeah. So, you think you could get me on the door list for tonight?”
The responding laughter is loud enough that Cindy, Andrew and Knox all look up. While Lorne starts in on impossible things in not only this dimension, but also every other dimension this side of The Land of Trolls, a thought strikes Xander and he covers the mouth piece and leans in close to Cindy and whispers “Do you have a friend for Andrew?”
“Male or female?”
“Good point. Both maybe? Cover all bases?”
Cindy gives him a “No problem” with a little laugh.
Xander turns his attention back to Lorne, cutting his rant off. “I understand. If you can’t do it…” he trails off, and as he suspects, this sets Lorne off again and in a decisive tone he tells Xander not to leave his phone, he’ll be back with his name plus-
“Six.”
-six and is he sure he doesn’t want to make it ten?
Xander laughs and insists that six is fine.
After he hangs up, loose plans are made. He double checks that Knox has previous plans (an intimate evening for two with Fred) and isn’t interested in joining them then offers Cindy his phone so she can call some friends. She politely declines and heads back to her little spot of beach to call some people she thinks will be free for the evening.
While she is gone, Xander takes the opportunity to ask Andrew if he has a clue as to what’s going on.
“I mean. That was Spike, right? Okay, Will, but Spike. We’re in agreement?”
“Maybe it’s the First coming back for revenge on those that smote him down,” he pauses, thinking. “Can it really be defined as a he? I know that it appeared to me as Jonathon and Warren, but it could really take any form so long as the person was-“
Xander, a bit exasperated, growls: “Andrew! Stop. It isn’t the First. The First is gone with the Spike.” A thought strikes him. “Besides, that girl smacked his ass.”
Andrew’s eyes get a little glazey. “Oh yeah. That was hot.”
Xander bites back his agreement and, trying to stay on track, asks, “So what do we do? Should we call Buffy? Giles? Let them know that there is a Spike doppelganger blading around Los Angeles? I mean, is that something to freak over? Not every look alike is necessarily an evil vampire dominatrix.”
Andrew looks confused.
Xander, off his look, shakes his head. “Never mind. So. Should I call someone? Angel maybe? Or should we just go to this club tonight and see what’s up and then, if there is a reason to call in the troops, we will. Right?”
“Why would he be a Vampire dominatrix? I mean, he was in the sun. Unless he’s like Blade? Maybe he is on a path of redemption beyond what his dying to save the world as we know it could possibly encompass? He could be a Daywalker, forced to live in this world, but always on the outside. Drinking blood in the privacy of his home and striving for a normal life.” This little monologue ends on a wistful sigh and Xander is tempted to prompt for more, interested in what Andrew might come up with next.
But he shakes himself out of Andrews strange little fantasy. “Probably not. But we’ll keep it in reserve. I think we should just go. Check it out. Do some dancing, drinking, and have a good time. It’s probably nothing.” And he is convinced, even now, not ten minutes later, that he really was just seeing things. That for some reason his subconscious saw a guy who looked similar to Spike and ended up filling in the differences in some misguided – what? – longing for the past? Sunnydale? His version of normal?
His introspection is cut off when Cindy jogs up looking pleased at the same time his cell phone rings. Without looking at the screen he punches the ‘talk’ button. “Hi Lorne.”
“Tell me I’m incapable of pulling off the big stuff. I had to call in some favors, and I’m reading a Vornado demon next week – which, by the way, you will be joining me for. If I have to hear a Vornado sing, then you do to- but I got you on the list. You and five of your nearest and dearest are heading to F*C*U*K tonight. And if you don’t get laid, or at least hook up, I will be sorely disappointed, my demanding Cyclopean Muffin”.
Xander laughs and thanks Lorne, promising he will be there for next weeks reading, after making sure that this Tornado demon, or whatever it’s called, doesn’t make human heads explode, or anything along those lines.
He hangs up and turns his attention back to Cindy and Andrew “So. We on for tonight?”
Cindy replies in the affirmative. “I have some friends lined up. Of course, all of them said they’d believe it when they saw it, but even if we don’t get in, it’ll be nice to go out to dinner. You’ll pick us up at eight thirty?”
“Be there with bells on.” He realizes that in L.A. that could be taken literally, so he disclaims: “Not really. Only metaphorical bells.”
They do the whole exchange of numbers and addresses, and then Andrew complains that if they are going out to experience the “scene” he needs to get home and make sure he has the appropriate apparel.
Xander and Andrew bid a fond farewell to Cindy, spend a few minutes talking with Knox then head home to get ready for the evening.
*****
The Club -part A
The club is big. And loud. If he was more of a word person he might say it was grand, cavernous, energetic, a cacophony of scents, sights, and sounds. But he’s not into words. Big. Loud. Club.
It is pretty cool, though. And walking up to the bouncer, slipping past the fifty or so people in line with a flash of his ID (and a c-note. He knows the rules: money is memorable), was so fucking sweet. He thought he saw that chick from Saved by the Bell and that stripper movie, Showgirls, in line, but he can’t be sure.
The music thrums through him; its bass beat seems to vibrate his every nerve. He has a protective (not possessive) hand on Cindy’s back and despite the loud music, can hear Andrew talking animatedly to Dana and Stan, two of Cindy’s friends who seem to find the debate between the superiority of The Next Generation over Deep Space Nine as important as Andrew does. Julia, a quite mousy girl, begged off early. Something about an audition in the morning, which startled Xander, only because she barely said two words throughout dinner.
Xander doesn’t mention that he agrees with Andrew; none of the Treks beat TNG, except maybe the original, and that is only because it’s the original. Kind of like Star Wars. Everyone knows that Empire is the best of the series, but Star Wars has the nostalgia factor and so it often times gets played up even though it is pretty hokey and without Han Solo and Obi Wan it would probably have been relegated to B movie status faster than a vamp turns to dust.
But that isn’t his conversation.
He and Cindy are talking about dumb meaningless stuff. Los Angeles, cars, jobs, stuff like that. Conversation has flown easily, but he gets the feeling that Cindy wants to keep whatever is between them platonic. He couldn’t agree more. It’s not that she’s unattractive. She’s quite the Seven of Nine, but that spark that he had with Anya just isn’t there. He’s not disappointed, though.
He doesn’t want to sound all kindergarten teacher, but it is nice to have a new friend. Someone who doesn’t know about his freaky life in Sunnydale; who doesn’t slay vampires or practice witchcraft or work for an evil law firm. And Cindy is genuinely cool in her own right. She’s as quick on the snark draw as he is and she gets the jokes that go over Andrew’s head.
Of course, the slightly terrifying fact that his heart skips a beat or two when he notices the bartender flirting with the patrons, a familiar smirk on his lips, probably means it’s just as well that Cindy isn’t on his “must do” list. *Not* that Spike is. It’s just the principle of the thing. It wouldn’t be gentlemanly to hook up with Cindy when his heart didn’t skip a beat for her. And the heartbeat skipping was probably just a random palpitation that just happened to coincide with seeing Spike behind the bar, slinging drinks like a pro.
If he’s lucky, it’s just a heart attack.
But he squashes down any heart pounding feelings he doesn’t have and steers Cindy towards the bar; the section Spike is working. He hopes that Andrew is following, because, much like the lifeguard, he will have the DJ page Xander if he gets lost.
And he’s starting to think that maybe he shouldn’t be spending so much time with Andrew.
He tightens his arm around Cindy, because she is the only thing anchoring him to the ground at the moment, and he is kind of pissed because why on earth is he reacting this way to Spike? If it were Anya he would understand it. Hell, if it were Cordy, up from the coma that has had her lying like a porcelain doll for the last year and a half, he would understand. If it were Miss Calendar he would understand. But it’s *Spike*. He wasn’t wigged when Angel came back from Hell. Of course, he was more pissed then. And he wasn’t even as wigged when Buffy came back from the great beyond, though he did actually have a hand in that.
He just can’t justify feeling jittery over Spike. So he doesn’t. He visibly straightens himself up and, still clutching Cindy, finds an open spot at the bar. He kind of has to fight for it; apparently Spike is a popular bartender. He’s dressed in a his standard tight black tee, but instead of faded black, his jeans are an artfully faded blue and the belt holding them up has a large, silver, cowboy buckle with the letters F*C*U*K wound into the pattern. His hair is perfectly tousled, like bed head, and he is wearing about six leather bracelets on his left arm. His right arm is bare, but there is a hint of a watch tan and Xander is fairly certain that a pair of black motorcycle boots adorn his feet. He flirts freely with both the men and women and uses what looks like generous amounts of liquor in the mixed drinks.
Xander feels like it is taking years for Spike to reach them. Time has slowed down in that surreal way it has when you are pretty sure something profound and life changing is about to happen. He just wishes it would just hurry up already.
Spike works his way over and is standing in front of Xander soon enough. This should be interesting.
“Spike.”
*****
A/N- So, so sorry to leave off there, but it is the only natural break, and I haven't finsihed the scene yet, because it is turning out to be longer than expected. But I am going to try to finish it tomorrow, tomorrow I love ya, tomorrow.
So I am going to post my *unbetaed* continuation of this fic. I will definitely get a beta. Any suggestions, though, thus far, would be greatly appreciated. *Especially if I slip out of tense. I have been trying to be really careful about that (my worst Achilles heal in writing) but I miss things sometimes. Grr.
Untitled Spander story- parts 2&3a
Summery: Enter the Spike. Sort of.
Disclaim: I own nothing. ME/Joss/Fox- pour a shot for my homies.
Notes: There is a clothing line out there called F.C.U.K. Right. Ha ha. It used to annoy the fuck out of me. Especially since my ex has one of these shirts, and it really doesn't suit him at. all. And he thought it was soooo cool. What. Ever. Then I found out that the label is fairly popular in gay communities and I now giggle madly to myself whenever he wears it. Snerk. Anyway, I hated the label, but when I was thinking about names for a club in L.A., F*C*U*K was all I could come up with. So, the club is after the clothing label, which still annoys me, but not as much as it did. Also- I don't own the label. Shocking, I know.
Rating: I guess PG unless there is swearing then PG-13. Thirteen year olds know swear words, even if they shouldn't. Also- there is a hint of the slash, just so you know. Implied, impending slash type feelings, if you will.
The Beach
Xander, Andrew and Knox are at the beach on a warm July Saturday, soaking up some rays and basking in weekend lethargy. The weather is beautiful: mid-eighties, low humidity, and a few puffy clouds in the sky. There are people everywhere; on the boardwalk, the beach, in the water. Xander can see kids on boogie boards and sand castles being constructed every couple of yards. It’s kind of a perfect day.
Or would be if Andrew would just shut up.
Knox is feigning sleep, leaving Xander as Andrew’s sole audience. He would throw sand at Knox, or something equally as juvenile, if he hadn’t feigned sleep himself several times before. It’s not that they don’t like Andrew. He’s an okay guy. But he’s like the puppy that is just desperate for attention, and no matter how much you pet him he is always jumping up and wanting more, more, more until you eventually just want to shut him in the kitchen for a few blessed moments of reprieve. Only, you know, human.
Eventually Xander has had enough. His brain is going to melt. So he gets up, grabs his goggles and announces that he is going for a quick dip. He is fairly certain that Andrew won’t follow as the younger man is incredibly afraid of sting rays, and though Xander has calmly explained that sting rays don’t live off the coast of California where the water is too cold, Andrew won’t be swayed. It’s a good thing, and after the first time, Xander stopped trying to convince him.
He fixes the swimmers goggles over his patch- he can take it off, but would rather not. Besides, then his “patch tan” will be obvious and fashion dictates that tan lines are a major faux pas. Heaven forbid he fly in the face of fashion. He knows he should just suck it up and go get fitted for a glass eye, but glass eyes make him think of Sandy Duncan and Sammy Davis Jr. and a whole host of glass eyed people who you can’t have a conversation with without noticing that while one eye is firmly trained on you, the other is blankly staring off somewhere over the other persons shoulder and it’s kind of creepy and probably rude to boot.
Or so he imagines.
As he wanders down the beach he notices a few appreciative stares shot his way and he smiles to himself. The last two years before the end of Sunnydale he knew he had been puffing up. The stress of the not-wedding, followed by the stress of the job promotion and the stress of the original evil showing up to obliterate mankind starting with his friends, had him reaching for the HoHo’s and Doritos more often than anything fruit or vegetable related and it showed. But once he got established in L.A. he joined a gym and is now down to his high school size. Well, he’s older, more built. And he sure as hell isn’t eighteen any more. But it’s close enough. And while he will never be able to compete with the men on Muscle beach, he can admit that he’s a little ripped. Not a six pack, per se, but maybe a four pack. Three.
He double checks that his goggles are secure and then runs into the surf and dives into the waves. He loves this. He has always enjoyed swimming and knows he is good at it. So he dives in again and starts a crawl, parallel to the beach. Occasionally he will look up to make sure that the undertow hasn’t pulled him too far out. He heads south for a few minutes and then, knowing from experience that Andrew will get a lifeguard if Xander is out of his field of vision for too long, heads back. A few hundred meters from his towel he gets out of the water and stretches on the beach, one big full body pull, to get the kinks out. While waking back to his towel he sluices the water out of his hair and tugs the goggles down around his neck, adjusting the patch without even thinking about it.
He’s distracted by random, pointless thoughts that float through his head and evaporate into the ether of mindlessness that seems to blanket people at the beach, which is why he is so startled when he plows into some unsuspecting girl just as she is rising from her towel. Surprisingly fast reflexes on his part keep her from landing flat on her ass and before he can apologize for his clumsiness she starts to giggle.
“I’m sorry. It’s just, the look on your face. Priceless. You just looked so stunned. I’m sorry.”
“Ooookay. And I’m sorry for almost knocking you down.”
“No worries. I didn’t see you either. Which is kind of a surprise, since you’re very nice to see.”
Xander’s intrigued. “Really. You’re pretty nice to see yourself.” And it’s true. The girl is tall and thin, though not the breastless twig that so many L.A. women long to be. Her brown hair has a few bright red streaks that actually match the two-piece she’s wearing. He wants to assume that it is just a coincidence, but this is L.A. and he has heard of and seen much more ridiculous things than people matching their hair color to their clothes.
Random girl adjusts the bottoms of her suit, running her thumbs along the back of the leg holes in a move that Xander finds incredibly sexy in its unconsciousness. She then flashes him a toothy grin and holds out her hand, “I’m Cindy. Well Cynthia, actually. But Cynthia sounds so soccer mom and Cindy only sounds like I’m from the Valley. Lesser of two evils and all that.” Pause. “And I have never had a lisp.”
Xander takes her hand, smiling, “Xander. Really Alexander, but the only people who call me that are . . . well, no one, actually. You can just call me Xander.”
She looks him in the eye saying “Hi Xander!” and Xander knows that he has found a new friend. Too many people try to avoid looking at him. They mostly look at his forehead or just off to his right, and so the people who aren’t intimidated by his pirate look are people he wants to know better. The thought of a new friendship gives him a slight case of the warm-fuzzies. He is about to say something witty, he’s sure, when Cindy continues, “Um, I think that guy abusing the zinc oxide is trying to get your attention”.
He turns around, and sure enough Andrew is waving frantically at him with one arm and pointing towards the boardwalk with the other. Xander rolls his eye, though not in a mean way, and gives Cindy a smile. Andrew has a tendency to make things much more urgent than they actually are, especially since this particular wave is usually reserved for celebrity sightings. Xander, fully expecting to see Hugh Jackman or the latest Enterprise captain, signals to Andrew that he sees him (just a short wave. Not the complex hand movements Andrew thought would be so cool) and follows the smaller mans pointing arm.
It’s not Scott Bakula.
He thinks maybe hysterical blindness is the reason he only sees the roller-blader as parts of a whole at first. Tousled white blond hair, the kind of color that comes from a natural bottle of peroxide. No shirt (and oh, that would be a six-pack) on his tan upper body and a pair of gray sweat-shorts on his lower half. The gray is a darker at the waistband where the sweat, glistening on his back (and *no* he did not just think glistening), has collected. Other than the blades (and he assumes a pair of socks because – ow – blisters) and a water bottle holstered to his left calf he is wearing a really nice pair of shades, with what appears to be a small radio and headset secured to the hemp cord attached to the stems.
Xander rubs his eyes- yup, even the patched one- and looks up again.
This time there is no doubt in his mind. He’s looking at Spike.
He continues to watch as the man (which Spike has to be as it is a bright sunshiney day and there is no bursting into flames) suddenly jumps up, grabs a low hanging signpost and uses the momentum to start doing aggressive reps of pull-ups. Now he knows it’s Spike. Who else on the planet would have that kind of ego? Well, he thinks, a lot of people, probably. But Spike is definitely one of them.
A woman walking by smacks the ass (literally and figuratively) but before she can walk away he grabs her hand. Shooting her an unreadable - though not necessarily bad - look he brings her hand to his mouth and licks her palm. Slowly. Sensually. His tongue travels all the way up to the tip of her index finger and then he gives the finger a nibble. The woman - an attractive but plain red head, plastered in freckles - looks like she is about to melt into a puddle of come.
Xander hears a gasp and realizes that Andrew has joined Cindy and him and looks about as melty as random Woman-snack on the boardwalk. They watch a brief dialogue and then the red-head reaches into Spikes blade and pulls out what Xander realizes is a pen, when she starts writing something on the inside of Spike’s right calf. Spike, who has gone back to hanging by two arms, instead of one, smiles when she replaces the pen in the footwear then leaves him with a smile and a quick ass pinch.
Spike pulls up a few more times and then releases his grip and continues on his way.
There is quiet. Then, from Cindy: “He’s quite the hottie.”
Andrew sighs a “yeah” while Xander yelps a “no!” Then tries to defend his staring by stating “He’s dead,” and oh that helps.
“Not so much,” Cindy argues, “what with his aliveness and all.”
“It’s true. He died last year in the Sunnydale earthquakes. In fact, he was kind of the cause of them.”
“He was in Europe during the earthquakes.”
“He. . . . what? He was where? How?” And then a light turns on. “You know him?”
Cindy gives him a smug knowing grin and explains, “He dated my roommate for a second last winter. He’s a real sweetie. Kind of a whore. And my roommate’s a bitch. It didn’t work out.”
Xander is thrown by this as he is *so sure* that the man he just saw was Spike. The mannerisms, the build, the fucking bright white hair. The only way it couldn’t be Spike is if it’s a Spikebot and Xander knows for a fact that Warren died two years ago. And a Spikebot wouldn’t sweat. He thinks.
Andrew, as it turns out, asked the relevant question. “Who is he?”
Cindy, still grinning, replies “His name’s Will something-or-other. He’s a lowly grad student by day, bartender extraordinaire by night. He works at that club, F*C*U*K? The really popular one that waitlists celebrities?”
“A bartender.”
“Yes. A bartender. One who tends bar?” There is humor in her voice and Xander smiles faintly. He likes his new friend.
Coming to a decision Xander asks, “Does he work tonight?”
“Most likely. Saturday is usually a busy night.”
“Want to go to a club?”
Cindy laughs at him. “Do you honestly think that you can get in? I mean, Jennifer Garner has been seen waiting in line.”
Now it’s Xander’s turn to smirk. “No worries. I have connections.” He starts towards his towel and his bag, Cindy and Andrew in tow. Andrew looks giddy and has started singing “A clubbing we will go” which leads Xander to believe that this will be a double date.
Xander grabs his cell and flips through the preprogrammed numbers until he finds what he’s looking for. He winks at Cindy, though the gesture is lost on the fact that with one eye a wink looks like a blink. Something he will never get used to, he’s sure. He settles for a smirk.
“Hey Lorne? Hi, Xander Harris . . . I’m doing good, work is kicking my ass, but that’s nothing new. How are things on the side of evil?” He mouths ‘lawyer’ to Cindy whose smiles knowingly. “Yeah, listen, have you heard of that club, F*C*U*K? . . . Yeah, that’s the one. . . Uh huh. . . Really. . . Babs, eh? That’s disturbing.” He’s gesturing with his hand now, trying to rush Lorne along, telekinetically, perhaps, and cuts in when Lorne finally stops for a breath “Yeah. So, you think you could get me on the door list for tonight?”
The responding laughter is loud enough that Cindy, Andrew and Knox all look up. While Lorne starts in on impossible things in not only this dimension, but also every other dimension this side of The Land of Trolls, a thought strikes Xander and he covers the mouth piece and leans in close to Cindy and whispers “Do you have a friend for Andrew?”
“Male or female?”
“Good point. Both maybe? Cover all bases?”
Cindy gives him a “No problem” with a little laugh.
Xander turns his attention back to Lorne, cutting his rant off. “I understand. If you can’t do it…” he trails off, and as he suspects, this sets Lorne off again and in a decisive tone he tells Xander not to leave his phone, he’ll be back with his name plus-
“Six.”
-six and is he sure he doesn’t want to make it ten?
Xander laughs and insists that six is fine.
After he hangs up, loose plans are made. He double checks that Knox has previous plans (an intimate evening for two with Fred) and isn’t interested in joining them then offers Cindy his phone so she can call some friends. She politely declines and heads back to her little spot of beach to call some people she thinks will be free for the evening.
While she is gone, Xander takes the opportunity to ask Andrew if he has a clue as to what’s going on.
“I mean. That was Spike, right? Okay, Will, but Spike. We’re in agreement?”
“Maybe it’s the First coming back for revenge on those that smote him down,” he pauses, thinking. “Can it really be defined as a he? I know that it appeared to me as Jonathon and Warren, but it could really take any form so long as the person was-“
Xander, a bit exasperated, growls: “Andrew! Stop. It isn’t the First. The First is gone with the Spike.” A thought strikes him. “Besides, that girl smacked his ass.”
Andrew’s eyes get a little glazey. “Oh yeah. That was hot.”
Xander bites back his agreement and, trying to stay on track, asks, “So what do we do? Should we call Buffy? Giles? Let them know that there is a Spike doppelganger blading around Los Angeles? I mean, is that something to freak over? Not every look alike is necessarily an evil vampire dominatrix.”
Andrew looks confused.
Xander, off his look, shakes his head. “Never mind. So. Should I call someone? Angel maybe? Or should we just go to this club tonight and see what’s up and then, if there is a reason to call in the troops, we will. Right?”
“Why would he be a Vampire dominatrix? I mean, he was in the sun. Unless he’s like Blade? Maybe he is on a path of redemption beyond what his dying to save the world as we know it could possibly encompass? He could be a Daywalker, forced to live in this world, but always on the outside. Drinking blood in the privacy of his home and striving for a normal life.” This little monologue ends on a wistful sigh and Xander is tempted to prompt for more, interested in what Andrew might come up with next.
But he shakes himself out of Andrews strange little fantasy. “Probably not. But we’ll keep it in reserve. I think we should just go. Check it out. Do some dancing, drinking, and have a good time. It’s probably nothing.” And he is convinced, even now, not ten minutes later, that he really was just seeing things. That for some reason his subconscious saw a guy who looked similar to Spike and ended up filling in the differences in some misguided – what? – longing for the past? Sunnydale? His version of normal?
His introspection is cut off when Cindy jogs up looking pleased at the same time his cell phone rings. Without looking at the screen he punches the ‘talk’ button. “Hi Lorne.”
“Tell me I’m incapable of pulling off the big stuff. I had to call in some favors, and I’m reading a Vornado demon next week – which, by the way, you will be joining me for. If I have to hear a Vornado sing, then you do to- but I got you on the list. You and five of your nearest and dearest are heading to F*C*U*K tonight. And if you don’t get laid, or at least hook up, I will be sorely disappointed, my demanding Cyclopean Muffin”.
Xander laughs and thanks Lorne, promising he will be there for next weeks reading, after making sure that this Tornado demon, or whatever it’s called, doesn’t make human heads explode, or anything along those lines.
He hangs up and turns his attention back to Cindy and Andrew “So. We on for tonight?”
Cindy replies in the affirmative. “I have some friends lined up. Of course, all of them said they’d believe it when they saw it, but even if we don’t get in, it’ll be nice to go out to dinner. You’ll pick us up at eight thirty?”
“Be there with bells on.” He realizes that in L.A. that could be taken literally, so he disclaims: “Not really. Only metaphorical bells.”
They do the whole exchange of numbers and addresses, and then Andrew complains that if they are going out to experience the “scene” he needs to get home and make sure he has the appropriate apparel.
Xander and Andrew bid a fond farewell to Cindy, spend a few minutes talking with Knox then head home to get ready for the evening.
*****
The Club -part A
The club is big. And loud. If he was more of a word person he might say it was grand, cavernous, energetic, a cacophony of scents, sights, and sounds. But he’s not into words. Big. Loud. Club.
It is pretty cool, though. And walking up to the bouncer, slipping past the fifty or so people in line with a flash of his ID (and a c-note. He knows the rules: money is memorable), was so fucking sweet. He thought he saw that chick from Saved by the Bell and that stripper movie, Showgirls, in line, but he can’t be sure.
The music thrums through him; its bass beat seems to vibrate his every nerve. He has a protective (not possessive) hand on Cindy’s back and despite the loud music, can hear Andrew talking animatedly to Dana and Stan, two of Cindy’s friends who seem to find the debate between the superiority of The Next Generation over Deep Space Nine as important as Andrew does. Julia, a quite mousy girl, begged off early. Something about an audition in the morning, which startled Xander, only because she barely said two words throughout dinner.
Xander doesn’t mention that he agrees with Andrew; none of the Treks beat TNG, except maybe the original, and that is only because it’s the original. Kind of like Star Wars. Everyone knows that Empire is the best of the series, but Star Wars has the nostalgia factor and so it often times gets played up even though it is pretty hokey and without Han Solo and Obi Wan it would probably have been relegated to B movie status faster than a vamp turns to dust.
But that isn’t his conversation.
He and Cindy are talking about dumb meaningless stuff. Los Angeles, cars, jobs, stuff like that. Conversation has flown easily, but he gets the feeling that Cindy wants to keep whatever is between them platonic. He couldn’t agree more. It’s not that she’s unattractive. She’s quite the Seven of Nine, but that spark that he had with Anya just isn’t there. He’s not disappointed, though.
He doesn’t want to sound all kindergarten teacher, but it is nice to have a new friend. Someone who doesn’t know about his freaky life in Sunnydale; who doesn’t slay vampires or practice witchcraft or work for an evil law firm. And Cindy is genuinely cool in her own right. She’s as quick on the snark draw as he is and she gets the jokes that go over Andrew’s head.
Of course, the slightly terrifying fact that his heart skips a beat or two when he notices the bartender flirting with the patrons, a familiar smirk on his lips, probably means it’s just as well that Cindy isn’t on his “must do” list. *Not* that Spike is. It’s just the principle of the thing. It wouldn’t be gentlemanly to hook up with Cindy when his heart didn’t skip a beat for her. And the heartbeat skipping was probably just a random palpitation that just happened to coincide with seeing Spike behind the bar, slinging drinks like a pro.
If he’s lucky, it’s just a heart attack.
But he squashes down any heart pounding feelings he doesn’t have and steers Cindy towards the bar; the section Spike is working. He hopes that Andrew is following, because, much like the lifeguard, he will have the DJ page Xander if he gets lost.
And he’s starting to think that maybe he shouldn’t be spending so much time with Andrew.
He tightens his arm around Cindy, because she is the only thing anchoring him to the ground at the moment, and he is kind of pissed because why on earth is he reacting this way to Spike? If it were Anya he would understand it. Hell, if it were Cordy, up from the coma that has had her lying like a porcelain doll for the last year and a half, he would understand. If it were Miss Calendar he would understand. But it’s *Spike*. He wasn’t wigged when Angel came back from Hell. Of course, he was more pissed then. And he wasn’t even as wigged when Buffy came back from the great beyond, though he did actually have a hand in that.
He just can’t justify feeling jittery over Spike. So he doesn’t. He visibly straightens himself up and, still clutching Cindy, finds an open spot at the bar. He kind of has to fight for it; apparently Spike is a popular bartender. He’s dressed in a his standard tight black tee, but instead of faded black, his jeans are an artfully faded blue and the belt holding them up has a large, silver, cowboy buckle with the letters F*C*U*K wound into the pattern. His hair is perfectly tousled, like bed head, and he is wearing about six leather bracelets on his left arm. His right arm is bare, but there is a hint of a watch tan and Xander is fairly certain that a pair of black motorcycle boots adorn his feet. He flirts freely with both the men and women and uses what looks like generous amounts of liquor in the mixed drinks.
Xander feels like it is taking years for Spike to reach them. Time has slowed down in that surreal way it has when you are pretty sure something profound and life changing is about to happen. He just wishes it would just hurry up already.
Spike works his way over and is standing in front of Xander soon enough. This should be interesting.
“Spike.”
*****
A/N- So, so sorry to leave off there, but it is the only natural break, and I haven't finsihed the scene yet, because it is turning out to be longer than expected. But I am going to try to finish it tomorrow, tomorrow I love ya, tomorrow.
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Date: 2003-12-07 11:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-08 09:42 am (UTC)