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PAIRING: X/"S" |
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Dancing About Architecture
by
Collapsible
Part One
The radio was counting down the Top 50 rock tunes of the decade, and normally I would've been annoyed at the static of the two stations coming in at once through the tiny speakers. There was a discreet, unkempt battle between The Boss and Asia going on in my bright kitchen, but I hardly noticed.
Bosco sat next to my feet by the refrigerator, looking up at me and wondering why I'd stop paying attention to him. As big a dog as he was, he still had the puppy eyes working for him, and he was most likely shooting his best pitiful look at me right about now. His doggy pants barely overlayed the battle of the bands going on on the counter a few feet away.
The two little mundane noises only served to make the quiet of the afternoon even more oppressing. It would've been fine, I suspected, had I not been holding this particular piece of paper in my hand.
See, this wasn't supposed to happen. We were fine. I, was more than fine. I had grown up and grown old, not a whole lot but just enough to feel comfortable in the normal everyday task of making a living. I had a job I loved, and a nice apartment in a town that never heard of a hellmouth. I was done poking at what goes bump in the night, and admittedly, I didn't miss it much. I still had all of my friends, thankfully all alive and well, and they all had jobs and lives of their own. I had a dog, and a nice car. I wore clothes that made me look my age, I had an assistant, and I didn't have to wear a tie, or go to any office five days a week. I was turning thirty in two years, and
I was doing good. Really good.
This train of thought lead me to look up and at what I could see of my apartment from where I stood by the kitchen doorway. Bright. Mostly white. Walls covered with framed photographs, my work, my livelihood. Bookshelves ready to collapse from the weight of books and hundreds of photo magazines collected over the years. Momentos, here and there, of travels, of people, of times passed. A comfy, well worn couch. Hardwood floor scratched by the dog's nails. Prints and negs and equipment covering most flat surfaces. And, it smelled good. It smelled like home.
That bit of observation over with, my gaze returned, hesitant, to the letter I still held in both hands. Thoughts, trivial, crossed my mind randomly. How not ten minutes ago I had picked up this letter along with a half dozen other pieces of mail, coming home from an assignment with about my weight in equipment slung around my shoulder. How I had dropped off most of it in the darkroom before coming back to listen to my voice mail in the kitchen. How I had reached in the fridge and grabbed a beer, tossing junk mail around as I had listened to the disembodied voice of Sarah - the assistant - detailing certain going-ons I apparently needed to be aware of. How Bosco had slalomed between my legs excitedly, happy to have me home. How I had been halfway towards the livingroom when I noticed the last piece of mail I had kept in my hand. Handwritten, with a return address I did not recognize. Had ripped the white enveloppe open without much care, half expecting a cleverly disguised ad from someone wanting to do something to my carpet for an amazingly low price. Instead, I got eight years crashing back into me, and he signed it, "Spike".
Part Two
If I peered over my shoes, I could see the tiny ribbon of pink tainting the sky on the horizon, promising of yet another sunny day. I blinked and stared listlessly at the coming dawn, slumped in the big armchair with my legs stretched out in front of me on the matching ottoman. Both forearms propped up on the large armrests, I uncrossed my legs and crossed them again at the ankles. My shoulders started to feel numb from sitting like this with my chin resting on my chest, but I was unsure as to how else I should deal with this sudden case of insomnia. Boring myself to sleep seemed like as good an idea as any. If only I were bored. If only my racing mind could acknowledge my conscious efforts to side-step the issue at hand. I took great care to avoid looking at the coffee table next to me, where the disruptive missive had been abandoned, hours ago, in favour of something - anything - less upsetting. Sunrise, as it was, was barely cutting it.
Annoyed, I blindly reached for the letter but was caught mid-movement by the ring of the phone right next to my head. I jumped and cursed, my heart racing from the sudden loudness. I grabbed the cordless and hit 'talk' with a shaky thumb before bringing the cold plastic to my ear. "It's five in the morning, Sarah," I said tonelessly, sinking back in the armchair.
"Hey, you're up. Listen, about today's shoot, you need to get there at two instead of three. Mr. Caldwell called last night and he's saying you said two the first time."
"Sarah. It's five in the morning."
"Yes. Do you need anything? I'm on my way to the pastry shop now, I'll get something fresh. I know you like those almond things, but they're always out when I go later, so if I go now I can get them, plus I love the smell of freshly ground coffee beans. The women there are really nice. You should go sometime."
"I'm hanging up now."
"It's five in the morning - what are you doing up?"
"Goodbye, Sarah," I sang at the phone as I hit 'end'.
I stared over my shoes again, phone in hand because I didn't want to make the effort to put it back on the table. Then the room got too silent and I glanced at the phone again, thoughts actually forming inside my head this time. I hit 'talk' again, and the second speed-dial button. It rang once.
"Hello?"
"I thought you were going to the pastry shop."
"I'm on my way out."
"Cancel my two o'clock."
"Xander!"
"Cancel my two o'clock. Did I ever tell you about this guy Spike?"
"No. What do you mean cancel your two o'clock?"
I reached for the letter and shook it open, getting up with surprising energy. "He's this guy I used to know back home."
"The British guy?"
"Yes. Well no, not him. But he's British too."
"You never told me there were two British guys."
"He wrote me a letter."
"Just now?"
"Got it yesterday."
"Xander, I can't cancel your two o'clock."
"He wrote me a letter."
"So you said. What about it."
"He's dead, Sarah."
"He's dead?"
"Did I mention he wrote me a letter?"
"How can he be dead and write you a letter?"
"I don't know."
"I'll cancel your two o'clock."
~*~*~*~*~
Sarah stared at me from behind her steaming cup, looking like I had just attempted to explain the choas
theory to her.
"So he's an asshole."
I sighed. This wasn't going very well. But I had to tell her. Kinda. "He's not an asshole. He's... Spike.
Yeah he's a jackass, but he's a part of 'home', you know?"
"I thought you didn't miss home."
"I don't. But I don't regret my time there either, Sarah. I grew up there. That stupid town, it made me
what I am today."
"If you're going to wax clichés at me, you should've told me beforehand, I wouldn't have gotten decaf."
"I thought he was dead," I sighed, and it felt like the most off-target delivery.
"See, this I still don't get. How can you think he was dead, then oops, he's not. I mean how does that
happen?"
"He..." How could I go into this without bringing up the whole demon thing? I loved Sarah, but her current neuroses were quite enough without adding to the fold. "Spike was always getting in trouble. Then he got into really BIG trouble one day with a- with this guy, and he got injured in b- in a fight." Dammit, way to maneuver around a vernacular that still came naturally. "He layed low for a while, then one day he disappeared. We... it looked very much like-" I swallowed awkwardly. "Like the other guy won."
I picked up my danish and put it back down again at a different angle, knowing that if I were to look up I'd only encounter a concerned female frown. I didn't know how to deal with that, because I didn't know how to deal with me in the first place.
What the hell was this? Spike. So he was alive. Presumably well. Well enough to suddenly, out of
nowhere and after eight years of utter absence, reach out and randomly pick me to send a note to. 'Hey, I'm alive. See ya.' Lot of good that did. But more interesting yet, why was I feeling like I'd been knocked the wind out of?
So he was evil. But if there was something I had learned from years of running around Sunnydale, it was
that evil didn't always mean evil. There was Angel. Anya. And tipping the scale at the other end, there was Faith. All of them together proving once again that labels were just that - labels. As far as I could tell, Spike had, if not a soul, at least a heart. And in the last years the chip had changed his ways ultimately for the better. Hey, it wasn't perfect, but the Big Bad had, along the way, become a little good. Maybe a bit contrived at first, then almost willingly so. Near the end, you would've asked anyone within our group, and the reluctant answer would've been that yes, Spike had actually belonged. So I figure, that's why this sudden news shook me so. Yeah, that was it.
And now what. Now... now he was alive. Somewhere.
Sarah excused herself and went to the washroom, and I took the letter out of my pocket. It was already
wrinkled, like an old love letter. Ha. Right. I twirled the envelope between my fingers, mind still wandering. I looked at the written surface blankly. Then less blankly. I brought the paper closer to my face and read the return address, which I had readily dismissed the first time.
It read, "William Sawyer, 1202-642 East 58th Street, New York, NY." Alive, in New York City. Hiding under a pseudonym.
Now what.
Part Three
I'd been thinking. Long and hard. So long in fact that when I had decided to finally get out of the apartment, Bosco had practically chased me out. So that morning I stormed into the big loft I shared with my business partners, and promptly tripped over a trash can that stood in the middle of the floor. I kicked it away and into a pile of empty boxes.
"Godamm- SARAH!" I yelled, arms full of papers. She appeared from the back at the sound of my voice, sauntering over. "What is this?"
"This? Oh, that. Matt and I were playing basketball."
I dumped a couple of packages in her arms. "Well, not to spoil your fun, but here's a little work for you. Savour it."
Matt came out of the back too, holding an impossibly large sandwich to his face. I pointed at him, starting in his direction. "YOU."
He grinned at me around a bit. "Hey, you're back."
"Matt-"
"You look like shit."
"Hey, guess what. Goodies for you. Don't chew too fast." I handed the rest of the packages to him and went over my work table to gather some things.
Matt handed the sandwich to Sarah and made his way to me. He always looked like a hacker when he needed a haircut. He watched me rummage through my mess. "So. Where're you going again?"
"N-Y-C, baby."
"Uh huh. And what for?"
I opened a drawer, then closed it again, looking for a particular strap for my camera. "Visiting a friend."
Matt turned to Sarah. "He's going to see a boy," he teased indirectly.
"Have you seen my blue strap?"
"Over there."
I grabbed it from under my phone and shoved it in my bag along with my camera and a book I'd been reading. I shouldered the bag, grabbing my jacket from the chair. I pointed a menacing finger at Matt, moving towards the door. "Touch my toys and die."
"I never do."
"Like hell you don't."
"Xander!"
"Whatever. Sarah." I gave her my house keys and kissed her on the cheek, heading for the door. "He's almost out of food. Grab some of the expensive stuff. He's going to hate it that I'm gone."
"You are so good to that dog."
I ran down the metal stairway, shouting over the sound of my own clanging footsteps. "I've got a cab waiting! I'll call you on Friday! Oh, and feed Matt too!"
I ran out of the building and jumped into the taxi, throwing my bags next to me on the backseat. The car peeled off and the cabbie looked at me in the rearview mirror. "It's going to be pretty tight, buddy."
"Just get me there." I slumped back, exhaling shakily. I peered out the window at the blurry scenery, and I knew at this point that I couldn't change my mind. Well I could, but I'd feel like a jackass doing it. So it was all or nothing.
"Where's that plane taking you?"
"New York."
"What's in New York?"
"I..." I gave this a little thought, then smiled lightly, watching traffic, tapping my fingers on the bag next to me. "I don't know."
~*~*~*~*~
I sat down, leafed through American Photo, ate peanuts, sat some more, and suddenly I was in New York, feeling stupid. Truth was, aside from my harebrained plan to come here and see Spike, I had nothing. I had a hotel reservation, and three days' worth of clothes. I had nothing. If there was a way to go at this even more half-assed, I was sure to get to it shortly.
I checked in and threw myself in the shower, where I stood under the hot jet, thinking. I did that a lot, whether or not I had something to think about. I certainly did today. I was still boggled by my own reasons for coming to New York and seeking the prodigal hellion. Those exact reasons still escaped me; it was like trying to grasp a wisp of the steam around me, while all I could really do was run a wet finger on the slick glass door. It left a sleek, clear mark, and I looked at the word I had written. Spike. I stared at my work for a moment, then added quotation marks to it, and stepped back to lean against the cold wall. That's how he'd written it. "Spike". I briefly wondered why that was, then pushed the thought to the back of my head and grabbed the bar of soap. Tomorrow. I'd go tomorrow. Rested, and hopefully a tad less clueless.
Hours later, as I lay in bed watching the news on mute, I reached and grabbed my cel phone, barely giving any thought to what I was doing. I dialed, yawning explicitly.
"Hello?"
"I'm going tomorrow."
"Good."
"How's Bosco?"
"Sleeping like a baby. I, by the way, am fine too."
"That's a given."
"Go to bed, Xander."
"Yeah."
"What are you gonna do?"
"I don't know. Just... go, I guess. Say hi. See what eight years did to him. Get it done and go back home."
"Okay."
"This is silly, Sarah."
"It's not silly."
"It's silly. Why am I here? I don't know why I'm here."
"You'll know when you see him."
"You think?"
"Just enjoy your time away, for one thing. You deserve a break. You've been working your ass off lately."
"I love my job. You know that."
"You can afford to spend some time in New York giving yourself ulcers over this guy."
"I am, aren't I?"
"Yes. Go to sleep. You still remember how that's done, right?"
"I'll call you tomorrow."
"Yes. Night, Xander."
"Night."
I flipped the phone shut and put it back on the night table, turning the light off. I left the TV on.
I still felt stupid.
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