Stepping back a pace, Xander nearly tripped again over a clutch of
cloth. He tried to kick it away, then bent down to dislodge it before
straightening slowly with the thing in his hands. It was Spike's old
duster, now slashed to ribbons. Somehow he didn't think a demon had
done that; except the one who had a right to.
He laid the duster on the end of the bed and hesitated, then gave
Spike's shoulder a little shove. "Spike...hey. Time to wake up."
The vampire didn't move or make a sound, and Xander, wondering if he
might actually be in a coma, pulled him onto his back. It was like
detaching a cicada skin from a tree; he came rolling lightly as if he
were empty, all shell, no meat. His eyes were closed; his face thin
enough that he almost looked like someone else, someone Xander had
never met.
"Spike," he repeated, sitting on the edge of the bed. A beetle scuttled
from under the blankets and along the mattress; he ignored it, focused
on the sharpness of cheek and collar bones, the outline of skull at the
temples, the tiny dry flecks of blood around Spike's lips from whenever
he last drank.
"You in there?" he asked, easing back one eyelid, then jumping when
both eyes came open, dark pools without recognition. "Remember me?
Xander. Xander Harris." Nothing. "Monkey Boy?" he hazarded helpfully.
That got him a blink, and slowly awareness filtered back into Spike's
face. He looked at Xander without enthusiasm; he looked a hundred
years' worth of tired.
"What do you want?"
His voice was so low and parched Xander could barely make out the
words, and by sickbed instinct he looked around for water, but there
was only the whiskey. He poured some into a dirty but not yet sentient
glass and tried to give it to Spike, who didn't exert himself to take
it, so Xander nudged the glass against his lips. The other man's eyes
sparked into a weak glare--proof that the pilot light was on,
anyway--then he sipped. A frown etched his brow; Xander suspected this
was as much effort as he'd made in weeks. When Spike finished drinking,
he let his head fall back with eyes shut.
"I used to think I was a nice guy," Xander said. Spike opened his eyes
again with what might have been a shadow of interest. "Now, not so
much. I haven't cared enough to find out how you've been. When Dawn
talked about you, I killed every conversation dead." A flicker of
something crossed the vampire's face. "Now I," he took a ragged breath,
"I'm here looking for favors. I need your help."
All interest drained away. "Need somethin' killed," he said, resigned, his words less than a question.
"I need you to come live with us."
Wan as a ghost against his pillow, Spike frowned up at him for several
passing ticks. "Sorry," he finally muttered. "Ears going funny. Thought
you said you needed me to come live with you."
"Anya's leaving. I need someone to look after Tara and Dawn. I need..."
Fumbling for honesty, Xander looked briefly away, unused to talking to
Spike like a person. "I need somebody to keep me from going off the
deep end."
"And where do you think I am?" The words rolled out hollow as smoke rings.
After a moment considering him, Xander reached out and took one of
Spike's hands. "I'll help you out," he said. "If you help me."