Fic update: How the Light Gets In (4/?)
Feb. 22nd, 2005 11:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shadowscastSleep, who needs sleep?
Oh wait. Me.
By the way I haven't managed to respond to every comment on the last part yet, due to no spare time at all (see, writing the next part was my priority! even over sleep!) but I've read and appreciated and treasured every one, and will respond eventually.
This is likely to be the last update for at least a week, as next week at work is looking even crazier than usual. So, um, enjoy!
By the way, for this part I borrowed a prop from Camisha and Reremouse. Hope they don't mind! I'll give it right back when I'm done with it, I promise.
Previous parts: here.
How The Light Gets In, Chapter 4
Spike's couch wasn't the stupidest place Xander had ever woken up with a hangover, so he didn't waste too much time cursing himself as he levered himself into a sitting position and painfully straighted his neck.
And nearly jumped out of his skin. Illyria/Fred was standing just a few feet away, watching him.
"How long've you been there?" he croaked.
"I just got in," she said in the soft, girly drawl she used when she wasn't scary and blue. "I must've woken you up when I shut the door. Sorry about that."
Xander rubbed his throbbing temples and noticed the eye patch had slid around sideways while he slept. He tugged it back into place with a faint twinge of embarrassment. "Do you know what time it is?"
"It's about seven o'clock."
Way, waaaay too early. Xander swallowed against a dull surge of nauseau and realized he was still probably a bit drunk.
"You look terrible," she observed, her tone some mixture of motherly and annoyed. "Did you and Spike stay up drinking all night?"
"Pretty much. Do you have any coffee?" he asked, contemplating standing up.
"Maybe. I don't eat or drink, so I don't really keep track. I'll go see," she offered, and set off for the kitchen.
Xander wasn't sure what was more disturbing—her perkiness in the face of his hangover, or that little I don't eat reminder that she wasn't really a pretty girl, just a god-king faking it.
He realized he should probably just leave before all this action woke Spike up; being human, Spike must be just as wrecked as Xander. And Xander didn't really want to face him this morning, especially not with fuzzy drunken memories of cuddling swimming to the surface when he thought about the guy.
But the sound of running water in the kitchen let Xander know that Illyria was going ahead and making coffee, and he figured it'd be rude to leave now. So he dragged himself to his feet, holding his head to make sure it didn't fall off, and made his way into the kitchen.
Besides, Giles had told him to find out more about her.
"So, did you kill anything interesting last night?" he asked by way of small talk as he sat down at the kitchen table.
"No," she said with her back still to him, measuring spoonfuls of instant coffee into a mug. "There's not much overt demonic activity in L.A. these days—not on street level, at least."
"That's, um, too bad," he said, since she sounded disappointed about it.
"My existence is tedious enough already, I don't know what I'll do when I've eliminated every foe that can even make a pretence of threatening me," she said, and though the cadence of her speech was still chirpy-Texan-girl, Xander recognized the sentiment as a god-king one.
"Well, hey, if you like killing super-powerful demons," he said, "I might just be able to hook you up." He pulled his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and shook one loose. "Remember that Council I told you about, first time we met?" He flicked his lighter, sucked in a lungful of smoke, and felt his hangover ease up a fraction almost at once. "We've got leads on all kinds of supernatural baddies."
"Really?" The electric kettle came to a boil, and she added water to the mug.
"For sure. Hey, maybe you can come to Rome with Spike and me, talk to Giles yourself." And he can figure out for himself what the hell you are and what to do with you, he added silently.
Illyria plunked the mug down in front of Xander and sat in the other chair. She had a faint worry line between her eyebrows now. "Spike's going to Rome?" she said, not sounding pleased about it.
"Oh. Well, I offered," Xander backpedaled. Do not upset the super-powerful and possibly evil elder god. "He said he'd think about it. I'm sure he was planning to talk it over with you."
"Talk what over?" Spike said from the doorway. "Harris, I told you not to smoke those fucking things in here."
"Huh? Oh!" Xander glanced at the cigarette in his fingers with a guilty start. "Sorry. Hung over, brain not working, didn't think." He looked around for something to use as an ashtray—he hadn't even thought that far ahead. "Anyway, think of it as payback for all the times you stank up my apartment."
There was one window in the kitchen—a small one high up on the wall over the sink. Spike stalked over to it and yanked it open as far as it would go.
"This human thinks you are going to travel to your god's ancient seat of power with him," Illyria said, no trace of the Texas girl softness now. When Xander wasn't looking, she'd slipped back into blue.
"I wouldn't go anywhere without making sure you're well set up, luv," Spike reassured her, then coughed into his fist. "Put that bloody thing out, Harris," he said, and coughed again.
Nothing on the table looked serviceable as a makeshift ashtray, so Xander got up and went over to stub it out in the sink. "I was just telling Illyria that if she wants bigger, more exciting demons to kill, the Council could maybe help her out."
"I said I'd talk to Giles," Spike said, sounding annoyed. "You don't need to go bringing Smurfette into it."
"Look, she said she was bored. I was just offering—" He broke off because Spike was coughing harder, leaning against the kitchen counter. "Are you all right?"
Spike flipped him off and left the kitchen. A couple seconds later a door slammed shut somewhere in the apartment.
"Shit," Xander said quietly, but with feeling. He glanced at Illyria, who looked back at him with calm dispassion. "Is he allergic to cigarettes now, or something?"
"I believe the smoke from the processed tobacco irritated his lungs."
"You could have warned me."
"Human weaknesses are multitude, and unpredictable." She tilted her head, examing him. "You appeared to breathe the smoke without harm."
"That's not what the surgeon general says." Xander stood up. "I'll see if he's okay." He felt a bit guilty, but also pissed off. The pissed off part was kind of irrational, but there nevertheless: Since when is Spike all environmentally sensitive? He smoked for like a hundred fucking years! A detached part of Xander's brain noted that he was kind of a bastard when he was hung over.
He rapped his knuckles on the closed door. "Hey, Spike?"
"Bugger off."
Xander opened the door. Spike was sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched over with his head in his hands.
"Said bugger off," he said without looking up.
"Are you okay?"
"For half a bottle of tequila and three hours of sleep? Yeah, bloody brilliant."
"Sorry about the smoke. I think your kitchen will air out okay. Maybe if you opened another window?"
"Isn't another window." He lifted his head, peering at Xander with bloodshot eyes. "When'd you take up smoking, anyway? Not very Scooby, is it?"
"The Congo." Xander shrugged. "Not so much a Scooby anymore."
He half expected Spike to hassle him about it the way Buffy, Willow and Dawn did, but Spike just nodded and said "So how about shoving off and letting me go back to sleep?"
"Yeah." Xander's one remaining eyeball was still trying to crawl out of his head and his tongue felt like one of those fuzzy caterpillars you see in the spring, so the go back to sleep plan was definitely one he could get down with. "So, uh, see you later maybe."
Spike stood up and something hit the floor. It looked like an inhaler. Spike snatched it up quickly, shot a quick fierce glare at Xander, and tossed it into a pile of clothes in the shadowy back corner of the room. "I'll show you out," he said.
Oh wait. Me.
By the way I haven't managed to respond to every comment on the last part yet, due to no spare time at all (see, writing the next part was my priority! even over sleep!) but I've read and appreciated and treasured every one, and will respond eventually.
This is likely to be the last update for at least a week, as next week at work is looking even crazier than usual. So, um, enjoy!
By the way, for this part I borrowed a prop from Camisha and Reremouse. Hope they don't mind! I'll give it right back when I'm done with it, I promise.
Previous parts: here.
Spike's couch wasn't the stupidest place Xander had ever woken up with a hangover, so he didn't waste too much time cursing himself as he levered himself into a sitting position and painfully straighted his neck.
And nearly jumped out of his skin. Illyria/Fred was standing just a few feet away, watching him.
"How long've you been there?" he croaked.
"I just got in," she said in the soft, girly drawl she used when she wasn't scary and blue. "I must've woken you up when I shut the door. Sorry about that."
Xander rubbed his throbbing temples and noticed the eye patch had slid around sideways while he slept. He tugged it back into place with a faint twinge of embarrassment. "Do you know what time it is?"
"It's about seven o'clock."
Way, waaaay too early. Xander swallowed against a dull surge of nauseau and realized he was still probably a bit drunk.
"You look terrible," she observed, her tone some mixture of motherly and annoyed. "Did you and Spike stay up drinking all night?"
"Pretty much. Do you have any coffee?" he asked, contemplating standing up.
"Maybe. I don't eat or drink, so I don't really keep track. I'll go see," she offered, and set off for the kitchen.
Xander wasn't sure what was more disturbing—her perkiness in the face of his hangover, or that little I don't eat reminder that she wasn't really a pretty girl, just a god-king faking it.
He realized he should probably just leave before all this action woke Spike up; being human, Spike must be just as wrecked as Xander. And Xander didn't really want to face him this morning, especially not with fuzzy drunken memories of cuddling swimming to the surface when he thought about the guy.
But the sound of running water in the kitchen let Xander know that Illyria was going ahead and making coffee, and he figured it'd be rude to leave now. So he dragged himself to his feet, holding his head to make sure it didn't fall off, and made his way into the kitchen.
Besides, Giles had told him to find out more about her.
"So, did you kill anything interesting last night?" he asked by way of small talk as he sat down at the kitchen table.
"No," she said with her back still to him, measuring spoonfuls of instant coffee into a mug. "There's not much overt demonic activity in L.A. these days—not on street level, at least."
"That's, um, too bad," he said, since she sounded disappointed about it.
"My existence is tedious enough already, I don't know what I'll do when I've eliminated every foe that can even make a pretence of threatening me," she said, and though the cadence of her speech was still chirpy-Texan-girl, Xander recognized the sentiment as a god-king one.
"Well, hey, if you like killing super-powerful demons," he said, "I might just be able to hook you up." He pulled his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and shook one loose. "Remember that Council I told you about, first time we met?" He flicked his lighter, sucked in a lungful of smoke, and felt his hangover ease up a fraction almost at once. "We've got leads on all kinds of supernatural baddies."
"Really?" The electric kettle came to a boil, and she added water to the mug.
"For sure. Hey, maybe you can come to Rome with Spike and me, talk to Giles yourself." And he can figure out for himself what the hell you are and what to do with you, he added silently.
Illyria plunked the mug down in front of Xander and sat in the other chair. She had a faint worry line between her eyebrows now. "Spike's going to Rome?" she said, not sounding pleased about it.
"Oh. Well, I offered," Xander backpedaled. Do not upset the super-powerful and possibly evil elder god. "He said he'd think about it. I'm sure he was planning to talk it over with you."
"Talk what over?" Spike said from the doorway. "Harris, I told you not to smoke those fucking things in here."
"Huh? Oh!" Xander glanced at the cigarette in his fingers with a guilty start. "Sorry. Hung over, brain not working, didn't think." He looked around for something to use as an ashtray—he hadn't even thought that far ahead. "Anyway, think of it as payback for all the times you stank up my apartment."
There was one window in the kitchen—a small one high up on the wall over the sink. Spike stalked over to it and yanked it open as far as it would go.
"This human thinks you are going to travel to your god's ancient seat of power with him," Illyria said, no trace of the Texas girl softness now. When Xander wasn't looking, she'd slipped back into blue.
"I wouldn't go anywhere without making sure you're well set up, luv," Spike reassured her, then coughed into his fist. "Put that bloody thing out, Harris," he said, and coughed again.
Nothing on the table looked serviceable as a makeshift ashtray, so Xander got up and went over to stub it out in the sink. "I was just telling Illyria that if she wants bigger, more exciting demons to kill, the Council could maybe help her out."
"I said I'd talk to Giles," Spike said, sounding annoyed. "You don't need to go bringing Smurfette into it."
"Look, she said she was bored. I was just offering—" He broke off because Spike was coughing harder, leaning against the kitchen counter. "Are you all right?"
Spike flipped him off and left the kitchen. A couple seconds later a door slammed shut somewhere in the apartment.
"Shit," Xander said quietly, but with feeling. He glanced at Illyria, who looked back at him with calm dispassion. "Is he allergic to cigarettes now, or something?"
"I believe the smoke from the processed tobacco irritated his lungs."
"You could have warned me."
"Human weaknesses are multitude, and unpredictable." She tilted her head, examing him. "You appeared to breathe the smoke without harm."
"That's not what the surgeon general says." Xander stood up. "I'll see if he's okay." He felt a bit guilty, but also pissed off. The pissed off part was kind of irrational, but there nevertheless: Since when is Spike all environmentally sensitive? He smoked for like a hundred fucking years! A detached part of Xander's brain noted that he was kind of a bastard when he was hung over.
He rapped his knuckles on the closed door. "Hey, Spike?"
"Bugger off."
Xander opened the door. Spike was sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched over with his head in his hands.
"Said bugger off," he said without looking up.
"Are you okay?"
"For half a bottle of tequila and three hours of sleep? Yeah, bloody brilliant."
"Sorry about the smoke. I think your kitchen will air out okay. Maybe if you opened another window?"
"Isn't another window." He lifted his head, peering at Xander with bloodshot eyes. "When'd you take up smoking, anyway? Not very Scooby, is it?"
"The Congo." Xander shrugged. "Not so much a Scooby anymore."
He half expected Spike to hassle him about it the way Buffy, Willow and Dawn did, but Spike just nodded and said "So how about shoving off and letting me go back to sleep?"
"Yeah." Xander's one remaining eyeball was still trying to crawl out of his head and his tongue felt like one of those fuzzy caterpillars you see in the spring, so the go back to sleep plan was definitely one he could get down with. "So, uh, see you later maybe."
Spike stood up and something hit the floor. It looked like an inhaler. Spike snatched it up quickly, shot a quick fierce glare at Xander, and tossed it into a pile of clothes in the shadowy back corner of the room. "I'll show you out," he said.
