shadowscast

Yay, I survived the week! And now I have another chapter to post.

I feel like these updates are pathetically short, but if I waited 'till they were more substantial it would be so much longer in between. I choose...immediate gratification.

Thanks so much to all the very sweet people who've been reading and commenting thus far. And now, on with the show:

(For those just tuning in: this is part of my Fragments series. It's a sequel to "Late Night Porn Store Blues," which is in turn a prequel to "Human Frailty.")

Rating: R for the language at the moment. There might be some sexual content later.

Warnings: The whole series was originally just an excuse to indulge my hurt/comfort kink. Somehow a plot crept in too (funny how that happens!) but expect lots of hurt/comfort still to come. My Spike's kinda broken, and my Xander's got problems of his own.

Summary: It's a few months after "Not Fade Away." Giles sent Xander to L.A. looking for a Slayer, and what he found was a human Spike and a not-human Illyria. Now Xander's supposed to recruit one or both of them for the Council.

Previous parts can be found here.

Chapter 5

When he got back to the hotel, Xander flopped onto his bed and picked up the phone. Early morning was the only really good time to call Rome, and he needed to talk to Giles. He felt kind of bad about smoking in Spike's kitchen, and what says 'I'm sorry' better than fake I.D.?

While the phone rang he lit up a cigarette. Tasting the smoke, he felt a fresh little surge of guilt. Seriously, though, the idea of Spike as someone who could be hurt by a bit of cigarette smoke was still kind of hard to wrap his head around. Also a head-wrapping challenge: feeling bad about hurting him.

When Giles answered the phone Xander didn't tell him the whole story—he just mentioned the trouble Spike was having without a green card. They were trying to recruit him, after all, so it only made sense to throw him a bone or two.

"Indeed," Giles agreed, "and in any case, if he does agree to come to Rome he'll need a passport. Good thinking."

"How soon can you put it together?"

"It won't take long. We'll need a photo to work with—though I suppose Buffy or Dawn might have something..."

"He should send you a new one. His hair's different—oh, and that scar on his eyebrow's gone, that'd be kind of hard to explain."

"Oh?" Giles sounded interested. "I wonder how...never mind, I'll talk with him soon enough. As to the I.D.—he'll need a proper name. Do you know if he's established an alias already?"

"Hold on, I know this one." Xander pressed his fist to his forehead, sifting through his fuzzy thoughts. "At the hospital, he had a Medi-Cal card...oh yeah. Ian Curtis."

"Good lord," Giles said, "we can't use that one."

Xander frowned, tapped his cigarette over the Coke can he'd been using as an ashtray. "Why not?"

"Ian Curtis was a musician. A bit before your time, I suppose, and British, so it's not surprising you haven't heard of him. Still, the name stands too much a chance of attracting attention. Not to mention, it's in rather bad taste, seeing as the original bearer of the name committed suicide in 1980."

"Oh." Xander exhaled, watched the smoke curl away. "Okay, I see your point. Um, some other name, then. I guess it doesn't matter. He went by Billy at work."

"Right, then. If you have Spike courier a photo to me, I can get the I.D. to you in about a week. Now, have you managed to learn anything else about Illyria? My initial research has been fruitless..."

So Xander told Giles as much as he could—including the part about offering to bring Illyria to Rome.

It wasn't until the end of the conversation that Xander passed on what Spike had told him about Cordelia and Wesley. He said it in a steady voice between long drags on his second cigarette, and Giles took it with the expected stoicism. He said something about informing Wesley's parents, and Cordelia's if he could find them.

"Are you all right, Xander?" Giles asked finally, in a gentler voice than he usually used.

"Yeah. It was hard finding out about Cordy, you know? But I'll be all right, I just need some sleep."

"Perhaps you should talk to Willow. In fact, if you wanted to visit her while we wait for Spike to make up his mind about coming to Rome, the Council would certainly pay for the flight."

"I'll think about it," Xander lied.

***

Before he fell asleep he started to wonder: why had Spike picked that name?

Naming yourself after some rock star was one thing, but choosing one who'd killed himself—that was a little on the morbid side. Like, say someone started calling themselves 'Kurt Cobain'—you'd worry, right?

It was pretty obvious that turning human hadn't worked out too well for Spike. He lived in a dank basement apartment with a creepy elder god for a roommate, he worked crappy hours at a porn store, he had migraines and possibly asthma. After a hundred twenty years of having superpowers and living the want-take-have vampire high life, that had to suck.

In fact, it probably sucked about as much as it had when he first got chipped. And how had he dealt with that? He'd tied a stake to Xander's coffee table and tried to throw himself onto it.

It was enough to make Xander wonder if Spike's little accident with the pills the other night had been such an accident after all.

***

Subtle lines of investigation had never been Xander's strong point.

"What d'you want now?" Spike asked, standing aside to let him in.

Xander pulled the door shut behind him and looked around to see if Illyria was home. She wasn't anywhere in sight. "Spike, I was wondering something. Are you planning to kill yourself?"

Not surprisingly, Spike looked kind of shocked. "What's the fucking poof been telling you?" he said.

Okay, that was interesting. Not an outright denial, and it sounded like he thought Xander had been talking to Angel.

The urge to fill the silence was strong, but Xander had learned a few tricks over the past couple years. He gave Spike a patient, knowing look, and waited.

"Look, I was a fucking vampire for over a century," Spike said, backing away with a scowl and hugging his arms protectively around his chest. "I know where my fucking veins are. If I'd wanted to kill myself I'd be dead, all right?"

Xander stood silently for another moment, feeling really awkward and wishing he'd thought this through better before he asked the question. Spike was scowling and looking everywhere but at Xander; there was tension in his pose like he was about to get the fuck out of there, even if it meant leaving Xander behind in his living room.

Xander tried to think of what a wise, sensitive person would say at a time like this. "Would you maybe like to talk? I mean, I know we were never friends or anything, but it's not like you really have any friends besides the scary blue chick—"

Spike let out a short, barking laugh. "They cut off your training short at the suicide hotline, didn't they?"

Xander shrugged a non-response. "I haven't talked to Angel," he confessed. "It was the name."

"Name?" Spike looked puzzled, and he visibly relaxed a bit. "What name?"

"The one you gave Medi-Cal—Ian Curtis."

"Oh." Spike raised his eyebrow. "Wouldn't have thought you'd know Joy Division."

"Why'd you pick that name?" Xander asked, not bothering to correct Spike's assumption.

"Look, it doesn't mean I'm planning to off myself," Spike said, rolling his eyes. "I liked the man's music, is all."

"What about the overdose?"

"Since when is this any of your fucking business?"

"Since when did I mind my own business?"

"I'm fine," Spike said, suddenly perfectly calm, way too sincere. "It's very nice of you to stop by and check, but there's really nothing to worry about."

Yeah, and if Xander believed that, there was a bridge in Brooklyn going cheap. "Okay, um, look. I talked to Giles about getting you I.D. He needs a passport-type picture of you," he said, mostly to buy himself time while he tried to figure out what the hell to do now that he'd got himself involved in Spike's mental health issues. "Why don't we go get that done, send it off, then find someplace to grab dinner before you have to go to work."

"You know what? Forget it. I don't need your sodding charity." Spike went and yanked open the front door. "Smurfette and me are doing fine on our own, ta very."

"God, what's with you, Spike?" Xander didn't make a move towards the exit Spike was very pointedly providing him with. "If you don't want to talk, whatever, but I know you need some documentation. And hello, it's not charity—Giles wants you to work for us."

"I know what it is," Spike said with a dark look. "It's that I'm human now—all of a sudden I'm part of the club, everyone wants to look out for me. Well, sod that."

"That's what you're—you think I'm just doing this 'cause you're human? Christ, Spike, I was saving you from yourself back when you were evil and I hated you. Give me one good reason I should stop now."

Spike opened his mouth and shut it again without saying anything. The indignation melted out of his posture and his shoulders slumped. He pushed the door shut and leaned against it, still holding the knob. "Sorry," he said quietly, facing into the wall. "Suppose you're right. And I could use the I.D., that's for certain."

"Okay," Xander said, stepping carefully closer. "Then let's go get your picture taken."