Suppose
by Alexandria 

He supposed he should stop this. It wasn’t really a supposition, more
like deep down, bone crushing knowledge that he must stop this. Absolute
knowledge that he was playing with fire, fire blazing hot and bright.
Fire that was going to come and kick his ass. He knew that as sure as he
knew that the sun would be rising over that hill in just a moment and then
everything would change. Everything always did every time the damned sun
rose.

He sighed heavily, sensing more than seeing the infinitesimal change in
the nature of the blackness of night, the black slowly fading up one
degree to contain more gray. Dawn would soon rise, the sun would shine
and he would be trapped here, sitting staring through a window that was
more a hole in the wall than actual window. A hole through which he could
just barely make out the figure lying curled on the bed, a blanket drawn
up to his chin, limbs clutching a pillow to him fiercely as if that could
ward off the dangers in the night. He stared a moment longer, then slowly
eased his way off the crypt roof. A month since he found the perfect
position to stand silent watch, a month since he started this lonely
vigil, this addiction that he would never, never allow to be made public.
He stretched, working the kinks out of his back, rubbing a tired hand
across his face. It was going to be another long day at work, the sleep
deprivation had already started to get to him. He gathered up the small
pile of wrappers next to him, the remains of his nightly snack. Energy
bar to maintain some semblance of nutrition, candy bar to take away the
taste of the energy bar, Gatorade to replace the electrolytes he lost
fighting, crackers. He always was a big cracker fan. He scooped it all
up, smoothing out the traces of his presence. He loped away as the sun
crested the hill, bathing the cemetery in a warm glow. One more night
down. He didn’t even want to consider how many more to go.

He supposed it all started the night that Spike took a bullet for him. It
still made him shudder whenever he thought of it. And the thoughts would
come to him at the strangest times. When he was driving, when he was
showering, when he was swinging a hammer back to drive in a nail.
Suddenly his breath would stutter and the edges of his vision would go
black and he would be there, would be living it as surely as if were
happening again right there and then. Just a normal night of patrol,
Buffy and Spike were sniping at one another as usual, Willow and Tara were
lagging slightly behind, still a little shy about holding hands in front
of Buffy while he was walking backwards and attempting gamely to include
them all. Buffy and Spike were quickly crossing the line from playful
teasing into downright viciousness and he moved closer, vainly hoping he
would be able to separate them before Buffy at best spilled Spike’s blood
and at worst finally got fed up and staked him. He reached them just as
the fighting started to turn nasty, just as they were squaring off, Spike
still automatically dropping back to fight. That always grabbed at him,
the way that Spike’s body hadn’t yet caught up with his mind, the century
plus of muscle memory automatically taking over.

He sometimes wondered what would have happened if the men hadn’t suddenly
burst from the trees and surrounded them all. Would that have finally
been the night Buffy snapped and gave in to her barely suppressed urge to
finally waste the vampire? It was there in her eyes, much closer to the
surface than usual. But there was no way to know now. The men surrounded
them all and that was when the nightmare began.

This part was always a bit of a blur. There were twelve of them, large
and snarling and pierced and tattooed. Looking exactly like what they
were, a bunch of bikers protecting their turf. Apparently, and this only
became apparent long hours later, they had accidentally wandered into part
of the cemetery where the gang was running a meth lab. He remembered the
taste of the blood, that was always clear, the metallic tang filling his
mouth the first warning that the memory was about to overwhelm him. His
blood, Willow’s blood, Buffy’s blood all mingling together. It was a
vicious fight, as bloody and nasty and cruel as with any demon they ever
faced. Underneath it all Spike’s growl, a growl of frustration and pain.
He remembered that clearly too. It was the first time he realized that
Spike might have some attachment to them that he would never admit out
loud.

The fighting escalated, blood flying, Buffy seemingly everywhere, his own
arms swinging and throwing stakes, for the first time wanting to kill
another human. He saw Willow fall out the corner of his eye, saw Spike
yank her away, face contorted in agony as he fought the man off her limp
form. The bodies of the bikers began to fall and he let hope creep into
the corner of his mind just for an instant. Just enough to drop his
guard. He glanced over, checking to make sure Spike was fine, that Spike
wasn’t rolling on the ground in pain. It was the glitter of the barrel in
the night that shocked him into realizing that there was a gun pointed in
his direction.

He remembered the next seconds with perfect clarity. A scream wrenching
from his throat, not wanting to die like this, not like this, not for
nothing, he didn’t want to die at all. Buffy’s stunned face, the horror
in her eyes when she realized that no matter what she did it would be too
late. Then just as his eyes fell shut, not wanting to witness his own
death, a swirl of black leather and a blur of white hair moving insanely
fast. The shot rang in the night, he flinched waiting for his death and
moments later he felt a body slam into his, knocking them both to the
ground.

Blood gushed from the hole in the center of Spike’s chest and he
remembered how stunned he was when he realized the blood was warm. Then
desperate minutes trying to staunch the flow, trying to halt the bleeding
while Spike lay motionless the entire time, the faint traces of color in
his face bleeding out and leaving him truly white. On some level he
recognized Buffy dispatching the remaining men, recognized as Willow and
Tara started a desperate chant, recognized the sound of his own voice
screaming Spike’s name. But that was all far, far away from the pressure
of his hands on Spike’s chest. The blood finally stopped flowing and he
stripped off his shirt, binding the would tightly shut. He carried the
vampire back to his car, fending off Buffy. It was his debt, his life
that Spike saved and he would be damned if Buffy hauled this burden.
Besides, Spike was so very, very light now, nothing but flesh and bone.
Back to his apartment, there was blood in his freezer for a reason he
never could later place, and he heated bag after bag, forcing it down
Spike’s throat, not watching as some trickled out the wound. Long hours
of waiting, long hours filled with nasty fights and questions and vicious
arguments as to the value of saving Spike at all. He finally won by
pointing out the blazingly obvious. Spike saved his life. He wouldn’t
let them kill the vampire now. He threw them all out, tired of the drama.
Some color was finally returning to Spike’s face and he didn’t need their
help anymore.

When Spike let out that low moan that signaled his return to
consciousness, he felt the vise around his chest unclench, just a little.
He helped Spike up, moving slowly, careful not to make Spike feel any
weaker than he already was. They didn’t speak as Spike took the offered
cup, drinking it slowly then handing it back. They didn’t speak as he led
Spike to the bathroom, knowing that Spike would want to wash the stench
from his body. They didn’t speak when he handed Spike a new black t-shirt
and a faded pair of black jeans he found stuffed at the back of a drawer.
They were a little long, but Spike cuffed them expertly until they looked
as if that was just the way they were meant to be worn. They didn’t speak
the rest of the day, both sleeping deeply, recovering from the events of
the previous night. They didn’t speak until Spike rose from the couch the
second the sun set.

“Spike, why?” He grabbed hold of Spike’s arm, preventing him from simply
stalking away.

Spike stared at him for long heartbeats, so many emotions flickering
across his face that it was impossible to know what was going on. A
tongue wet his lips, then he smiled grimly. “Couldn’t let them hurt you,
whelp. Couldn’t stand to see that.” Spike turned on his heel and strode
down the hall.

He supposed he should have told Buffy that he started coming here the next
night. He couldn’t really say why. That first night he was on his way
home after patrol, yawning and ready for sleep, pondering once again the
words Spike said, the expression on Spike’s face. He slammed on his
brakes and spun the car around, swearing profusely at his own stupidity.
He was so wrapped up in thinking about Spike that he never realized that
Spike didn’t meet up with them on patrol. The vampire rarely started off
on patrol with them, but a night never passed that they didn’t cross
paths. But they hadn’t tonight.

He made his way through the cemetery, cursing his own foolishness. He
knew exactly how dangerous this was, but there was no way he could stop.
He needed to know that Spike was fine. He didn’t know why, but he needed
it desperately. He raised a hand to knock on the crypt door then stopped,
a strange noise halting his actions. He moved over to look in the window,
the odd almost howl chilling his flesh. There stood Spike, shirtless and
remarkably drunk, singing apparently. So that was what that noise was.
His lips twitched as he watched the inebriated vampire, shaking his head
lovingly. Of course Spike would howl when he sang, what else did he
expect when Spike was listening to the Sex Pistols. It wasn’t exactly
written with melody in mind. He watched Spike stagger and fall into a
chair, mocking laughter cutting through the wailing guitars.

“Bloody buggery hell, that wasn’t bright there, William, pitching yourself
in from of the whelp like that. Next time just hang a sign around your
neck why don’t you,” the words slurred out as Spike took another long pull
of the bottle. “Xander,” his name dropped from Spike’s lips as the
vampire tilted his head back. “Ah, Xander, can’t lose you, mate. Only
good thing I have now.”

He backed away, stunned at the words. He turned and ran, needing the
space, hoping the vampire hadn’t sensed his presence somehow.

The next night he was back, setting his alarm for 3:00 a.m., knowing that
Spike usually returned to the crypt by then. He stood staring outside the
window, watching as Spike moved, memorizing Spike’s every action, the
smooth grace as Spike settled into his home, the private rituals of
preparing for bed. He watched as Spike read a little, watched as he drank
his meal quickly, distaste curling across Spike’s face at the scent of
pig’s blood, watched as Spike settled on the bed, watched as he sighed
heavily and then closed his eyes, watched as Spike pulled the blanket up
and the pillow tight, watched as Spike sighed out his name. “Xander” It
sounded like a benediction.

He came back the next night and the next and the next until the routine
was as ingrained in him as brushing his teeth, the need more desperate
than anything he ever experienced. He didn’t want to question it, didn’t
want to know why he was becoming more and more obsessed. He started
arriving earlier and earlier, knowing the desperate chance he took each
time. One night he would arrive before Spike and he would be caught. He
knew that and he still took that chance. Maybe he wanted to get caught.
Maybe he needed to get caught. Maybe it was just that the burning in his
veins as he watched through that window was more intoxicating than any
alcohol, was more addicting than any drug.

He settled down onto the crypt roof, rubbing the sap off his hands from
where he climbed the tree. He set out his little meal and waited, the
flickering candlelight illuminating the portion of the room he could see.
He let out a contented sigh and dropped his chin onto his hands, sitting
cross legged in his usual space. For some reason this was right, this
made him whole, to simply be here, watching his vampire.

He supposed that one day he would finally give in to his desire, he
supposed that one day he would slide down from his perch and cross the
door and knock. He supposed that one day he would allow himself to
actually feel the coolness of those lips under his. He supposed that one
night he would stop watching and would act. But not tonight.