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Run for Your Life
By spikeNdru
Xander/Spike, PG-13
Season 6, during Entropy
Written for the Beatles’ Rubber Soul Song Ficathon
3868 words
Many thanks to Crazydiamondsue and Painbow for support, encouragement and beta! :::smooches you both:::
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, the characters are not mine. They belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and 20th Century Fox. I'm just borrowing them. Lyrics from Run for Your Life by The Beatles from the Rubber Soul album.
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Xander was the ‘heart’ of the Scoobies—they’d told him that often enough. Well, he didn’t want to be the ‘heart’. Hearts can be broken too easily.
He didn’t want to think about it. If he thought about it, he’d get all confused. His stupid brain would tell him that it was really his fault for leaving Anya at the altar the way he had. He’d have to admit that his desire to avoid conflict had gotten him in deeper and deeper until he was trapped, and in a blind panic, did the only thing he could do. Even if it was a really shitty thing to do. He couldn’t even begin to think about the position he’d put Anya in—so he wouldn’t.
His whole life had been based on one major philosophy—ignore it and maybe it’ll go away. Pretend it isn’t happening. Don’t think about Dad going out drinking with Uncle Rory when he knew the oven had blown up and Mom really needed a new stove, but he drank away the money instead. Don’t think about his 7th birthday pancake, ’cause the oven didn’t work and Mom couldn’t bake him a cake the regular way, so she made it into a pancake on the top of the stove. But when she put the candles in, the center wasn’t cooked at all and they wouldn’t stand up. The heat of the outside melted the wax and when he tried to eat it, the raw inside had a nasty consistency that formed a lump in his stomach and the hardened wax was crunchy and he started to cry.
Mom had grabbed the whole mess and rushed outside and dumped it in the driver’s seat of the car—maple syrup ‘icing’ and all.
Dad had blown up and he and Mom had another terrible fight and Xander crawled under his bed, because the possible monsters there were less scary than his parents’ fighting. He’d told himself the monsters wouldn’t eat him—he’d worked it out, and come to the conclusion that the under-the-bed monster subsisted on socks. How else to explain the frequent disappearance of individual socks, so that he no longer had any actual pairs that matched?
Just to be on the safe side, he’d grabbed all his available socks and taken them with him when he crawled under the bed. He’d appeased the sock-monster, his parents’ rage couldn’t find him, and he was as safe as he was gonna get. Happy Birthday, Xander!
So he’d tamped down all his doubts about actually marrying Anya. Maybe she’d been right. Maybe his proposal was a grand, romantic gesture because he really expected they’d all die and he wouldn’t actually have to go through with it? No! He’d meant it when he proposed. He loved Anya with all the love he was capable of, and he couldn’t imagine spending his life with any other woman but her. He ignored the fact that he couldn’t really imagine spending his life with any woman at all, in the hopes it would go away. There had to be marriages that didn’t turn out like his parents’! Weren’t there? Sure, there were. There were marriages like Ira and Shelia Rosenberg’s—the ones where each partner developed their own interests and went their own way until they were like polite strangers, meeting over breakfast to discuss schedules and causes. Okay. Bad example.
How about the ones like Hank and Joyce Summers’, where he takes off to Europe with his secretary and is so absentee he doesn’t even know that his wife and daughter are dead and his only remaining family is a mystical key that used to be a blob of green energy? That is, if he even knows about Dawn at all. What if the monks’ spell didn’t reach all the way to Europe and he doesn’t even know he has a pretend daughter?
With Buffy dead, it had been so easy to put off telling the others about the engagement. If they didn’t tell, it didn’t make it unavoidably real. He could continue to live in his fantasy world where he and Anya actually got the happy-ever-after, and Giles didn’t talk to him about investments and mortgages and there were no little pink children to make him be the ‘Dad’. ’Cause really? Dads were not of the good, and he pretty much knew he didn’t want to be one. He just wanted to be Xander. He wanted things to stay the way they were. But things refused to do that! They kept changing, and none of the changes were good.
So he’d ignored his feelings—his fears—and hoped they’d go away. But they didn’t. That demon hadn’t shown him anything he hadn’t already thought about. But actually seeming to live it made things so real. He’d never wanted to hurt Anya. So he kept telling himself he was doing it for her. He’d left her at the altar to face all their guests alone for her own good. Yeah, sure he did! La la la—I’m not listening! It’s not my fault! Maybe I could have handled things a little better, but my intentions were good. Why couldn’t Anya see that?
The circumstances of the un-wedding didn’t really matter. What he did or didn’t do, whose fault it was, had no relevance. Water under the bridge. He’d always known they’d eventually get back together. It’d take a little time for her to get over the embarrassment of the whole wedding thing, of course, but then things could go back to the way they were. They could be happy again. They could have a good life and she’d totally thrown that life back in his face in the one way absolutely guaranteed to destroy him.
How could she do that to him? How could she just throw away all their hopes and dreams like that? How could she fuck a soulless monster—right in front of him and all his friends? An insidious little voice whispered in his head. Maybe the soulless monster she fucked isn’t Spike. Maybe it’s you. Maybe you’re the real monster—just like your father.
Xander clapped his hands over his ears, as if that could shut out the voice.
“Shut up! Shut up!” he screamed. “I’m not a monster—I’m a man! I’m not some cold, dead, evil, disgusting thing!”
Aren’t you?
Xander began humming in an attempt to shut out the voice.
“Dum de dum, dum, dum, I can’t hear you, dum ditty dum, ditty dum . . .”, when suddenly there were words accompanying the tune his subconscious had chosen.
“Well, I’d rather see you dead, little girl, than to be with another man. You better keep your head, little girl, or I won’t know where I am. You better run for your life if you can, little girl, hide your head in the sand, little girl, catch you with another man—that’s the end, little girl . . .”
He couldn’t get the song out of his mind. Once it had taken up residence, it was there to stay, and the rage that had been simmering just under the surface burst free.
“Well, I know that I’m a wicked guy and I was born with a jealous mind. And I can’t spend my whole life trying just to make you toe the line.”
Xander began opening cupboard doors. Stakes, crossbow, half a bottle of peppermint schnapps. Why not? He came from a long, proud line of alcoholics, didn’t he? He took a gulp of the schnapps. Holy moly! It tasted like mentho-lyptus cough drops! How could Uncle Rory drink this shit on a regular basis? He drank some more. “You better run for your life if you can, little girl, hide your head in the sand, little girl, catch you with another man, that’s the end, little girl.”
Only it wasn’t another man, was it? Not a man at all. Xander tilted his head back and the remainder of the cough-syrup-with-a-kick disappeared down his throat with a cool, burning sensation. How could something be cool and burning at the same time?
Xander closed his eyes to shut out the image of Spike’s burning intensity as his cool hands roamed all over Anya—his Anya. Vampires were vermin. They deserved to be exterminated. That’s what they did after all. The Scoobies. Back-up for the supposed vampire slayer. “Let this be a sermon, I mean everything I’ve said. Baby, I’m determined, and I’d rather see you dead . . .”
No! He didn’t want to see Anya dead. And he absolutely didn’t want to see Buffy dead—again. He wanted to see Spike dead. Spike had taken enough from him. No more! Not ever again!
Xander loaded his pockets with stakes and picked up the crossbow, fitting a bolt into the notch. There was a pleasantly warm feeling in his stomach from Uncle Rory’s magic cough syrup.
You better run for your life if you can, little Spike, hide your head in the sand, little Spike, caught ya with my girls, and that’s the end, little Spike.
You are so fucking dead, Spike, and I’m the one that’s gonna kill you. And this time, you’ll stay dead.
*********
Spike poured a hefty measure of bourbon into his glass of blood and sank down in the comfy chair. He’d definitely blown it. He knew it. Why couldn’t he just have kept his bleedin’ mouth shut!
He’d no idea how the slayer and her boy found out about his tryst with Anya—not that it was any of their business. He and Demon Girl’d both been told to ‘move on’ enough times, yeah? If they chose to do it with each other—to find a bit of solace in the arms of someone who appreciated you, who didn’t use you and abuse you and then kick you to the curb—where was the harm in that? Bloody possessive Xander didn’t want Anya for himself anymore—he’d made that abundantly clear by doin’ an Eleanor Rigby on her—but he doesn’t want anyone else to have her either? And Buffy . . .
Spike dragged himself out of the chair with none of his usual fluid grace. He felt every single one of his one hundred and twenty-two years. He splashed bourbon into the glass, filling it to the rim.
How could Buffy have looked so . . . devastated? She’d told him being with him was killing her, and he bloody well wouldn’t be the cause of the death of this slayer. It hurt. It hurt like hell, but he accepted it, dammit! He finally believed her when she told him it wasn’t real for her—she didn’t love him and he needed to move on. He and Anya were both hurting—damaged—an’ found a bit of cold comfort. ’s not like they teamed up to destroy the bloody world!
She’d run after Xander, though. She’d come to protect him—make sure the boy didn’t accidentally get lucky and stake him good and proper. She didn’t hate him enough to want him dead. Why couldn’t that have been enough for him?
Oh, he’d threatened to tell her friends often enough, but he hadn’t really meant to. She knew that. What he really wanted was for her to tell the others—to bring him into the light, rather than hidin’ him away in the dark like her dirty little secret. It’d serve no purpose, him bein’ the one to spill the beans. Lettin’ them know wasn’t the point. It was her seein’ him as a man, not a monster, and not bein’ ashamed of him that mattered. So why the fucking hell had he said, “It was good enough for Buffy . . .?”
Spike picked up the bottle and brought it back to the chair with him.
This time, it hadn’t been about Buffy. He just couldn’t stand to see the puffed-up manly-man execute his Madonna/Whore Complex on poor Anyanka. Xander had Buffy on the top of his pedestal all virginal and inviolate while he ripped Anya a new one and treated her like dirt. Not very sporting of him! Spike truly hadn’t meant to hurt Buffy, he was just trying to protect Anya. Guess the Slayer was right—evil, disgusting things couldn’t pull off chivalry. Cheers!
He drained the glass.
Spike registered the slamming open of his door and the searing pain in his shoulder simultaneously. He looked up blearily to see Xander framed in the doorway, clutching a crossbow so tightly, his knuckles were white.
For a long moment, they simply stared at each other.
Xander flung the crossbow away and sank down to the floor as if his legs could no longer support him. Wrapping his arms tightly around his knees, he dropped his head to his arms and sobbed.
With a sigh, Spike pulled out the bolt and then went to the cupboard for a clean glass. Pouring it half full of bourbon, he nudged Xander’s elbow.
“Here.”
“Thanks.”
Xander scrubbed his sleeve across his eyes and made snuffling noises before taking a gulp of the whiskey and clearing his throat.
“Why, Spike? I just wanna know why?”
“Why Anya—or why Buffy?”
“Both. Neither. Oh god, I don’t know. Why any of it?”
“You sure you really wanna hear this?”
“Yes. No. Maybe. I didn’t want to know any of this! Seriously. You have no idea what it did to me, seeing Anya . . .”
“Yeah. I do know.”
“Why? Why’d you take the one good thing I’d ever had?”
“Wasn’t like that. An’ Anya’s not a ‘thing’. She’s a person, with feelings. She was hurting—I was hurting. I went to get a spell to make the pain stop—I just wanted it to stop . . .”
“I hear ya.”
Sitting in surprisingly companionable silence, they both sipped their drinks. Spike’s choice of spirits wasn’t much better than Uncle Rory’s.
“Got any beer?” Xander asked.
Spike tilted his head in the direction of the ancient fridge. Xander pushed himself to his feet and came back with two cans. Depositing one on the packing crate Spike was using as an end table, he flopped down on the couch and popped open the other.
“So, what?” Spike asked. “You want us to ‘share our feelings’? You want us to ‘bond’?”
Xander shrugged. “Why not? Not like either of us have anything better to do.”
Spike’s lips twitched and he suddenly let out a bark of laughter. “Bloody hell!”
Xander felt a semi-hysterical giggle rising from somewhere deep inside, and within moments they were both laughing with the joy of release.
“So, Spike, you think it’s the Hellmouth that makes relationships so hard, or are we both just colossal fuck-ups?”
“Prob’ly a bit of both.”
“Things were good with Anya—they really were, but then I got scared. What if it didn’t last? What if years from now we ended up hating each other? Wouldn’t it be better to make a clean break now?”
“Nothin’ lasts forever. You just need to take what’s offered in the moment. The pain’s gonna come no matter what you do, enjoy the pleasure while it lasts—and you call that a ‘clean break’?”
“Well . . . maybe not.”
“So . . . you still love the bird?”
“I guess so. I’m not even sure I know what love is, Spike.”
“Prob’ly better you din’t marry, then, innit? But you could’ve found a more gentlemanly way of doin’ it.”
“Yeah. I know. I had doubts. Not about Anya—about me, but I just kept hoping . . .”
“. . . If you ignore ‘em, they’ll go away?”
“Yeah! Exactly.”
“Never works.”
“Now you tell me?”
Spike got up to replenish the beers.
“Wanna call out for a pizza?”
Spike tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.
Flipping open his cell phone, Xander called in the order.
“Guess I gotta go pick it up.”
Spike smiled. “Yeah. Since you quit the pizza job, none of those wankers will deliver to m’crypt.”
“Nothing lasts forever.”
Spike crushed the empty beer can and threw it at him.
“Back in a flash.”
**********
Xander returned with another 6-pack of beer, a 6-pack of Coke, a large ½ cheese, ½ pepperoni and an order of 25 buffalo wings—nuclear strength.
Spreading the food out on the sarcophagus, they sat together on the couch and dug in.
“So, you really thought you were in love with Buffy?”
Spike stopped chewing and looked directly at Xander.
The depth of pain in those blue, blue eyes was startling. Giles had told them from the very beginning that a vampire was just a demon that killed you and walked around in your body, but how much did the Council really know about vampires anyway? It’s not like Quentin or Lydia or that snotty Nigel actually knew any vampires.
Xander thought back to the vamps he’d known, up close and personal.
Angel. Okay, Dead Boy wasn’t someone he’d hang with, even if he wasn’t a vampire. Angel was all cryptic and brooding with no sense of humor. And then Angelus—Hannibal Lector on crack! It wasn’t so much the vampireness that was the problem; he just flat out didn’t like Angel. Wouldn’t have liked him if he’d been a regular guy.
Harmony. Xander didn’t really see any difference at all between high school Harmony and dead Harmony. She’d always been a bitch, but vampire Harmony wasn’t any more evil or disgusting than regular Harmony!
Spike. Spike had a wicked sense of humor. He was honorable. He’d taken good care of Dawn when he really didn’t have to. If Giles and Willow were right, and Spike was just playing the Scoobies to get to Buffy, what possible reason could he have had for staying around all summer, helping out? He was one of the team. He obviously cared about Dawn—Joyce, too—and with Buffy . . . gone, impressing her was no longer an issue.
Xander’s musings came to an abrupt end as he realized Spike was speaking.
“. . . hard truth. Not gonna spare your delicate sensibilities. So, you ready to really hear about Buffy, then?”
With the shock of an epiphany, Xander realized that he was. He trusted Spike—trusted Spike’s insight and perceptions better than his own.
“Yeah. I’m listening.”
“I’d been in love with Dru for a century. Madly, passionately and deeply in love with her. The berk that came up with the idea that vampires can’t love was full of shite! Part of it may’ve been that she was my sire, an’ that’s a bond not easily broken, but I figured Dru and I were forever, yeah?”
Xander was enthralled—well, not Dracula-type thrall, but Spike had never spoken to him like this before. Like an equal. He absently munched a slice of pizza and nodded for Spike to go on.
“An’ then I saw Buffy. She was so . . . alive, so . . . I’d never met anyone like Buffy before. She’s the sun an’ the rest of us are just planets orbiting around her.”
Xander nodded emphatically. He’d felt that way himself.
“An’ you can’t actually touch the sun, can you then? Knew I never had a chance with her, not really, but . . .”
Spike paused and downed the rest of his beer. Xander handed him another can.
“Ta. Then she died, an’ all the light went out of the world. Damn near destroyed me. But there was Dawn. . .she needed me an’ I promised Buffy I’d protect her. Let her down once, wouldn’t do it again. And you lot—so brave, so committed. Doin’ what you had to because there was no one else to do it. Thought I’d found m’place. A way to honor everything she was by continuin’ the mission, you know?”
Xander felt a prickling behind his eyelids. How could he have been so blind? How could he have bought so thoroughly into the ‘human good-demons bad’ philosophy, when the evidence to the contrary had been right in front of him for years?
“And then Red brought her back without so much as a by-your-leave. Not that I wasn’t . . .”
Spike broke off, unable to capture the exact word to explain the maelstrom of his feelings when Buffy returned. He jumped to his feet and began to pace.
“She talked to me! We were friends. She told me all the things she couldn’t tell your lot—about where she’d been, how happy and peaceful an’ content. Red ripped her out of heaven an’ she couldn’t cope. And I? I was just so bloody glad to have her back, even if she didn’t want to be here! It was killing her and I couldn’t do a damn thing to make it better, and god help me! I couldn’t wish her dead again.
“And then she came to me—she came to me, Harris! An’ I knew she didn’t love me, but I had hope, that maybe . . . someday. So I became Icarus—flying toward the bloody sun with borrowed wings, ‘cause I knew I’d never be a real Angel . . .”
Spike gripped the wrought iron footboard of the bed so tightly the iron began to bend. His shoulders hunched and his body shook with silent sobs.
Xander pushed himself to his feet and awkwardly patted Spike on the back.
“It’s okay, Spike. I understand. I loved her, too.”
Spike straightened and turned to face Xander.
“Yeah. She tends to elicit that response from the men in her life.”
“Huh?”
Spike laughed.
“You dumped Anya, Buffy dumped me, where do we go from here?”
Xander’s heart lurched, and suddenly he knew where he wanted to go. He placed both hands on Spike’s face, thumbs stroking those incredible cheekbones, and bent his head to touch his lips to Spike’s.
Ohgodohgodohgod, he’s gonna kill me. Chip or no chip, he’s gonna kick my ass and then tell everyone I’m a big pansy and rip me apart with his biting sarcasm if not his biting . . . wait! Is he kissing me back? His tongue! Spike’s tongue—tongue of Spike—is in my mouth! And it’s . . . Merciful Zeus! It’s . . . Hands! Hands on ass! Spike’s hands on my ass and oooooooh! Linoleum! Is that a flashlight in his pocket? Why would Spike need to carry a flashlight? Vampire night vision and all? Okay, not a flashlight! Just the size, shape and hardness of a flashlight and it’s grinding into my crotch and . . . definitely not a flashlight. Linoleum!
Oh, Spike’s bed is right here. How convenient! Why is Spike’s bed right here? Wasn’t it downstairs, when he was . . . exercising? Oh, yeah, exercising! Wha’d he say? Something about being immortal doesn’t mean you can let yourself go. Oh, boy! Spike certainly hasn’t let himself go . . . not like me! I’ve got to start going to a gym or something—do more . . . exercising. Wish I hadn’t eaten those 37 bags of Doritos during the whole pre-wedding thing! What if he thinks I’m fat? What if he doesn’t like me? What if . . . linoleum!”
The End
“I'm seventeen. Looking at linoleum makes me wanna have sex.” Xander Harris in Innocence.
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