Hold Fast

by
Tabaqui

31 Coping

The eleventh of February came and Xander felt an odd sort of surge - excitement and defiance in equal measure.  He'd survived it - got through fifty-two days without Spike and Spike was one year done - one year down.   Less all the time - one year gone...   Miss you, Spike, miss you so much.     It had rained on and off for most of the week and the eaves dripped on them as he and Manny stood on the back porch, making notes.  The construction was getting underway in a day or so - tearing out the back wall and adding three bedrooms upstairs, making the kitchen larger, adding a room for Xander to carve in - maybe making it large enough  for a piano, something that Dawn had been quietly yearning for.  She was keeping up her singing practice with Derio and she hummed or sang softly around the house while she studied and experimented in the kitchen and tried to find a part-time job.  She was so different here, out of Buffy's shadow.  A more grown-up - more capable girl - who was the Queen of the house.   The three of them would spoil her endlessly if they could, but Dawn had quietly said no, in various ways, to their indulgences.  We'll leave it for Spike.  He can spoil her all he wants when he - when he comes home.  She won't say no to him...never has.

Manny had been angry on Spike's behalf - angry and relieved and worried about the Sidhe.  They weren't trusted in demon circles, and he'd questioned Xander closely about what Jack and Scavenger had said and done.   In the end he seemed satisfied, but Xander knew the story was making the rounds of that other Seattle, and he also knew that several groups of demons had gone to view the Sunnydale crater.  It was all quiet there, Manny said - truly dead and gone and Xander hoped that Faith and Robin and Johnathan weren't having to deal with too much Hellmouth craziness in Cleveland.    On Valentine's Day he finally hung Spike's duster in the closet, instead of having it lying over the empty side of the bed.  It hurt, but it felt good, too.

Emails came two and three times a week from England and Xander mostly let Dawn handle those.  He was locked into what he was doing - concentrating so hard on just surviving, that he didn't want to fend off questions or have to muster the energy to show interest in anything.  He was interested - he just...  Just couldn't bring himself to get involved.    He listened to Dawn talk about the doings of the new Council, and what the Pembrokes and Giles and Ethan were building was good - was better than the old Council by far.  Grey was seeping into the Watcher's black-and-white view of the world and every demon sect, clan, species or individual - driven by curiosity or a desire for peace - that approached the Council transported the Pembrokes into raptures.  Some of the demons were amazingly literate and historically oriented and already human history was gaining new facets.    Apparently the younger Pembrokes envisioned a time when demons would be citizens, just like humans, but Xander silently doubted that many demons would care for that 'privilege'.  But it gave them something to do, and it made Dawn delve even deeper into her language studies.  Xander even found her poring over history books, and her half-formed notion of going into one of the sciences was rapidly being subsumed under a growing fascination with archeology and anthropology.  'Indiana Jane', he teasingly called her, and wished desperately that Spike were there to tell her stories and help her with her Greek.  And probably buy her a fedora and a whip.

Tara's emails and phone calls were easier to deal with; she spoke about her own studies and related snippets of Connor's doings and the most recent battle or demi-apocolypse the A.I team had averted.  Wesley's magic skills were much along the lines of Giles' own, and she was learning a more formal and regulated kind of occultism from him.  And he was learning about 'kitchen' magic and proving to have a bit of a knack.   She talked about Cordelia-as-Mommy and about Gunn and how tough he was - and how loving with Wes - and about Fred, in a kind of cautious way that said to Xander she was still being careful of her heart.   Xander sat down once a week to laboriously two-finger-type a message to her; mostly details of the house and what had gotten built in the past few days.  He pressed her for her own ideas about what she wanted the house to be like and cheerfully added space for a still-room when she talked about making her own soaps and teas and essential oils.  

February blew out and March came in no warmer and just as wet.  Construction carried on under tarps and whispering, rustling layers of plastic, and Oz and Derio started a kind of patrol.  Mostly it was a desire to establish their territory - make boundaries that any demon would respect.  After a week of them going out and coming in, spangled with mist all along their fur and the link singing with water, run, hunt, good pack pack pack Xander gave in and went with them.

Running along the sandy margin of the Duwamish, breathing in wet lung-fuls of sea-salt air and the thick, sharp smells of earth and wet wood and winter-dead grass felt good.  He let the hyena stretch out - let it shriek up at the low-riding, gibbous moon and play a rough game of King of the Hill with the wolves.    The link was full of happiness and Xander realized how much the wolves had been missing him - and how much he'd missed them.  He realized with a wince of guilt that he'd been cutting them off - tuning them out.  Because he didn't want to push his sadness onto them, and because...

It hurts.  Hurts to hear you and not...him.  Hurts to have this when he CAN'T...shouldn't have it if he...can't.

No, no, Xander.   You can't do that.  Can't leave us like that and we won't leave YOU.  Won't.  We told him we'd take care of you, told him we'd be here.  Promised.  We won't break that promise.  Oz-wolf shouldered him roughly, making him sit down hard on the cold, wet ground and Xander pulled him close and hugged him; warm, rough fur scratchy on his face, thick wolf smell and the smell of apples.

Pack, family, OURS. You're ours as much as you're his and we won't let you go.  Lean on us, hermano, let us help, don’t be afraid...Hurts, to not have you...   Derio-wolf pushed in for his own hug, cold nose in Xander's cheek and the pepper-lemon smell of his fur.  Xander clutched at them both, holding on tight - shuddered for a moment with tears.  But then he stopped and wiped his face - lay back on the grass and sighed as the wolves curled close under his arms.   Let the link open wide and just sank into it; stayed there for long, long minutes, reconnecting.  Reaffirming.  When they finally stood up and began a slow walk home, Xander felt - almost normal, again.  The ache of Spike's absence was still there, but the love and delight and  want from the wolves eased it - soothed him - made him feel part of a family again.

Sorry.  I'm sorry.  I won't - hide, anymore, he promised, and the wolves yipped soft 'thank you's.

April the second was year two, and Xander stood in the kitchen, a bottle of water in his hand and a fuzz of sawdust covering him.  Remembering, in a rush of bitter-sweetness, Spike on the phone to him.

"So, pet...what are you wearing?"

"About ten pounds of sawdust."

"Mmmm...all furry and sweet-smelling, I'll bet..."

"I gotta go, Spike.  I'll be home - around six...  I promise I won't chop off or ventilate anything.   Love you."

"Love you, pet.  Hurry home."  

Xander drew in a deep breath and crossed the day off on the calendar.   Getting there.  God I miss you, love.  Miss your voice so much, telling me things...telling me you love me, telling me you want me...  Miss your hands, miss your laugh...  Miss you reading to me, miss fighting over the remote and the radio and dinner...  God, Spike, Spike...

The missing was like a funny little tide that ebbed and flowed differently each day.  Sometimes there was almost nothing, like when he was working.  Up on the scaffold, hammering, sawing - creating - he could push everything away and just exist in the radius of a saw-blade or the numbers on a tape measure.  Sweet new wood smell, mud and rain and the Duwamish.  The smell of the skinny little black cigars that Manny smoked, and the hot tea and coffee the crew drank.  And then - some small thing...  A line or two of a song - a glimpse of a black-leather coat in a crowd - an accented voice coming from the TV and he was drowning in it - lost in it.  Pain like a knife to his heart and he had to stop and just breathe.   Reach for the wolves in the link and let them help - let them soothe and calm.  Worst of all, probably, was feeling that hurt from Oz or from Derio.  Raw ache that only made his worse and they'd got themselves in that loop once or twice.  Gotten it from Dawn, who would fight it and fight it and then give in and look through her computer files at all the pictures she had of Spike.  Look at her archived emails from him, or open a notebook and see his precise and beautiful handwriting; notations in her Latin homework or a line or two about a book.  Then they would huddle together, doing whatever they had to, laughing at how horrible it was even as they cried themselves hoarse.  

Xander had his postcards still, tucked into the mirror's edge.  And the picture Dru had taken, that was Spike and was not Spike.  Was something out of time and memory and almost didn't hurt.  But the picture from this house - their first night there when they'd nested on mattresses in the living room floor and Derio, getting up early, had captured Spike and Xander curled around each other, Spike's head on his chest, Xander's arms holding him close...  That made him catch his breath and shiver, every time.  Some mornings he went without aid of his mirror, and fled the room before he saw.

April and then May, and Dawn was graduating from her GED classes and they all went to see.  Tara up from L.A., almost completing them, and Dawn shining like a star in her class of older women and work-worn tradesmen and tired-looking girls with mothers and babies cheering them on.  She'd already signed up for classes in the fall - was impatient to get the 'required' work out of the way so she could move on to bigger and more interesting thing.  Derio took dozens of pictures, because Dawn wanted to be sure Spike would see this moment as if he'd been there.  It was a long day, with a celebratory dinner atop the Space Needle and a long, slow walk all over the parts of Seattle they liked best, just being together.  A good day, and a happy one, but there was something in the air, and Xander felt uneasy until they were all safe home.

He woke with a gasp, his hand curling for the stake he didn't have under his pillow anymore - groping for the body that wasn't there.    Something - was shivering through the link - twisting through the air like a subtle perfume.  Something familiar and not at the same time.  Xander held his breath - closed his eyes - concentrated on it.  And felt his heart lurch painfully in his chest.

Not, not, not.  It ISN'T.  Fuck, I'm asleep, I'm - what the HELL?  Oz - you there?  Oz, Derio -   Sleepy grumble from the wolves but Xander was already up and yanking on a pair of sweats - stumbling out of the bedroom and down the hall - down the stairs.  Soft sound from Dawn's room, and Tara asleep on the fold-out couch and Xander almost ran to the front door.  Pulled it open and stopped dead, the screen door mesh cold and yielding under his hands.  Something...was there, in the darkness.  Someone.  There was a candle burning by the door - Dawn insisted - and its flame cast a feeble circle of tired gold light onto the porch.

"Spike?" Xander called, and his voice was cracking - strained and hoarse - and he was gasping for air, shivering.  When the hand came out of the darkness - pale and slim and tipped with long, red nails - he nearly screamed.

"No, oh no, oh no," Drusilla whispered, and Xander recoiled, the air hissing out of his lungs in something like a sob.  "No, not my prince, not my love..."

"He's not yours," Xander growled, and Drusilla came closer, her face fading in out of the blackness.  Her hair was swept up and pinned with long, Chinese-red sticks, and tendrils of it hung down beside her ears and on her throat.   Some sort of black shirt that showed pale, muscled arms and her collarbones - the upper swell of her breasts.   Modern, and so different than anything he'd seen before.  She had on a choker of black and white and silver - onyx and ivory, and very old-looking.

"No?  No," she echoed sadly, and put her hand up to the screen.  "Always this between us, this fish's net.  Sieving out your intentions and your passions and leaving me with cold comfort..."  Her palm flattened against the house's barrier and the wards Tara had made a part of the very foundations sparked cold green fire.  Drusilla hissed, and pulled slowly away.

"What are you - why are you here?  Spike's not...he's not -"

"Not there, I know.  Not anywhere in this world...  Did you think I wouldn't feel that?  Think I wouldn't feel everything he was being torn down - burned up - turned to ashes?  To ashes, to ashes and he fell down, but you didn't - you didn't."  Drusilla's eyes were gold gleams in the darkness and her mouth snarled, and Xander flinched from that - from the wash of pure guilt and misery that overcame him.  Behind him he heard Tara waking up - heard the quiet tread of the wolves' upstairs, coming closer.  And - fuck - the creak of Dawn's door that he couldn't seem to oil out.

It's Dru, she's here, please - be careful, I don't - don't know what she wants -

Fuck - Oz thought, and wolf-sense shivered through the air, he and Derio both shifting minutely, scenting the intruder on their door step.

"Xander?" Dawn asked, sleepy-soft voice, and he closed his eyes for a moment, just breathing.

"It's okay, Dawn, it's just..."

"You tell her.  I'm the fire that burnt the phoenix and brought it back to life - the womb, little boy, the seed -"   Drusilla seemed abruptly hysterical - furious - and Xander took a step back.

"Xander?"  Tara now, and he could feel his family at his back - wall of living heat and  pack, family, brother, love love protect love.

"It's - this is....this is Drusilla.  She - she made...Spike into a...vampire."  Sharp gasp from Dawn and Oz's shoulder pushing into him - Derio on the other side, gentle pressure.

"And you're all here, all here in the nest, cozy as little birds all agreeing.  Changeling-child and moon-drinkers and the good Witch of the North, though she's got a tinker's dam in her blood, hasn't she?"  Drusilla crowded up close to the screen door again, ignoring the St.Elmo's fire that crawled over her.  "And you, sweet beast.  You, you, you..."  She put her hands flat on the barrier and growled and Xander finally shook off his shock and paralysis and glared back, letting the hyena up and out, so that her scent of blood and licorice and church incense was suddenly strong in his nose.  He knew his eyes were the same cold fire as the wards - watched the otherness of the hyena call Dru's demon up.  And then gone again, and she leaned back, making a low moaning sound.

"Why?  Why, why, why did you do it?  Why did you let it?  The olders, the others, they're not to be trusted!  They're not to be seen!  Let him go off with Jack, Jack, Jack -"

"I tried to stop him," Xander whispered, feeling suddenly cold, and small.  "I tried.  Dru - he...he wouldn't be stopped.  I tried."  Xander blinked, tears slipping from his eye and stinging in the empty socket and Drusilla cocked her head to one side, watching him.

"Does it hurt, to cry that bone cup full of tears?  Do you have the seeing still, Wodin Alfadur? Or did that wight take it from you?"  

"I - still see.   I...Drusilla.  What - do you want?"  

"He's gone, beast.   Winked out like a candle...out, out!"  She crossed her arms over her chest and put her nails to her biceps - drew them down her arms and lines of scarlet sprang up behind.  Blood welling in the furrows and there was noise somewhere off to the left; a hiss, quickly muffled.  "Gone and not mine and there's no one left of what was before...no one left..."

"Angel's still here," Xander said, and Drusilla licked her nails, her eyes opaque and far away.  "Oh, daddy's got a new family, hasn't he?  Monkey see, monkey do; he couldn't bear to not have what my Spike had and he infected Grandmummy with his nasty soul...now her get sits on his lap and he won't take away that innocent's toys, will he?"  

"Spike has a soul," Xander said softly, knowing that Dru knew that and wondering why it was different from Angel's.

"Yes - yes he does.  Soul of fire and starlight, and the burning...burning fish..."  She laughed softly.  "His soul is not like to that soul - his soul loves and takes in what it can't kill.  Daddy's soul hates and only wants the darkness to end.  He can't see, can he, that the darkness is the only thing that makes the light so pretty."

"Do you have a soul, Drusilla?" Xander asked, and he took a step up to the door and leaned there, and her hands came out and touched his, palm to palm through the barrier and the screen and the wards.  Cold hands, strong as bone.

"Oh no, sweet beast.  No, no, it was stripped from me - split me open and pulled it out; milkweed silk on the wind, all drifting away.  I felt it go with my blood, and blessed it as it went."   She leaned even closer, until Xander could see clearly the color of her eyes.  Or, the color they were at the moment because they shimmered with the demon's gold and that made the actual color uncertain and shifting.  "I never missed it, but I was cold, wasn't I?  Until my poet came to me; until my William, my Spike..."

"Mine," Xander whispered, and Drusilla laughed, soft and deadly.  

"Yes, yes, yours, little boy - little toy.  The soul that was born to die for you...  I whistled him to me but he dies for you now.  When Angel's gotten his Grail and you've made your peace with that devil in the red dress, you tell my love I've found a new boy to keep me warm.   Tell him...tell him...we're counting crows.  'One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a funeral, four for a boy...'"

"Five for heaven," Tara whispered, and Dru smiled at her, her eyes huge and wet and suddenly very human.

"Six for hell," Derio said, shivering against Xander's side, and Xander slipped an arm around him - around Oz, who was holding Dawn's hand.

"Seven for a secret, never to be told."  A new voice, accented in something unfamiliar and Dru stretched out her hand and pulled a young man into the dim light of the guttering candle.  Taller than she was, hair a burnished copper that fell in wisps and locks to his shoulders.   Huge green eyes, and a slim, ringed hand slipping into Dru's.  Utterly unlike Spike, and somehow exactly like him, and Xander shuddered - leaned back into Tara's hand, that had settled at the small of his back.

"Sinjan," Drusilla sighed, and smiled at him.  "I've killed my Christmas wren, and now it's to take him on procession.  You, beast...Al-ex-an-der..."  Dru pressed her hand to the screen again, pushing, and the wards flared up high and bright.  "You, mind your book and mind your heart and take the Slayer's skin when you're called to go riding.   That's the only way you'll see your love again."  She pulled back abruptly and she and Sinjan turned and walked away.  A moment later they all heard the rattle of a motorcycle's engine, roaring to life and then dying rapidly away.

God, what the hell was that?  What did she mean?   "Everybody - everybody okay?"

"She's scary," Dawn said, and Xander turned around and looked at her and started laughing, pulling Dawn to him for a hard, hard hug.

"She's fucking terrifying, Dawn, and don't ever forget it.  God -"

We're here, we're here - from the wolves, and Tara was stroking his back and he kissed Dawn's cheek and sighed - let her pull away a little.

"Fuck, I - would rather not have talked to her," Xander said, and Oz took Dawn's hand again, smiling at her a little.

"Maybe it's for the best, though.  She left, and she pretty much...gave up any claim.  One less thing to worry about."

"Fuck, I guess."  Exhaustion suddenly swamped Xander - exhaustion that was jangled and tense and he knew that even though he felt as if his bones were made of lead, he couldn't sleep now.  "I'm gonna make some hot chocolate.  Anybody wanna join me?"
"I'd love some," Tara murmured, still stroking his back, and he reached for her and put his arm around her as well.

"Yeah, me," from Dawn, and assent in the link from the wolves.   After a while the kitchen was full of the sweet scent of chocolate and the Souchong Tara had brewed, after all, and Xander let the soft  pack, family, pack soothe him.

Slayer's skin and going riding...  God.  I don’t need more riddles and I don't need...  Don't need more otherworldly CRAP.  Three and a half years, four in July, that's past the halfway mark...  Spike, I miss you...so much.  Waiting for you, love, waiting for you forever and a day, if that's what it takes.



___________________

" The soul that was born to die for you..." is from  A.E. Housman's More Poems.  Spike also quoted this poem to Xander
on one of the postcards from Chapter Ten.

The Xander/Spike phone dialogue is from Chapter Eighteen.

32 Retreat

June was hot - not Sunnydale hot, but hot enough that the last week or so of construction was done shirtless and sweating, hair pulled back with rubberbands and Dawn marching outside with sunblock and ice tea.    The house was finished on June twenty-eighth and that night they had a small party.  Tara blessed the new rooms and they all took turns sweeping the 'bad' energy out with a broom.  Then they burned the broom in the fire Oz had (illegally) built in the back yard, because that was part of it - send the bad all up in smoke.   Derio had a new broom and they made a small and silly ceremony of it - passing it through the smoke of the fire and 'blessing' it, much like Sleeping Beauty's fairy godmother's had blessed the infant.    They went to bed giggling, and Tara went back to L.A. the next day.  And Xander walked into the new studio, feeling a tingle of anticipation in his hands.

Ever since Drusilla's visit he'd had nightmares - some just an uneasiness that persisted through the day, some screaming horrors that prompted Oz and Derio to sleep in the bed with him, curled up close and shushing him when he shivered.  The bad dreams were tapering off, but Xander's head was full of images, now - images of Spike.  Dru had stirred up all the memories that the claim-spell had given him and now he wanted to make those images of Spike concrete.  First was William - bookish, retiring and so very unsure.  In love with love, in love with romance - in love with beauty.  He didn't even really know how he was going to make this - how he was going to put all that was William into a piece of wood - but he was going to try.  A few miles away there had been a lot being cleared for construction and an old, lightning-blasted oak had been cut down.  One section of fire-scarred trunk had simply looked right and Xander had paid the men to haul it to his house and dump it in the yard.  Now it stood in his studio, stripped of its bark - waiting.  Xander flexed his hands, and began.  

Going to carve you, Spike - make something beautiful.  Nothing as beautiful as you, but as close as I can get.   Thinking about you every day, love...waiting here for you.  The house is done... I think you'll like it.  We put new facings on all the doors and windows so they match, and new floors down...  Sanded them so smooth, just for you.  Never have to worry about splinters...  Love you, Spike.  Love you...

For a while Xander had tried to hide how much he talked to Spike.  Like Oz and Derio would think he was crazy.  But Derio did it, too, and then Oz confessed to it, and he'd felt better, then.  He didn't know if Spike could hear them or not, but he couldn't not do it.  If Spike could hear - how much would he hate it if they went silent on him?  And if he couldn't...  Don't care.  Talking anyway because....  Because I miss you, and at least this way I'm...  I'm trying, love.  I hope you can hear me. I hate being here alone.  I hate being HERE, and you're there, and I don't know what's happening to you...  Hold fast, love, hold fast...

He worked for hours the first day - until his hands cramped and he had to either quit or risk ruining something - or hurting himself.  Oz had soup on the stove, still warm, and bread wrapped in a towel, and Xander sat wearily down in the kitchen and ate - felt in the link for the wolves.    They were downtown at a club, working.  Doing a fix for the sound-system and staying to check and be sure it was right.  Getting a reputation with bands and clubs that if you wanted to sound good, those two were the ones to call, because they could balance the music and the  voices so that the bass didn't drown everything out, or the singer cut across all others.   It was the sort of work that suited them both - odd days and hours, musicians and music talk and days spent lounging at home or loafing all over the city.  Dawn called them slackers, but did it with a smile.  

Dawn was, herself, out at the movies with a cousin - or a niece, or maybe an aunt, it was hard to say - of Manny's extended family.  So they knew she was safe.  Dawn's own views on demons had always been more flexible than Buffy's, and Dawn had friends all over.  

Xander drank the last of the good beef soup and put his bowl and cup into the sink - went to stand in the studio doorway.  The last rays of the setting sun glinted off the Duwamish, gold-red gleams on the choppy water.  Sedge and cattails were thick right below their house and a heron rose up suddenly from the dense patch, winging away towards the north.  Upstairs, he and Spike's bedroom also overlooked the water, as did Oz and Derio's, and they'd built a deck up there, for late-night moon watching.  Dawn and Tara now had their own rooms, plus a guest room and a 'music' room that was rapidly filling with instruments and strange, cast-off sound equipment.  The still-room for Tara was off the kitchen and encompassed part of the now-screened in porch, and it was already thick with scents and living green.  Tara had a ledge-ful of herbs in little pots all along the back; mostly for cooking, but some for medicine, and some for magic.  A small wood-burning stove and a refrigerator were in one corner, but the center of the room was taken up by a long, long table that was littered with pots and bowls and beakers, mortar and pestle and a stand of thin, sharp knives.  Dawn had volunteered to keep things in order while Tara was gone, but everyone wandered in from time to time; to clip rosemary for cooking, or pinch off some sage for a little home-made incense, or to nibble the mint that grew sweet and sharp by the door.  

The form that was emerging from the oak trunk was long and sinewy, and Xander wondered if it would convey what he wanted it to.  A man whose every moment and breath and word was aimed towards finding the beauty in everything around him - even to the exclusion of some hard truths.  A dreamer, whose heart was bared proudly for all to see.  A swooning figure, head on hand and eyes turned towards heaven, a spill of books and papers and pens all around.   Xander could see it so clearly; the blocky shape that reclined under the sheet didn't begin to hint at what he dreamed of.  But he was confident.  

Making this for you, love.  You'll tell me I'm a git - tell me William was nothing to be proud of.  But he was you - IS you - no matter how hard you want to deny it.    Xander thought of his postcards upstairs - of Spike whispering Shakespeare and Byron and e.e. cummings in his ear when they made love.  He's you and you're him and I wouldn't have that without him...    Spike would understand even as he pretended offense.

The fourth year ended on July sixteenth and Xander spent it in the studio, making the progressively smaller and smaller cuts and grooves that added details to the statue.   It wasn't a portrait - Xander didn't have the skills for that, and he didn't want it to be a copy.  It was an...impression, with the boldest features highlighted, and the rest done in smooth, sweeping lines.  Only the books and pens were detailed, and the folded pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that Xander - grinning to himself - had half hidden under a drift of paper.   The high cheekbones and curve of Spike's lips were the same - that real smile that was one of Xander's favorite things to see.   But the body was more androgynous than male, and the wide-open, sky-turned eyes were...different, somehow.  

"It's beautiful, Xander.  He is," Dawn said, leaning on his shoulder as Xander slowly burnished the wood with sandpaper, making it as smooth and perfect as Spike's own skin - working around the charred edges of the lightning strike that had, somehow, ended up in the center of the figure's chest.

"You think?  Not half as good as the real thing," Xander said, small smile and small shrug, and Dawn whapped him gently.  

"Don't act like it's not good - you know it is.  It's...  It makes me feel..."  Dawn stopped for a minute, chewing her lower lip and glancing at Xander with a small frown.

"What?"

"Don't be mad at me.  It's like - it makes me sad."  She glanced at the statue and then at Xander again, and Xander just nodded.  "I'm not sure why...  I mean, sad because I miss Spike, but...this isn't really him.  It's like...what he was.  I don't know why that makes me sad."

"I'm not mad, Dawnie.  It makes me a little sad, too.  It's okay."  Xander carefully smoothed the silky black-grey of the charred wood, thinking about William and about Dru.   She said she saw his soul - that it was burning bright.  Effulgent.  Burning right out of you, love.    It seemed important, somehow, that the burned part be a part of the whole - that it be just as beautiful.  Because Spike, in the seeing, did burn.   "I think I'll be done in a day or two," he added, and Dawn walked over to the corner where the twisted roots and smooth trunk of a piece of silvery driftwood lay.

"Do you know what's next?" she asked, stroking it, and Xander nodded.

"Yeah.  Next is...when he was turned."    Dawn's eyes got wide, but she nodded slowly in return, looking at the driftwood with her head a little to one side.

"That'll be...kinda scary."

"Yeah, I think so too," Xander agreed, and went back to his sanding.

By mid-August he had three pieces finished and a fourth started, and Dawn was starting to complain that he never left the studio - that he looked pale and didn't talk to her anymore.   Xander objected that he did leave - he patrolled with Oz and Derio at night - took his turn at shopping for groceries and randomly drove around the city, looking for wood for his next project.  

"But that's all you do, Xander!  You don't - go to the movies or come shopping with me if I ask or - or go to the clubs with Oz and Derio!  You just...do this."  Dawn gestured angrily at the statues and the one that Xander had just begun - a figure stretching up, face turned to the sky, another figure nestled in its arms, but also part of it.  The demon and William, the souls.  Xander stopped with one hand upraised, holding a mallet, chisel in the other braced against the wood.  A cedar tree trunk, and he'd planned it so the red core would show through in places - the red was the demon.

"I just...need to do these, Dawn," he said finally, not knowing what else to say.  There was hurt fear sad love brother love from her, and Xander slowly put the chisel and mallet down.  "Dawn, I...  I just...  Spike -"

"I know you miss him, Xander but - but you can't just hide!  We all miss him."  Xander stared at her - reached up and rubbed at the empty socket, because his head was starting to hurt.  He didn't wear the patch inside anymore.

"It's not the same, Dawn," he said quietly, and she opened her mouth to say something else - turned abruptly and walked out.  After a moment Xander picked up the mallet and chisel again and made another cut, then slowly set the tools aside.  He looked at the rough shape in front of him and then got up, restless suddenly, to pace around the studio.    He went to the finished pieces, hiding under their draping of old sheets - pulled the sheet off the last one.  Spike killing the Slayer in China.  It was a figure frozen in motion - a twisting, whirling shape that somehow danced.  One arm back, the other extended, fingers open.  Turned at the waist so that the torso was at ninety degrees from the feet.  One leg bent, as if preparing to leap, one pushing off, elongated, the muscles sharply defined.   Sense-memory of long hair curling into his eyes and across his neck, so the figure had that, as well, fanning over its shoulders.  Xander ran his hands slowly over the sleek lines of it - over shoulder and hip and thigh - over the clean, curving line of a buttock.  

Seeing Spike in his mind, fighting - seeing the graceful, vicious dance never failed to make Xander's heart pound.

Spike, Spike...so beautiful when you fought...  You loved it, and you were like - like the ocean.  Like a bird...  God, loved to watch you.  Loved to see your power and know I could have it in my hands - I could surrender to it or I could master it...  You'd let me own you - possess you - move you like a doll but all the time...all the time...  I knew you were the stronger one - I knew the power that was in you and you let me...   Xander shuddered, eye closed, leaning against the oiled flank of the figure, his hand tight on the silky-smooth bulge of a calf.  Images flooding him, of Spike - up on the mountain, running through the night.  Lying under him, that body of steel cable and bone flexing to his will.  Of Spike bending Xander to his design, hands and mouth and tongue and teeth making Xander his willing slave.

Oh fuck...fuck...    Xander pulled away with a jerk, his body tingling with desire and frustration, his erection uncomfortable and desperate.   He went back to the new piece - picked up the mallet and chisel and tried to make his hands stop shaking.

Oz sidled in, leaning in the doorway for a moment before coming over and crouching down beside him.  "Dawn's worried about you," he said, pack, love you, what is it, what can we do?

"I know."  Xander put the tools down again - leaned his head into his hands and just sat there, unwilling to tell Oz the truth.  Ashamed.  Spike's alone...  There's no one...  And I'll wait, I can wait, I won't pretend he's here when he's not...  Knowing that was stupid but feeling...feeling that somehow he would be indulging himself, when Spike...  When Spike might be in torment - in pain.    After a few moments Oz's arms came around him and he turned and burrowed into the warmth and almond-musk-wolf scent.  Clutched fiercely at the smaller man, trembling.

Oz, I...  Can't say it...can't tell her...it's like somebody hacked part of me away - like somebody cut my legs off and every day she's asking me to take her dancing.  I have to do this, I have to have some part of him here...under my hands, I HAVE to, I just...CAN'T, I can't stop, Oz...

I know, I know... I'll talk to her.  It's all right, Xan...  Come to us, let us help.  You're...pulling away, again.

"I know," Xander whispered.  He sniffed - took a shuddery breath.  "I know, it's just...  I hate it.  I can't stand him not being here, and....  When I do this it's like...  It's like I'm touching him again.  For just a little while.  Oz -"   Miss him, miss him, miss him, I can't stand this, please...

Shhh...shhh...it's all right...  Come on.  Come upstairs.   Oz got him up - out of the studio.  It was dark outside and Xander realized he had no idea what time it was.  It had been light when he'd gone in.  Dawn was on the computer, typing rapidly and scowling and sister love scared in the link - the feeling that she was talking to Tara, because 'sister' for Buffy was totally different.

Upstairs there were candles burning, as always, and the scents of bay and rose and citrus, lemon oil and cloves were heavy in the air.   Derio came out of the music room, loose cotton pants and his dreads still dripping a little water down his chest from a recent bath.

Xander?  What is it?  It's all right, it's all right, family, pack...love you...    Xander couldn't answer him - couldn't make his brain work well enough to form words.  Just struggled for a moment and then let it go - let the link flood with what he was feeling.  Anger, pain, frustration, fear, anger, anger, lonely lonely lonely WANT him, want him, miss him, Spike, Spike...    They were in Oz and Derio's room now, on the bed, and Oz was holding him and Xander could feel his throat getting tighter and tighter - his chest hitching as he fought for breath.  

It's the only way I can touch him, the only way...not so alone...I'm sorry, I'm sorry -  The dam of misery that the carving had built broke suddenly and he curled into Oz and cried - harsh, racking sobs that hurt, but didn't hurt enough.  He wanted - needed - so much more, and Derio was on the bed, too, getting behind him and holding him tight and Oz's hand on his back, mouth on his cheek, on his temple, kissing and whispering and telling him it was all right, all right, Xander, it's all right.    But it wasn't and Xander cried until he was coughing - until his head was pounding and the empty socket was weeping thready tears.  Derio got a warm towel from the bathroom and he gratefully mopped himself up - sat there hunched and exhausted and still so damn sad.  Oz maneuvered him with deft touches onto his feet and out of his clothes - got him into the middle of the bed and then he was surrounded by the wolves - blanketed by their heat and the weight of them, by the wolf-chant in the link and by Derio's hand on his hip, slowly stroking, and Oz's in his hair, soothing him until his headache gradually eased and he fell asleep.

He woke with a start hours later.  A lone candle guttered on the dresser, and the house was silent and still.  He could hear the faint sounds of the water in the Duwamish - the distant, echoing honk of a tanker churning towards open water.  The ever-present wind that softly rang Tara's wind-chimes, and made the limbs of the chestnut in the yard sigh and rustle.  No rain, but the sharp scent of ozone and the sea, and there would be rain by morning.  Derio was tight against him, leg over his and arm over his ribs, and Oz was half over him as well; his face pushed into Xander's neck, his arm across Xander's waist and on Derio's hip.  Xander lay there, slowing his breathing - trying to remember the dream that had woken him.  Because it had been a dream...  The details were hazy, but the feeling remained.  Spike, holding him - Spike kissing him and touching him, and Xander's body ached - ached with desire too-long denied - a need that seemed to grow stronger every week despite Jack's magic.  He wanted, and he couldn't have, and he trembled with the wanting - was painfully hard, his erection trapped under Oz's hip.  He began, slowly, to disentangle himself - to get away, and Oz's head lifted sharply, his eyes luminous and wide in the dim, golden light.

"Xander?"  What, what is it?

"Let me up," Xander whispered, hurting and desperate and somehow ashamed, but Oz stopped him, hand on his cheek.

"Why?  Xan -"   It's all right.  I know, I know...  Let me help.  Let me help you.  Love you...

No - Oz, I'm not - Oz, I can't -

Yes you can.  It's all right.  Just...flesh, isn't it?  Nothing you haven't shared before...please, Xander, it's all right...   Xander wanted it...  The physicality he no longer had with Spike was as hurtful as the closed-off link; the empty place in his mind where Spike always had been, whispering and laughing and loving him.

Hurts, it hurts -

I know...it's all right...  Just lonely, and we're here, we're here, Xander.  Pack, pack, love you,

Love you, sleepy echo from Derio and a slow caress of his hand and Xander gave in and let them.  He lay shivering under their touches - under soft kisses and lightly scratching nails and teeth that never broke the skin.   Slowly turning and touching them back - tentatively at first and then greedily - desperately - so starved for skin-on-skin he felt almost sick with it.   Harsh breaths, gasping for air - slickness of tongue and lips on his body, slickness of arousal and the taste of Oz and Derio in his mouth; salty-sweet, pepper and lemon and almonds.   He moaned softly, spread wide under them, drinking their touch as thirstily as a desert plant and Oz, fingers deft and clever and all right, is this all right?  Will you let me, Xan, let me, querido...

And then Oz was pushing slowly in, heat and pulsing heartbeat that was so different - so alien - and Derio pushing belly to belly, his hands sliding over both of them, his mouth on Xander's.  The link wide-open, full of love and comfort and want - full of the bonds of the family - the pack - that were like the most insubstantial of spider webs, but would never, ever break.  Xander panted and groaned and clutched at them - cried wordlessly into Derio's shoulder when Oz moved harder - faster.  Shuddered at the feeling of orgasm moving through the link - through the three of them - impossible to tell where it started or ended, and who was first, who was last.  Afterwards he felt lighter then he had in days, and he slept dreamlessly between the wolves, secure in his family.    But he woke to guilt, and lay there in the tangled limbs and sheets for a long time, trying to puzzle it out.

Spike...I'm sorry. It's no excuse, being lonely.  Should never...not without you.  You're alone...  Spike, Spike...forgive me, love...



___________________

querido - beloved

33 Homecoming

The phone was ringing and Xander groped for it, his heart pounding and his hands sweating already.  Three in the damn morning, can ONLY be bad news -  

"Hello?" he croaked, and distantly, he could hear the phone in Oz's room ringing, too.  Oh, god, WHAT?

"Xander?  Xander, is that you?"  A reedy voice - static-riddled and tired sounding, and Xander propped himself up on one elbow, trying to figure out who it was.   Plummy 'Giles' sort of accent.

"Yeah?  Who -"

"Oh, Xander, it's Aunt Portia!"  Static drowned out the next words, and then her voice came back, loud and strong and Xander winced.  "...seven pounds and four ounces, tiny thing!"

"What?  A-aunt Portia -"   Drake's Aunt!  Right...what in hell?    "There was some static on the line, what did you say?"

"I said -" Portia bellowed - and a woman who'd worked in the sun and wind of Egypt and the Sudan for forty years, directing hired help to dig up the desert could really bellow - and Xander almost dropped the phone.  "Anya's had her baby!  A girl, seven pounds and four ounces, two weeks late!"

"Oh.  Oh!  Oh, that's great, that's - congratulations!  Is Anya okay?  Is -"

"She's fine!" Portia continued at the top of her lungs and Xander glanced up to see Dawn in the doorway, eyes half-shut and her own phone to her ear and Anya's had her baby, in the link from a muddled-sounding Oz.  "They've named the poor thing Alice Magdalena Sunny - Sunny for Sunnydale and all her good friends there, Anya says.  Daft thing.  D'ya hear me, Xander?"

"I hear you, Aunt Portia!  That's - that's great, tell Anya we love her and - and to call us soon -"  He could hear Dawn telling someone to email a picture and then Portia had to 'ring off and call the twins, somewhere in Malaysia, should be awake -' and the phone went dead.  There was a thump and then Oz was in the doorway as well, grinning sleepily, leaning against Derio.

"Who'd you get?" Oz asked.

"Portia," Xander said, wincing and rubbing his ear.  "Who'd you get?"

"Grandpa Arthur.  He was babbling.  Dawn?"

"Huh?"   Dawn blinked and jerked her head up, looking dazed.  "Oh - I got that cousin - the one that was here before?  Tad.  Or Tod...some - ahhhhhh - thing."  Dawn yawned hugely and shut her eyes.

"Jar of moonshine in the kitchen from that guy with the guitars," Oz said thoughtfully, and Dawn's eyes popped open.  

"A toast to Alice -?" Xander paused, trying to remember.

"Magdalena," Derio mumbled, rubbing his chin through Oz's tangled shock of purple hair.

"Sunny," Dawn said, and they all looked at each other for a few seconds and then started to giggle.
               
"I'll get the glasses," Xander said, shoving back the covers.  The moonshine was as sharp and biting as liquid fire and Dawn coughed for two whole minutes.  But the baby was wished long life and much happiness on the first day of September.

November was a cold and windy month - a blustery month, Oz said, and Xander liked that word - blustery.  He spent most of it carving and wood-scouting, and the eight statues in the studio were like a strange garden that he wandered through.  Sometimes by sunlight but more often by candle-light; unless he was working and then he sweated in the glare of a halogen light.  His single eye, he had discovered, got strained in dim light more quickly then two ever had.   When he was too stiff to carve, and the wolves were busy - and Dawn was in class or growling at him from her desk, surrounded by mounds of books and papers - he'd go for long walks all along the edge of the Duwamish, or all over Downtown or Discovery Park.  A couple of times, unable to sleep, he'd taken the first ferry up to Victoria and walked around on Canadian soil for a day, some tiny part of himself marveling at the city-boy that now had a need for earth and open sky, water and wind and no other people.  The wolves' sensibilities creeping in maybe, or that night on Mt. Rainer, that came back to him often in his dreams.  Making the hyena restless until he found a bit of open space and could breathe free.   The ache of missing Spike seemed less, out there - as if the hyena could cope with it better, or transform it.  Remembering...didn't hurt as much.  So he indulged himself and came home in the dark, wind-burned and chilly, his mind eager to get back to his carving but his body, sometimes, too tired.

"You're thin, Xander," Derio said, frowning at him - standing behind him in the bathroom while he shaved.  Looking critically at the ripple of rib-cage and the sharp wing of shoulder-blade and hip-bone above the towel.  "You're too thin."

"I'm all right," Xander said, rinsing the razor out and putting it away - washing his face off and looking in the mirror, too - seeing nothing different but the socket of his eye and the length of his hair, that was past his shoulder-blades now and gleaming with dark-red highlights from all the sun he was getting.  No tan on his face because Dawn had drilled sunblock into him all summer and it was habit, now - plus it helped with the chapping wind that blew in and in off the sea.  

"You're not.  Xan - c'mon down and have some breakfast.  Oz made French toast and bacon, even."  Breakfast at one in the afternoon, but that was how this household worked.

"Sure," Xander said, smiling - dressing and cinching his belt down tight, layering a wife-beater under a thermal under a flannel because he was chilly, sitting in the studio.  And the fluffy, wooly socks Dawn had got that he had to use the shop-vac on, because they tended to attract every twist and flake of wood off the floor.  

The kitchen was steamy with tea and coffee and bacon-grease - good smells and good flavors, but Xander barely finished one piece of toast and only nibbled at the bacon, not as hungry as he'd thought.  Derio watched him, hawk-like and Xan, please, it's good, c'mon, in the link.  Dawn was half-hidden behind a textbook and Oz ate slowly, one hand rubbing up and down Derio's thigh, his own eyes flickering from Xander's plate to his face again and again, until Xander finally stood up, pushing his chair back harder then he intended.

"I'm just not hungry right now, okay?" he snapped, and Dawn's head came up as if on a string and her eyes fixed on him, narrow and angry.
"Are you ever hungry?  That's not going to help, Xander!"

"Jesus, what the fuck?    I'm not gonna shove food down my throat if I don't want it, Dawn."  Xander took his plate to the trash and scraped it clean - stuck plate and fork in the sink and retrieved his coffee-cup. It was only lukewarm now and he grimaced and dumped it, not wanting it.  Just want some water, just want - some fresh air, gonna go for a walk -

"Stay in today," Oz said, just there next to him, faded-violet hair contrasting oddly with his eyes, his skin porcelain-fine and nearly translucent in the mellowing mid-afternoon light.  "Come watch a movie with us - we were gonna revisit the wonderful world of Willy Wonka."  Oz grinned, and Xander had to smile back - had the sudden urge to hug the werewolf so he did.  The hug just...lasted, and after awhile they were on the fold-out couch, the four of them in a puppy-heap of plaid throws and pillows, cheering on Charlie and Grandpa and yelling out Veruca Salt's whiney 'Daddy, I want -!' lines along with her.  

Better than a walk, Oz thought, hugging him a little closer.

Yeah, okay...better, Xander thought, and love brothers love love, like a ray of warming sunlight from Dawn.  He ended up falling asleep and woke to Derio curled, wolf-form, at his back, keeping him warm.  Oz in the kitchen, cooking again, Dawn off to class and he ate this time.  Not enough for Derio but enough.  His fingers were twitchy, though, and he was in the studio until patrol-time.  That night, as he did about every ten nights, he went to bed with the wolves, and shuddered and writhed guiltily - desperately - under their coaxing, gentle hands.  

Six years gone for Spike, seven coming fast-but-not-fast-enough.  Xander stood staring at the calendar in the kitchen, where December sixteenth was circled in thick, bright red.   Will it be midnight of the fifteenth or midnight the sixteenth?  Dawn or - dusk?  When, when, when...and WHERE?  Not the Hellmouth, it's gone, so...  Damnit, Jack, didn't tell us enough...   Five days until Spike came home.  Five days until this was all over, and Xander's nerves were fraying fast - his hands were stiff and sore from clutching carving knife or sandpaper, and the wolves were both on edge.  Dawn was nervous, too, but she had finals as well as Spike coming home and had resorted to headphones and flannel pajamas in an effort to both comfort and distract herself.    

Oz and Derio had gone out early on some sort of elusive equipment-finding trawl through the pawn shops of Seattle and Xander was contemplating going out and getting dim sum - there was a place not six blocks away - when the sound of a vehicle pulling up outside made him go to the front door.  A pale blue sedan was parked there, with a U-Haul trailer behind it and - Tara - getting out of the driver's side, stretching hard, Cordy getting out of the passenger side, waving and smiling.  Xander darted outside and jogged down the walk, feeling a grin stretching his mouth wide.

"Tara?  What are - what's going on?" Xander asked, meeting her at the hood of the car and grabbing her into a hard hug.

"Hey, Xander -"   Tara hugged back - smiled up at him, her blonde hair wisping into her face from a messy ponytail.  "I just...   I'm m-moving back."  Xander stared at her and then he hugged her, lifting her off her feet and spinning her around, laughing.

"You are?  Is everything okay?  Did Angel do something?  God - I'm so glad!"  He finally put her down, reluctant to let go, love you brother family rippling out from Tara, warm and sweet.

Oz!  Derio, Tara's back, she's back home!

What? Why?  We're coming - Oz, faint but there, and Xander laughed.  

"The wolves are coming.  Tell me what the deal is."   Tara looked nervous and Xander squeezed her shoulder a little.

"The deal is there's luggage," Cordy interrupted, straightening up with Connor in her arms and a carry-all slung over her shoulder.

"Uncle Xan, Uncle Xan!" Connor was wiggling - struggling - and Xander held out his hands, taking him from Cordy and swinging him around before setting him on his feet.   Connor grabbed his legs and hugged.  "Missed you! We drove all night!  Wanna drink - Uncle Xan, we drove all night!"

"You did?" Xander asked, stroking the bright blond head and looking at Cordelia, who looked - tired.   She nodded and turned back to the car, saying something quietly to Tara, who was pulling a bag out of the back seat.

"We did!  And Auntie Tara sang songs about woods and stuff and me an' mommy played Slug-bug an' we ate Jack in the Box two times!"  Connor was leaning back now, fists in Xander's pant-legs, swinging wildly as he chattered.  Xander leaned away a little, bracing himself, smiling down at Connor and swiveling his leg a little so Connor got maximum swing.

"Wow!  Two times!  Better go tell Auntie Dawn."

"Auntie Dawn's here?"  

"Of course she's here, she lives here!" Cordy swooped down and grabbed Connor, kissing his neck noisily and Connor shrieked and squirmed away - ran up the walk and up the steps, yelling for Dawn.

"So what's going on, ladies?" Xander asked quietly, taking a bulging string bag from Tara's hands and another from Cordy.

"Lots of stuff.  Can we - let's talk inside, okay?  Are O-oz and Derio almost here?"  Brother still in the link, but worry too, and a little fear, and Xander nodded slowly.

"Okay, sure...  Inside.  The wolves..."   Where?

Ten minutes - oops!  Didn't want that drink, anyway.  Eight minutes.   Mental laughter and a cranberry juice stain on the atrocious upholstery of the van.   Xander grinned at Tara.  

"They sacrificed juice for you.   They're almost here."

"What?"  But Tara was laughing, because it just felt good, to be standing there - family again, almost perfect.  He shouldered the bags and Tara pulled a pet-carrier out of the car, cooing softly to Miss Kitty, who looked pissed off.  

"Hey, Miss Kitty," Xander said, and she said 'mwuuuur' in the most pitiful tone imaginable.  "Sinclair's missed you," he added, looking straight at Tara.   She nodded sadly and they went inside, tension layering on tension because why would Tara be afraid?   Connor was squealing, on his back on the couch with Dawn alternately tickling and squashing him.

"Help!  Uncle Xan, help!" Connor yelped, breathless, and Xander swung the bags down, ushering Tara and Cordy towards the kitchen.

"Nope!  I'm skeered of Auntie Dawn!"  Dawn growled and pounced again and Connor rolled off the couch, he was laughing so hard.

"If he pees his pants, you have to clean him up!" Cordy yelled, then walked into the kitchen with an exclamation of pleasure.  "Oh!  Wow, it really looks nice!  Where's Tara's room?  She's talked our ears off about the herb room."

"Here -"   Tara showed off her still-room, her hands touching lightly at bowls and plants and the many-drawered cabinets Xander had made for her, the link settling and her whole self becoming more relaxed.  More...at home.  She's home...   And that felt so good.

"So - what's he going to do?" Xander asked, slowly eating a last mouthful of rice, watching Cordy wipe Connor's face off.  They'd gotten dim sum, after all, and everyone had crowded around the big kitchen table, eating and talking - catching up.  Listening to Cordelia's story about L.A. and a law firm called Wolfram and Hart, and the lengths they were going to to get Angel to join them.  Or to kill him.

"He..."  Cordelia stopped wiping - kissed Connor on the nose and he blinked sleepily back at her, smiling.  "I don't know.  He's running Wes and Fred ragged, researching - trying to find out - anything.  And he and Gunn are all over the city, every night, trying to make deals.  To find..."

"Allies?" Oz asked softly, and Cordy nodded.  The Sidhe gift, that allowed her the visions without the pain showed through more clearly when she was tired.  A certain angularity to her features that hadn't been there before.  A certain fey aura that Xander didn't need the seeing to detect.   Her eyes had a moon-beam sheen to them in the candle-lit room, and she moved with a fluidity that was beautiful to see.  But there were still tiny lines of stress around her eyes, and her knuckles were chapped from washing up after Connor.

"Yeah.  I wanted to ask...  Do you think Mr. Giles would help?  Do you think...the Council?"

"Course they will," Dawn said, and there was steel in her voice.  "The Pembrokes are different than all those old bastards that attacked Buffy.  We'll call 'em right now - Giles is always up."   Dawn was up and out of her seat, grabbing her cell off the charger and Cordy just grinned.

"I knew there was a reason I liked you better than Buffy," she said.  Connor wiggled out of his chair and trotted over to Derio, who scooted back and held his hands when they went straight for the winking beads and trinkets in his dreads.  He made Connor clap his hands and sock himself in the chin, light as a feather, while Connor giggled and struggled.

"Uncle Der-o, be the wolf!  Wanna play with the wolf!  Please please please Uncle Der-o?"

"What?  You're not scared of the wolf?" Derio asked, and Connor shook his head hard.

"No!  Please?"

"Dawn's right," Xander said, watching Oz catch Connor up and hug him while Derio stepped into the laundry room to strip.  "The Pembroke's are...really cool.   I'm sure they can help."  Cordy sighed, her chin on her fist, watching Connor with an almost desperate gaze.

"You know - when I first met Angel he was just - this gorgeous guy, you know?  This different guy.  And all he saw was Buffy and...all I saw was him."  Cordy smiled a little - laughed softly as Derio trotted out of the laundry room, wolf-form, and Connor squealed in excitement and slithered out of Oz's arms, running full-tilt into the wolf.  Derio sat down and let Connor - whose head came just to his shoulder - hug him and step on his paws.  After a moment Derio stood up again with Connor triumphantly astride his back.

"Hold on tight, Connor - hold on to his fur!" Cordy called, and Connor was grinning like a jack-o-lantern, eyes locked on Derio's ears.

"I'm riding him!  I'm riding the wolf!  Mommy, look!  Uncle Xan, look!  I'm riding the wolf!"

"We see you, baby boy," Cordy called, as Oz opened the kitchen door and Derio strode serenely out into the back yard, Oz following behind and Connor bouncing now, kicking his heels.

Expect a looong massage, later, Derio thought, and Oz laughed, pulling gently on the heavy, fringed tail.

"Anya, that's great but I need to talk to Giles, okay?" Dawn walked through, snagging a fortune cookie, rolling her eyes.  Anya always had baby news - more than even the most tolerant of baby-lovers could absorb, usually, and Xander grinned in sympathy and then turned back to Cordelia, who was slowly stacking plates and gathering silverware together.

"Yeah, I get that you...had a crush, Cordy," Xander said, stacking empty containers, and Cordy shook her head slowly.

"It wasn't so much a crush as...  I just wanted to have something, you know?  Somebody.  I mean - I was Queen C and I had my...court, but...  I didn't really have anybody - not anybody that cared about me more than they cared about my dad's money. "  Cordelia stood up and carried the dishes to the sink - got some water running and Xander cleared the rest of the table, stuffing the little white and red boxes into the big paper bag they'd come in and shoving it all in the trash - going over with cups and glasses and showing Cordelia where the dish soap was.

"And then there was you -"  Cordy looked over at him and smiled - the old smile, that she'd given him once or twice when they were dating.  That fond and happy smile that, once upon a time, Xander had lived and died for.  That now only reminded him of the same smile on Spike's face, and made his heart twist painfully in his chest.    "I really screwed that up, Xander," Cordelia said softly, and Xander stared at her in surprise.    "I didn't realize - until it was way too late - how special you were.  How special you made me feel."   Xander didn't know what to say to that - leaned over and kissed her cheek, softly, smelling witch-hazel and saffron and rosemary.  

"Always be special to me, Cordy," he said, low, and Cordy sniffed and smiled - nodded her head and stuck the forks and knives into the soapy, hot water in the sink.

"Yeah.  And now - Angel is...that.  Angel is the one that makes me feel...so special and Connor...  God, Xander - if anything happens to Connor I don't - I don't know -"

"Shhhh - Cordy, hey -"   Xander grabbed her and hugged her hard, and for a moment Cordelia just clung to him, shuddering.  

"Cordy, I've got Giles on the phone - come on and tell him what you told us!" Dawn called from the other room and Cordelia slowly pulled away - took the dish-towel off Xander's shoulder and dried her hands.

"Thanks, Xander.  I -"

"Yeah, I know.  Go on," Xander said.  He wiped the tears off her cheeks with the towel and shooed her towards the living room and she took a deep breath and lifted her chin - so much herself, and strode into the living room.  

"Giles!  Have I got a story to tell you..."  Xander smiled after her, and found the dishrag, and started washing.

"So why'd you really come home, Tara?"  Cordelia and Connor were tucked snugly into the spare room, and Dawn was passed out on her books downstairs.  Xander and the wolves had got the last of Tara's things upstairs and now they were all piled on the bed, worshipful court at their Queen's feet.  The cats were running in and out, still a little skittish of each other.  Tara smiled tiredly at them and ran a finger down Xander's arm to his hand - curled her hand into his.

"You know I really...like Fred.  I think I - love her."  She glanced up at them, curtain of blonde hair and quickly lowered eyes and Xander squeezed her hand encouragingly.

"Yeah?   That's - isn't that good?"

"It's good," Tara said, then took a deep breath.  "But...I don't love her, not like..."  Like Willow, all unspoken.    "And I don't like living in L.A.  I really m-miss you guys."  There was a moment's silence and then Xander was hugging her, and Derio was trying to, and Tara was laughing a little, confused.  "What?"

"I'm sorry Tara but...we're glad," Oz said, getting his own hug.

"Missed you," Xander confirmed, not letting go.  "We wanted you home.  Is it - awful?"  Tara was smiling - bright smile and wet eyes, and she hugged them all back fiercely.  

"No - it's not awful.  And I w-wanted to be here for - for when Spike comes home," she finished softly, and there were small noises of agreement from all of them.  

Family now, pack pack pack, all good, love you all, love you, Xander thought, and he felt - for the first time in that long and awful year - as if things were finally going to be all right.

The sixteenth came - and passed - and Xander hadn't eaten, hadn't slept.  The whole household was silent - frozen - just waiting.  The link was a wordless ache, and Dawn - finals done - spent her time going from the wolves to Tara to Xander, doing her best to comfort and begging, silently, for comfort of her own.  The knowing was over them all, and Derio was pale, with dark circles under his eyes and he never stopped pacing, pacing, pacing.

What is it, what's coming, where IS he?  Spike, Spike, Spike...   The constant thrum and friction of whatever was stirring was wearing them all down, and Xander knew if something didn't happen soon he was going to snap.   And something was stirring - he could feel it - they all could.  He could feel the hyena waiting; so tense and ready that it hurt.  The eighteenth came and then ticked over midnight into the nineteenth and suddenly Derio stopped, lifting his head.  A storm had been working its way inland all day and now it broke over them; rain and wind and thunder - lightning blue-white and dazzling.  The few lights they had on went off, between one shock of thunder and the next and the candle-glow was eerie and confining - threatening.   Sinclair was yowling like a lost soul - like a banshee - and Miss Kitty was under the couch.

"Dawn -" Xander said, holding out his hand and she hurried to him - got behind him when he pushed and the wolves were already half-changed, circling restlessly.  Tara was chanting softly, pouring power into the wards and they sparked up bright all around the house - will-o'-the-wisp glimmer around every door and window - around the whole foundation, new and old.

"It's close, it's close, it's -"   Not Jack, not Scavenger, what, what-?   Derio whined, wolfish bewilderment and the wind gusted; rain like pebbles battering the house.  And something else, flying at the front door, solid weight like a bird or a cat.  It clung there, outlined in the ward-fire - strangely elongated and making a hissing noise as tiny fists battered at the screen.

Jesus, do I -?

Let it in, it's all right, it's -   Derio was rigid, watching it, and Xander moved slowly to the front door and opened it - cracked the screen.  The creature ducked around and flew inside, chittering.  It circled the room once and then perched on top of the tallest bookcase, looking down at them.  Obviously ill at ease and soaking wet, besides.   Sinclair spat, hissing furiously, and fled upstairs.  They all just stared blankly for a moment, and then Tara stood up slowly, her hands out.

"You're welcome here.  We won't harm you.  Do you - h-have a m-message for us?"  The creature - long and skinny, a hairless cat with a disturbingly human face - launched itself from the bookcase and flew on tissue-thin wings straight at Tara.  Inches from her it pulled up and hovered, and Xander realized that it was female, and had a tail and talons on its primate-looking hands.  It was just barely twelve inches, over all, but the gauzy wings were twice that, nearly transparent and pulsing with veins.

"She sends, She sends, She, She, She!" the thing lisped, and Tara nodded slowly.

"What - what is the message?" Tara asked, voice impossibly quiet - almost drowned in the raging storm that continued to batter at them.

She?  Does it - she - mean the Queen?  Or the - the other one or - where the fuck is SPIKE?

Calm, calm, just a messenger, just a - homing pigeon, Oz said, and Xander clenched his fists and nodded.  Dawn was sketching surreptitiously in a notebook, her eyes enormous, and Derio was crouching beside her, looking ready to spring.  Xander felt Oz's hand in the small of his back and he tried to just...wait.

"Scavenger comes - he has the news - do what he says - two days!  Two days."  The creature flicked up and then down and then sideways, like a hovering dragonfly and Tara nodded slowly.

"He'll tell us - in two days - what to do?  For...Spike?"

"Sssssspiiiiiiiiike...." the thing hissed, its face twisting in what might be a smile or a snarl and Xander felt his heart lurch - his stomach drop.  "Yesyesyes.  Now there is cake.  Scavenger said cake."

"Yes, there's cake," Tara said faintly, and got up and moved slowly to the kitchen.  The creature - the fairy? - followed her, humming around her head.

"What - the fuck - is going on?"  Xander couldn't catch his breath - couldn't actually see, the hyena was so enraged.  Everything was a grey-washed tunnel, with pack pack pack the only thing that made sense.  He wanted to rip throats and bellies open wide until he found mate mate mine Spike mine mine MINE!

"Xander -" Oz's hands on him - around him - and he turned and buried his face in the familiar scent and taste of the wolf - felt Derio's heat and weight behind him, and then Dawn crowding close as well.

"Fuckin' kill him, kill Jack, what the fuck -"   He didn't think he could survive two more days without knowing.  Tara came back into the room, holding a paper towel to her finger.  The fairy had a lump of pound-cake in its front - paws?   It was eating hungrily and the hyena smelled blood, and roared.

"It's okay!  Xander, it's okay -"   Tara was holding his arm hard, other hand to his face, and Xander stared at her - at the creature, who was baring its teeth.  "It's how you do it.  It's just a drop of blood, it's okay," Tara said, trying to sooth him.  He glared at the creature, who made a gruesome face back, huge eyes like amber lamps and long, predator-sharp teeth.

"What's going on, you?" he snapped.  The fairy swallowed the last of the blood-stained cake - licked itself, too catlike to be real.

"War, it's war, Ssspike'sss," it hissed, and then it was gone, flitting out the screen door and seeming to take the storm with it.  The rain settled to the usual relentless drum - the thunder rattled rapidly away and they all slumped to the floor, exhausted - heartsick.

"Sounds like Spike," Oz said, shaky voice - shaky joke - and it was laugh or cry.  They laughed.

Two days, Tara had pointed out, was the Solstice night and that seemed to make everything worse.  The longest night of the year - magic and otherness and secrets - and when a shadow with red-glowing eyes appeared at the door Xander pounced, snatching Scavenger inside and slamming him into a wall.  The pooka snarled, aspect shifting, and Xander slammed him back again - rapped his head into the wall and growled, and Oz and Derio were right there behind him.

"What the fuck is going on?  Where's Spike?  What has Jack done?" he grated, and Scavenger sagged in his grip, not fighting. Not standing, and Xander watched dispassionately as the pooka slumped, sliding down the wall.  There was blood on his face - dirt, or soot - and a raveling bandage on his arm.

"It's war, Alex-an-der.  The...pixie said, didn't she?  War."

"I don't give a fuck for your wars!"  Xander crouched down and grabbed the raveling sweater Scavenger was wearing, jerking him close - letting the hyena rise up.  Watching the shift of unease in the pooka's eyes with satisfaction.   "Jack said Spike would come back - the same as he was - a year and a day!  Where is he!  Jack lied."

"No - didn't lie.  He came back."  Scavenger held very, very still and Xander was aware, just barely, of Tara behind him, and Dawn - of a sword-point coming over his shoulder and coming to a stop in inch or so from Scavenger's face.  The pooka hissed and tried to twist away from it - from the iron that hurt him - but Xander leaned on him, hard, making him be still.

"Where.  The fuck.  IS HE."

"Ss-seelie Court!  He's - in the Seelie Court.  When - they let him go, out of hell, Jack was there, and the Queen.  She wanted to - to see the one that hell had given up so much for and she - wanted him.  She t-told Jack he could come back to the Seelie Court if he got S-spike to come to her."

"He wouldn't stay there -" Xander gasped out, his whole body singing as if he'd been hit - as if he'd fallen down a flight of stairs.

"No, he - he wouldn't, he didn't - Jack put a g-glamour on him.  Said he was free of hell and l-like he was and that fulfilled his - pact so then - he -"

"Shut up," Xander choked out, and the pooka's mouth snapped shut, his eyes very wide.

"Can he do that?  Is - is that -"

"He can," a new voice said, and they all jerked - looked around wildly, searching.  Another figure - much like Scavenger but thinner - blond - crouched in the doorway, leaning on the wards as Drusilla had leaned on the barrier before.  

"Wing -" Scavenger moaned, and the other shot a look at him, eyes like blazing white fire.

"He can, he could, he did.  Now they have him in the Wild Hunt, and tonight he consummates his marriage to the Queen.  And the She has lost her consort, and the She...is at war."

"Say it again - explain it again!" Xander snapped, jerking Scavenger towards the point of the sword that - Xander finally realized - Dawn was holding.

"The Queen of Air and Darkness had a king - and he fell in love with the Queen of the Seelie Court, and he made a bargain, and he was hers.  But she lost interest and sent him back again and he - he has plotted and planned to get her back - to have her back."  Scavenger's eyes flicked from sword-point to Xander's face, his skin ashen, his whole body trembling from the poisonous iron.    "He thought she would take him back for this - for the easing of the tithe, but she's taking another - she's taking Spike, and she'll never want him again - she's giving him to her Court.   And the She - wants her own back.  Wants Jack back."

"How do I get my own back?  That's all I care about god damnit, Scavenger -"   The pooka held up a shaking hand, shivering hard as the sword eased closer yet and Derio snapped at him, wolfish fangs and jaws.

"Ride.  Ride with me.  North - to the Hunt.  You'll see the Court - you'll see them all and you'll see him, and you must take him and hold him and not let go, Alex-an-der, not let go no matter what, do you understand?  No matter what is said, no matter what is done."  Xander stared at him - felt despair and anger welling up in him so high that he was close to just killing the pooka right there - not even sure if he could, but he wanted to, oh god.

Xander, no - think -   Oz pushing something at him, image - image of Drusilla and her new companion - Drusilla leaning on the barrier and the wards flaring up around her.  

"You, mind your book and mind your heart and take the Slayer's skin when you're called to go riding.   That's the only way you'll see your love again."

She knew - she knew, she knew, god -   Xander stood up abruptly, pulling the pooka to his feet, pushing the sword-blade gently aside.    "I know what I have to do - and you're taking me there.  Where are you taking me?  They're going to meet us there -" he said, gesture back towards his family and Scavenger took a hard breath and nodded.

"It's north - north, the park by the Hill, by the grove of the dead -"

"Interlaken?" Derio asked, and the pooka nodded.

"Lay lines - power, there.  She can ride out and ride in, and then he's hers.  We have to hurry, Alex-an-der."

"Yeah.  Oz - you guys go!  Get there and maybe - Tara -"

"I'll do what I can," Tara said, and turned and ran towards the still-room.  Dawn was yanking on the old work-boots by the door and Oz had taken the sword and Xander suddenly turned and ran himself, pounding up the stairs.

"Wait -!" the pooka shouted, but Xander ignored him.  Skin of the Slayer.  His coat - Spike's coat.  Has to be.  God -   Xander stumbled into the bedroom and yanked open the closet door - pulled out the coat.  He held it for one moment, the feel of it, the scent of it flooding him with Spike mate mine family mine mine.  And then he pulled it on and ran, down to the pooka and the night.  

Scavenger was on the porch and he leaped to the yard as Xander came out - changed, in a flurry of blackness and coal-red sparks and the horse that he became bowed down, foreleg bending - offering its back.  Xander climbed on awkwardly - looked down to see the pale, blond Sidhe - Wing - looking up at him.  

"You'll not fall off a pooka's back if he wants you to stay on.   When you see your Spike, you must take and hold and not let go.  And when he is himself again, cover him with that coat.  Do not speak, do not falter.  All rides on this, all hinges on this," the Sidhe said, hugging itself as if it were cold and Scavenger shifted, stamping.

"Why?  Why does it all hinge on - on me?  And Spike?"

"Pacts have been broken.  Things have shifted.  If they fight - it will be a war the heavens have not seen for a hundred million years.  The She will fight for it all back.  Ride now!  Scavenger, run!"  Scavenger half-reared up and Xander saw Tara and Dawn and the wolves running to the van - getting in and the headlights flicking on.  The pale Sidhe ran as well, towards the Duwamish and leapt and dove, transmuting as he went into something sleek and pale - seal, or whale, or snake, Xander couldn't tell.

And then Scavenger was running flat out, heading north, skimming water and earth as if they were nothing - muscles like iron under Xander's thighs and he bent down low, hands fisted tight in a mane of silk and smoke.  The patch whipped away in the wind and he buried his face, Oz and Derio in the link, the string of beads burning his chest.  Going to get Spike.

They stopped somewhere in dense woods - it was dark, and the storm had come muttering back while Scavenger ran, and Xander was lost.  He slid stiffly down and the pooka shifted, human again, naked.  He grabbed Xander's arm in a steel grip and pulled him down.  

"They're coming.  All along here.  Hide, and let them pass by until you see Spike.  He's on a white horse," Scavenger whispered, and then they simply waited.    Long moments passed, and Xander felt his body trembling - his breath tightening in his chest.   He chanted the wolf-chant softly softly in his head; his fingers on the beads and his eye open wide, trying to see in near-blackness.  There was water somewhere nearby, moving lightly and quickly.

Safe?  See him? from Oz, and Xander shook his head.

No - I don't - Oz, god -I...  Wait - wait, there's -   He stared, straining his eye - shaped the seeing-word with his lips and felt Scavenger's fingers, hot and dry, on his mouth.

"No, must not.  They'll feel it.  Just wait," Scavenger murmured and Xander subsided.  There was a pale blue-green light coming from somewhere to the right of them, and as he watched Xander saw the shapes of horses slowly emerge from the blackness.  Black horses and brown ones and grey, all sparkling like glass figures in a shop-window.  The people on their backs were tall - thin - beautiful, and Xander stared as they rode past, sending the images to the wolves.

God - the Queen - that's her - Xander thought, as Scavenger stiffened beside him and a woman on the back of a dancing grey horse rode past.  She was pale as snow, with long silver-white hair done up in braids and loops and falls.  She was like ice and fire together and Xander felt...small.  Grubby.

No.  Hero.  Spike's Knight!  His love and his life and his own, Xander - do you see him? Oz, growling through the link and Xander blinked and looked again.

"Where is he?  I don't see him!" he whispered frantically to Scavenger and the pooka shot him a look - pointed with a shaking hand.  A white horse - a man on its back.  Black trousers and boots, a shimmering white shirt and a brocade coat like Jack's, blood red.   And a fall of long, dark hair oiled into ringlets and held back by a band of silver and ruby.  Another Sidhe.

"That's not -" Xander started, and then he looked, and it was - it was.

Spike!  Spike, my god, that's - Spike!   "He can't hear me!"

"It's the glamour!  Go, now!"  Scavenger pushed him, hard, and Xander leaped up and ran - ran to the line of horses and Sidhe, to the still, pale figure on the white horse that rode as the others did - eyes only for the Queen.   He reached up and grabbed fistfuls of leather and brocade and silk and pulled, and with a small cry of surprise Spike toppled off the horse and onto him.  Xander's breath was knocked out of him and he lay there, clutching Spike so hard it hurt, gasping for air.  He buried his face in Spike's neck, searching for something - anything.   And found it.

Scar.  That's the claim.  Oh GOD, Spike - Spike, wake up!   Xander's breath whooped back into him and under the smells of horse and rain and mud and myrrh, he could smell Spike.  Blood and cloves, and he felt tears in his eye.

"Spike?" he whispered, and Spike lifted his head.

"Oh, you do not dare," a cold voice said, and Xander looked up at the Queen of the Seelie Court and Spike twisted, convulsing - screaming.    And then he wasn't holding Spike anymore.  He was holding a hot, heavy body - stink of sweat and cheap wine - of Aqua Velva.

"You've done nothing but disappoint the both of us.  Just one long string of regrets and sorrow.  You're a sorry excuse for a son - for a man - for a human -"   Xander shuddered in revulsion but hugged the man close - buried his face in the sour flesh of the joweled neck and hung on.  A cough - a convulsive heave - and the body shivered and changed and shrank.

"Why'd you do it, Xander?  Why'd you do it?  I thought we were friends - I thought you loved me!  You didn't even give me a chance - not a chance -"  

"Jesse, oh god -"   Xander hugged the wiry body closer - sucked in boy-scent and soda-sweetness and tears.  Not him, it's not him, Xander - pack, pack, pack -   Oz's voice, whisper in his head and Xander shuddered - held on.  Hold fast, hold fast, we're coming, querido!   Another shuddering twist of the body in his arms and Xander smelled blood - blood and old wine and something musky-sharp and that drawling, hated voice -

"What is it that you see NOW, sinner?  What do you see?  I see an empty heart - an empty house - an empty life.  Forever's too long to ask of an angel, don't you think?  Flawed and imperfect and MAIMED that you are -"  

"Fuck you!" Xander gasped, teeth gritted and his hands like claws in the black coat of Caleb's priest-garb.  But he held on tight as the man fought him - as iron hands scrabbled at his face.  "You're not him, you're Spike and I'm not letting go!"

"Let go, oh, let go, let go..." a new voice sighed, and the body he was holding cooled - thinned - became softly feminine and Dru's dark hair foamed across his mouth - her legs twined with his and her scent of church incense and jasmine filled his nostrils.  "I've had him for a century and more - I MADE him, I chose him - I can UNMAKE him, sweet little boy - kitten without claws...  I KNOW him, sweetling, like you NEVER will...my poet, my sweet William -"

"No, you gave him up!  You left him and I took him and he's mine!  You hear me?"  Xander crushed Drusilla to him - lifted his head and let the hyena roar its rage and terror.  "He is mine!  I chose him - I love him - I want him and I will not let him go!"  Then he let his face drop into cool, white flesh and bit, hard and deep.  Drusilla screamed - writhed - shrank in his arms and suddenly Xander wasn't holding an animal or a human - he was holding fire, that danced along his arms and face and burned like acid.  He screamed, clutching it closer - felt a hand in his back pushing him and he staggered up and ran; stumbled and fell and rolled through wet leaves and mud and a crunching dead bush and suddenly into water.  The fire hissed like a thousand snakes and his arms were empty.  Gravel dug into his elbows and knees - into his shoulder and he scrabbled madly.

"Spike!"  His hands found something in the darkness - ice-cold flesh.  An arm - a shoulder - and Xander was grabbing Spike and hauling him up - stumbling backwards and falling onto the gravel and dirt edge of the stream, falling on his butt and almost knocking the wind out of himself again.  He twisted, Spike like a lifeless doll in his arms as he fought to get the duster off.  Hands were at his shoulders, suddenly - hands and someone yanking - pulling - and the duster slithered free and Xander flung it over Spike.  Over a Spike who was naked and still, and far too thin - far too cold.

"Spike - Spike - wake up, love, please - Spike -"  Xander pulled him closer yet, tucking the duster around Spike's ribs and shoulders - aware of Oz and Derio, of Tara and Dawn crouching not far away.   And Scavenger, half in the water, mud on his hands, his eyes like scarlet fire.  Light was coming closer - cold and white-blue, and the Queen sat there, astride her horse.  Shining like a star or a firefly, staring down at him with her lips drawn back in a snarl.  Xander looked back at Spike - at the mud on his face and the leaves tangled in the impossible, knotted hair.  He gently stroked Spike's face - his lips - leaned down and kissed him, tasting iron and water and something like lemon, and nothing else.

"Spike -" he whispered.  There was a sudden shift under his hands - a heaving of ribs and belly, and Spike's eyes opened wide, staring at him.  He lay there, utterly still; blinking once, slowly, when something fell onto his face.  A tear, that landed on his cheek and wended away into the hair.  "Love - love, it's me -" Xander whispered, and there was a tiny shiver - a tingle.  And then a flood - sensation, emotion - pain and pleasure and horror and despair, slamming into the link and out again in seconds.

Xander - like a distant echo.  And then stronger.  Xander.  Love...   "Came b-back," Spike whispered, and Xander gathered him in as close as he could and just held on.