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Notes: Dark AU, Spander with Wesley.
The Assistant part 10
Riding in the elevator with two vampires, one of them unsouled, is more than a little claustrophobic. To his credit, Xander is clearly making every effort to seem harmless, to the point of pressing himself against the far wall and staring at the floor between his feet. Or maybe it's not for Wesley's benefit; maybe he's just that demoralized. Coming out of the cage, he almost tripped over his own feet, he was in such a hurry.
Spike stands holding the end of the Xander's chain, watching the numbers light up on the panel above the door. As if he does this kind of thing every day.
For the first time, it occurs to Wesley that Spike is handling things very well. Better than Wesley is himself. Especially considering...well, everything. He has a flash of Spike tearing into him outside the library, half-yelling into his face. It still stings, but at least it makes better sense.
The elevator comes to a halt and dings gently. Wesley's crossbow finger is starting to cramp.
When the doors open, Spike walks out and Xander falls in behind him without hesitation. There's slack in the chain, as if they've already worked out exactly how to do this. Wesley allows himself a moment to feel extremely odd, then follows them out.
They walk single-file to the library, Xander in the middle. Spike in front, the crossbow behind. Xander's still barefoot, Wesley realizes. He forgot to find shoes, when he went up to Xander's room.
"Right," Spike says, as he opens the door to the library and walks in. "Ground rules. First of all, nobody bites anybody. First person to bite gets a nice piece of wood right through the heart. Understood?"
Xander says nothing. Spike looks at Wesley, then back at Xander.
"Wesley understands," Spike says. "Do we all understand?"
"Yeah," Xander says, staring a hole through the floor. "Yeah, I get it."
"Good. Don't think I'm joking, Harris."
Xander lifts his hand to scratch his nose. The chains clank.
"Well," Wesley says, laying the crossbow carefully on the table, "perhaps I'll get back to what I was doing."
"Rule number two," Spike says, looping his end of Xander's chain around the leg of the long table and taking the padlock out of his pocket. "No funny looks. No threats. No eyeing anybody's jugular. You get hungry, you tell me and I get you a bag. I see you thinking about drinking from the source, I drop-kick you right back downstairs."
Xander sits down slowly in a chair, and nods. He seems strangely subdued, almost preoccupied. He hardly seems aware of the fact that his hands are bound at the wrists, or that he's chained to the table. He doesn't even watch as Spike snaps the hasp home.
"Any other rules?" Spike asks, and Wesley takes a moment to realize that's directed at him.
"I suppose there's no point asking him not to use anything he hears against us."
Spike gives Xander a considering look. "Want to go back downstairs?"
Xander looks startled. "No."
"Then don't use anything you hear against us."
Wesley purses his lips and turns away. "Thank you."
"Read a book," Spike says, skimming a volume of Bufwulder across the table at Xander, who catches it automatically. "Make yourself useful."
Xander doesn't open the book, but sits with his hands on it, studying the room. His eyes are shadowed, and everything about him seems troubled and tentative. It's the room Angelus attacked him in, Wesley realizes suddenly. The room he was taken from.
"Perhaps Xander would be more comfortable in the offices," Wesley says quietly, catching Spike's eye.
Spike gives Xander a quick look, and shrugs. "Not safe to leave him alone. He'll get over it."
Wesley hesitates, then goes back to his end of the table and starts thumbing through pages. Spike opens his own book and props his head on his hand.
Xander scratches his nose again, and his chains clank.
Four hours later they're no further ahead than they were, and Wesley is beginning to recognize signs of exhaustion in himself. His eyes won't stay in focus, and his mind is wandering. It's foolish to keep on, so he shuts the book and stands up, wincing at all the aches.
Xander and Spike lift their heads in eerie unison, like dogs catching a distant whistle. Wesley clears his throat.
"I'm...I need a few hours of sleep. Will you be all right without me?"
Spike shrugs. "I could use a kip, too." He leans down, unlocks Xander's chain, and starts unwinding it from the table leg. "You should eat something. When's the last time you had a sandwich?"
Sorting papers, Wesley doesn't realize Spike is talking to him for a moment. Then he can't think of the answer to Spike's question. Suddenly his stomach is a black and bottomless pit.
"You're right." He pauses, not sure what the social niceties are in this situation. "I'm sure Xander could use a meal, too."
"Cooler's in the hall," Spike says, wrapping the chain around his fist. "You going to throw it at anyone this time?"
Xander gives Spike a steady look that could not accurately be described as remorseful. Spike twitches the chain, which clearly means stand up. Xander stands up. It's disturbing.
"I'll be back here by ten," Wesley says, and walks out.
He goes to the break room and takes a cup of dehydrated noodle soup from the shelf above the sink. It takes less than a minute to microwave, while he draws a glass of water at the tap. He carries it all down the hall to the security room, and sits down wearily in front of the screens.
Angelus is sitting on his bunk, whistling Danny Boy. There's a dark spray on the wall behind him, which it takes Wesley a minute to recognize as the blood Xander threw at him. While he watches, Angelus reaches a hand above his head and casually tests the strength of the crossbar. He pulls hard enough to lift his body slowly off the bunk. The bar holds. He lets go and examines his fingernails, still whistling.
With a shudder, Wesley checks the other screens. No movement on any of them, except for the one in the hall outside the library. Spike's standing watching, holding the end of the chain, while Xander sucks blood out of a bag. There's already one bag lying empty on top of the cooler. Spike's got a lit cigarette in his free hand, and an unlit one tucked behind his ear.
With a strange sense of guilty fascination, Wesley rests his forehead on his hand and watches them.
Xander finishes the bag and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Spike leans over and thumbs Xander's neck critically. He's saying something, Wesley realizes. He reaches for the volume, hesitates, then turns the dial.
"--looking better." Spike turns Xander's face to the side and inspects the throat wound, simultaneously dragging on his cigarette. "That scar'll be gone in a couple of days."
"Great. I can wear scoop necks again."
"You done?"
Xander folds the top of the blood packet neatly over on itself, drops it on top of the cooler, and nods. Spike takes the unlit cigarette from behind his ear and holds it out. It's strange to see Xander take it, strange to see him lean into the flame of the lighter and blow a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. Even with his wrists chained, he does it absently and comfortably. Wesley wonders if he picked it up in Africa, or somewhere else along the way.
"Come on," Spike says, transferring the chain to his cigarette hand and hoisting the cooler onto his shoulder. "We'll chuck these in the fridge and get to bed."
Wesley leans back in his chair, rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes, and drifts for a couple of minutes. The room is so dark it's like being in a velvet-lined coffin. It's restful. Finally he sits up again, picks up his fork, and starts in on the terrible noodles.
Angelus is walking the perimeter of his cell, inspecting the bars. Spike and Xander are in the elevator, heading upstairs. There's no sound in the elevators, but they don't seem to be talking anyway. They're standing on opposite sides of the car, the chain strung between them in a black arc. Spike is watching the numbers light up. Xander is staring at his feet.
They get out on Spike's floor, and walk down the hall to his apartments. He keeps hold of Xander's chain while he unlocks the door. Then he gestures Xander inside, and looks back over his shoulder, directly at the security camera.
For a moment, Wesley has the strange impression that Spike is looking straight at him. He leans back in his chair, heat flushing his face.
Spike goes into his apartment and closes the door behind him. Inside, he's long ago shut the cameras off manually. Nothing but black screens from those feeds.
The noodles are mealy and oversalted. Wesley drops them in the rubbish bin and leaves, the back of his neck hot and his palms damp.
