Childe of my Heart ~ Chapter Thirty-four
by Shanyah
 

Xander set the bowl of chilled strawberries on the counter and blew an impatient sigh at Bob. Painstakingly writing on a sheet of paper, the old man paid him no heed.

“I told him, I says, Master Tresten, them Dutch pots outdated. Folks needs gas cookers like I got here,” Bob clucked, shaking his head. “But Amo Tresten don’t like nothing modern, woulda never had refrigerators and deep freezers installed in the big kitchens if’n Amo Groza hadn’ta coax him,” Bob shuddered. “He ugly as sin, that Master Groza, bad as it too. I can’t work out what it is ‘bout Groza that gets Amo Tresten droolin’ like a…”

“You done with those instructions yet, Bob? I’m running late,” Xander reminded with a tapping of his foot. He didn’t see how hearing the finer points of Tresten and Groza’s relationship would enrich his life.

Clucking again, Bob folded the sheet of paper and held it out to Xander. “I didn’t use my best ingredients on that stew for Fred to cremate it, you be sure and tell her.”

“Sure,” Xander grabbed the stew re-heating instructions from Bob, picked up the bowl of strawberries and ran to the unit, arriving at 01:30 for 2:00am. Dawn the hostess was dazzling Technicolor in a Cheongsam and embroidered slippers, pink blusher sharpening the cheekbones in her pale face.

“Hey beautiful,” he greeted, handing her the strawberries. “Have you lost weight?”

“A little and I’m graying,” she turned her head to show him where a lock of silver hair was tucked behind her ear. “Lizelle figures it’s stress,” Dawn said.

“Stress will gray you. Who’s Lizelle?”

“She’s Spike’s Unbonded hairdresser,” Fred said. “Lizelle does our hair now and I’m not sure about stress, Dawn. All those products you begged her to use were enough to scare anyone’s hair white.” Fred brought a ceramic serving dish from the butcher’s block to the table, placed it over the tea-light food warmer and went back for a basket of bread rolls.

“Need any help?” Xander asked. “I brought stew warming advice from Bob.”

Fred slipped on a pair of thick leather gloves and went to the fire, “It’s all under control.”

That it was. The talented Ms Burkle transferred two bags of blood from the pot on the fire to a jug on the table, food warmer in situation, no spillages. Fred was all cleavage and coltish legs in a cream wrap-around silk blouse and tight blue jeans.

Xander sat out of the way, in the hammock. “They have jeans in the market?”

“Spike can find jeans anywhere,” Dawn held up a flask and a pitcher. “Wine or fruit juice?”

“Beer? Can Spike find beer anywhere?”

“I didn’t ask for beer. It makes you burp all night. So?” She jiggled the flask of red wine.

“Yes please,” he said, a little staggered at how they’d filled the gap, got on fine without him. They had a catering service, a hairdresser, tailors and went shopping for jeans, smart white tablecloths, flashy cutlery and place mats. The flip side was he was doing great too, had his mission to re-grout the bathroom tiles.

Dawn brought him a glass of wine and took lady-like sips from her man-sized glass. The slippery slope of under-aged drinking starts with a glass of wine, Xander thought and then he wasn’t thinking much at all, mesmerised by Dawn’s fit of hyperactivity as she carried on setting the table. Plates placed onto mats, moths slapped down and their partially paralysed bodies flipped onto the fire. A flower arrangement rearranged, napkins folded, her glass refilled; and throughout the table laying, moth slaying and wine drinking, Dawn giggled, a draught teasing the silver wisps of hair at her temple.

“Not going to say hello, Harris?”

The intimate drawl dried Xander’s mouth and the dryness glued his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He glanced behind at Spike in the doorway, black jeans, black T-shirt, blond hair darkened by gel…or was it water? Water, he decided when Spike came closer, shampoo and shower gel and an undercurrent of smoke.

Dawn brought a tea-towel covered silver tray to the dinner table, an almost knowing chortle bubbling from her lips. “Dinner’s served.”

*    *    *    *

Dinner was a green salad, blood, red wine, lamb stew, red wine, strawberries and between the strawberries and another course of wine, Dawn swept the tea cloth off the silver tray. In high spirits, they oohed and aahed at the line of seven wristbands on the tray. Dawn picked up the first wristband in line and slid it across the table to Fred.

“You’re always working with metal Fred, hammering away so this is your insignia.” It was a copper bangle, pock marked by a hammer’s head.

Fred slipped the bracelet on. “Thanks,” she said doubtfully. “Is it okay to wear it, even though it’s not maroon or leather?” She asked Spike.

“Do you want to wear it?”

Enthusiastic nodding from Fred.

“That’s that then,” Spike said.

Next in line was a watch with maroon leather straps. Dawn buckled it on and smiled mischievously at Spike “It’s an insignia-watch, neat huh?”

“Bloody genius,” Spike bumped his shoulder into Dawn’s. “Which one’s mine?”

“Xander then you last,” Dawn said. Narrower than a cigarette, the maroon wristlet she turned over to Xander was reminiscent of a friendship bracelet.

“I couldn’t get it any more low key than that and I thought you wouldn’t mind wearing it so much if it didn’t have buckles, buttons or Velcro,” Dawn explained.

Xander snapped the wristlet on above the chunky band he already wore. “It’s a low key sensation,” he said, meaning it, “thanks.”

“Phew,” Dawn wiped her brow. “You get buckles aplenty,” she turned to Spike holding out a leather strap.

Wide, black and with a thin stripe of indigo leather standing out along its centre, the band had three buckles. Spike flipped it over and shouted with laughter at the inscription on its tan inside. “Cheeky sod!”

“What’s it say?” Xander asked, starting to smile.

“Spike of Aurelius, made in the UK and refined in the US,” Spike buckled the band on. “The day you yanks refine me is the day I give up this unlife.” He turned his wrist, brought it close to his face, tilted his head and viewed the band from arms length. “Love it. I’m going to wear it on ceremonial occasions and the like.”   

“How proud are you?” Dawn asked.

“Crazy proud, poppet.” At ease and oozing with confidence, the fishbone rings catching the lamplight as he stroked his thumb across his lip, Spike in that moment, was the sum of all Xander’s desires.

“Do you want some water, Xander? You look a little…I dunno, flushed?” Fred asked.

“It’s the wine,” Xander draped his arm around Fred’s shoulders. “Beer makes me burp, wine makes me flushed,” he soothed her arm, his palm sliding on the silk of her sleeve. Spike followed the glide of his palm down Fred’s arm, tawny sparks flaring in his steel blue gaze. A responding flare set off Xander’s libido. He released Fred and dropped his crumpled napkin into his lap, feigning interest in the last three bands on the tray.

“Are these Spike’s spare bands?” He asked.

The bands were similar to Spike’s except they had narrow stripes of maroon leather mounted on wide indigo straps. One band had three maroon stripes, the second had two and the third had one.

“They’re samples of the Unbonded’s insignia. Three stripes of maroon for the Reserves, two for the Drones and one for the Select,” Dawn said.

“Dawnie…you gave the Unbonded indigo bands?” Fred sounded faint.

“They’re part maroon,” Dawn pointed out, complete lack of concern.

Xander blew a low whistle. “Tresten’s going to have a hernia.”

“And may it be larger than a beach ball,” Spike light-stepped to his bedroom door. “Give us a hand, Harris.”

Inside the room, Spike pulled open the wardrobe doors and sighed at the clutter on the wardrobe floor. Xander sighed at the changes in the room. A single bed instead of the double. The pitcher of water, glass and travel clock he’d kept on the bedside table gone and nothing in their place. He looked into the wardrobe over Spike’s shoulder and saw even less of himself there, three sets of his white tunic and pants pushed to one side of the rail by Spike’s mostly black clothing. Xander’s high spirits nose-dived.

“Did you find the wise, old fountain of knowledge?” He asked.

“Didn’t go in the end,” Spike bent down to the mess on the wardrobe floor and tugged at something. A Nike sneaker flew out and thudded by Xander’s foot.

“I’ve been wondering about these,” Xander said.

“The other side’s gone walkabouts. Can take this one and the last of your gear tonight if you like.”

Spike passed him a quarterstaff, a sheathed sword, stood upright and turned with a sword in each hand and an ornate dagger handle sticking up out of his front jeans pocket. Xander stepped right to make way, but Spike stepped in the same direction and they brushed against each other, need sizzling between them as tangible as the swords they gripped.

“The room…” Xander paused on hearing the scratchy quality of his voice. “It’s different.”

As a hand pulls the drapes back to show an outsider the inside of a room, so Spike lowered his gaze to Xander’s collarbone, eyes masked by eyelashes, vulnerability unmasked by the gesture. Xander itched to reach out to Spike, but his right to do that had gone out with the double bed. He stepped back.

Spike strode out into the courtyard, stood at the head of the table and placed the weapons on it. “Fred. You drop your right shoulder within five minutes of climbing into the ring. Your right’s your killing hand, can’t have it dragging.”

He drew a sword out of its scabbard and laid it before Fred. Sleek steel gleamed, sapphires in the shape of Libria’s symbol twinkled blue on the sword’s black handle.

“For me?” Fred gulped. “It’s so pretty, thank you Spike.”

Yes it’s pretty; pretty darn dangerous, Xander thought, edging his chair away from Fred’s as she swiped the sword in the air.

“It’s lighter by half than standard issue – practice with it. Want you to ditch research, work on your technique and on that powered Launcher contraption.” Spike passed another loaded sheath to Dawn with a confidence Xander didn’t feel.

“Dawn, your double grip’s a hair shy of perfect. It’s why you get the broadsword. Good hip and shoulder turn into your side-swipes. Ferocious downward swing, needs fine-tuning, though.”

Dawn flashed Spike all her teeth in a grin that equalled Tresten’s. “What’s a good accessory for a rubied sword - tiara or nose-stud?”

“Give a bint tasteful jewellery and she wants a bleeding tiara,” Spike huffed.

“I like it, honestly I do, but jewels are for flaunting and,” Dawn grasped the handle of the sword, covering up the Leo glyph drawn in rubies, “these jewels are not flaunting, Spike.”

Xander could see the tension in Spike’s shoulders and for a second there, thought Spike would morph at the teenager. The fact that Dawn’s grin held more than a hint of provocation didn’t help any.

Spike braced his palms flat on the table and slanted his torso towards Dawn, his expression scarily friendly. “How many times has Buffy taken you slaying with her?”

Dawn quit smiling. “Not many,” she said.

Spike switched his focus onto Fred. “The Pouf’s choosing three of his team to tag along on an investigation. Does he a: ask you to go with or b: ask you to stay behind and take down phone messages?”

“B mostly,” Fred said, red creeping into her cheeks. “But someone’s gotta take messages.”

“Shame the answerphone’s not been invented yet, eh?” Spike then coughed in Xander’s direction.

“What was that?” Xander asked, eyes narrowing.

“He said Mr Fray Adjacent.”

“Yes I heard, Fred. And fray adjacent isn’t where Buffy puts me anymore, Spike,” Xander said firmly to drown out the heckling of his self-doubt.

“Oh come on! Shipping you off to another dimension pretty much puts you fray adjacent. If A.I and the Scoobies were one big football team, Slayer and Pouf would double up as strikers and goalies, the Watchers would be the coaches, the others would play defence and you lot would be in the locker room, where them who can’t strike or defend are stored so they won’t score an own goal.”

Silence as the locker-room three digested Spike’s criticism.

“Are we still talking about jewels? Because I cheer and I’m sure the team could use my star quality pom-pom waving at field-side,” Xander said after a while.

Dawn and Fred looked like they couldn’t decide whether to titter or frown. The titters won.

“That’s more like it,” his shoulders relaxing, Spike straightened up and executed a half-smile. “You must’ve seen them, the humans in this place; souls shrivelled up and spirits departed. They’re the alive dead. But not you three, months on and you’re still in the game. That takes star quality far’s I’m concerned,” Spike laid the last sword in front of Xander. “You shine and the gems on your weapons are there to remind you of that, no matter if people tell you different.”

Silence as the shining three digested Spike’s criticisms turned compliments. The kettle on the fire whistled, breaking into the introspection. Dawn made coffee, went round dispensing hugs and turned in. Fred washed up and Spike dried. Xander remained in his chair, a guest excluded from the domestic goings-on.

Wiping her hands on the tea towel Spike held, Fred said, “I’m skipping coffee. Sleep tight, guys.”

“You too,” Xander said.

Spike folded the towel, put the dishes away and came to stand by Xander’s chair, his hip firm, cool and missed, brushed Xander’s arm. Itching again, this time to curve his arm around Spike’s waist and steer him into his lap, Xander studied the emeralds on the handle of his short sword.

“Xander,” Spike said. “Good evasive moves, powerful arms, phenomenal stamina; you could do damage with any weapon you choose. But you tend to rush in, get in too close for a clean hit with a regular sword. It’s why,” he eased the sword from Xander’s hand, “I had Stumpy made for you. Move in, stab, withdraw and repeat.”

Xander gave in to his itch. He curved his arm around Spike’s waist and towed him down and there was shifting, the chair’s legs scraping on the flagstones, the sword cluttering onto the table, a husky oath somewhere in there and strained breathing and Spike was where Xander had wanted him to be all night, possibly all week; seated astride him, fingers threading through his hair and mouth slanted over his, kissing the hell out of him.

CHILDE OF MY HEART ~ CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Index     Fiction     Gallery     Links     Site Feedback     Story Feedback