Chapter Nineteen
Xander looked up at the face reflected back at him in the mirror. He was standing in the tiny bathroom off his office at the shop he managed, dressed only in a pair of jeans. Water dripped from his unshaven face, his dark brown eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. He was starting to lose weight because he hadn’t eaten right since he’d left the house. He ran a hand through his hair, looking at the man in the mirror, and didn’t recognize who he had become.
“Xander, my boy. You look like shit,” he told the reflection, sighing as he took out a can of shaving cream, and his razor. He’d been avoiding everybody pretty steadily over the last two weeks, not wanting to have to deal with their questions. He felt bad for not going to see Spike, especially since he’d had to retire and was probably not taking it well. But, he knew at this point, that they’d probably not do each other any good. They were too caught up in the messes they’d made to worry about being supportive of the other.
With another sigh, he squirted some foam into his hand, and spread it over his face, fighting the memories that had been plaguing him since he left. He was an internal mess, his heart constantly screaming at him, loud and high-GO BACK HOME! Go lose yourself in the soft, comforting arms of your wife, and soothe yourself with the laughter of your daughter. But his mind refused. His trust in himself had been badly shaken, and he didn’t know how to get it back.
He turned the faucet on and ran his razor under it before bringing the blade to his face. Images forced their way to the front of his consciousness. Images of the last five years of his life, beginning with the day he had stormed into Cordelia’s house and taken her away with him. The day they got married, just the two of them, and the justice and his wife there to bear witness. The look on her face when he showed her their apartment. It wasn’t much, but she made him feel like it was Buckingham palace. The day she graduated high school, her round stomach making her burgundy gown tent out. She was beautiful, holding the diploma proudly, one hand resting on her stomach. Jazz was born two days later.
The image of his daughter, resting in her pink blanket, Cordy’s arm curled protectively around her while she waved at the camera, her smile making her tired, pale face radiant.
The day Jazz took her first step, said her first word. Their first anniversary, when Buffy and Willow had taken the baby and had treated them to a night out to dinner, and a hotel room. The girls’ friendship had been cemented after Spike left and Cordy had to deal with the ridicule of her former friends. Buffy had been a wreck, throwing herself into school, and actually graduating with the ability to go to just about any college she wanted. But the following summer her mother had gotten sick and she had thrown herself into taking care of her and Dawn, forgetting about herself and her dreams, whatever they may have been.
Things between the Harrises had been happy. Not storybook, not fairytale, but happy. They fought, a lot. They made up, a lot. And neither had ever doubted their decision. Then, at Jazz’s last birthday, Cordy had invited her parents, wanting to make amends. He hadn’t blamed her, and had been on his best behavior. They had breezed in with their presents, which all cost more than the ones that he, Cordy, Buffy, and Willow had bought combined. Jazz hadn’t been fazed, being too young to understand the value of things. He didn’t let it bother him though. Until it became a habit.
Every week they would come up with some reason to buy her gifts. From expensive china dolls, to a new wardrobe. Xander had only given token protests at first, not wanting to be the bad guy. In fact, the only fight that he and Cordy had gotten into over her parents’ spending was when they wanted to buy the house. He had finally given in, when he had made it clear that he would pay back every dime. Cordy had agreed with that, understanding his need, and sharing it, taking a job at the gallery after Joyce got sick to help Giles. But, it only got worse after that.
They used the house as an excuse to drop by uninvited, ridiculing everything that they had bought to furnish the house. Katherine had even brought in a decorator, while he and Cordelia weren’t home, to decorate Jazz’s room. Whenthey had gotten home, and realized what she had done, they’d had to go to the dump to retrieve some of the more precious items that Katherine had just thrown carelessly away. The bunny Spike had made special for her first birthday, in it’s pink fire suit, and a helmet with it’s ears pulled through. Her name had been printed on the back. The dream catcher that Mark had given her when she’d been plagued with nightmares, strangely enough brought on by the Little Mermaid. Particularly the scene where Ariel’s fins had split into legs and she had started drowning. Once Mark had presented the girl with the pink and white dream catcher, not another bad dream had plagued her. These and other treasures that had been given to her granddaughter had been thrown out like so much garbage. She had been flabbergasted when the Harrises had presented a united front against her, telling her that if she ever did such a thing again, she would no longer be allowed in their home.
The final straw had occurred just two short weeks ago. Jazz, like every little girl, had wanted a pony. Xander and Cordy had patiently explained why she couldn’t have one. She had responded that she would just ask grandma. They had forbade her, but being four, she had done it anyway, not expecting her parents to have already told Katherine no. The older Chase woman had gone against their wishes and bought the pony.
Xander had been livid when he found out. He had expected Cordy to back him up. But when all she had done was tell him to calm down, they had already bought it, why not let her keep it, he had wigged. One thing led to another, and suddenly they were in the middle of the nastiest fight they had ever had. He had called her a rich, selfish bitch who didn’t want to live on what he could provide. She had called him a scared little boy who didn’t know when to just back off.
Then, it had happened. He couldn’t really say what had triggered it, what she had said to make him even consider doing it. But the next thing he knew, he was in her face, his fist cocked back, his face twisted with rage. To her credit, she had just stood there, arms crossed over her chest, her chin thrown back as if giving him a target. He didn’t know what had stopped him, or how he had suddenly come back to clarity, but he had dropped his fist, and had hit his knees in front of her, begging for her forgiveness. He didn’t feel her soft hands on his shoulders, or hear her words as she tried to tell him it was alright. All he saw, all he heard, was his father, doing the same to his mother, to him. He had stumbled up to his feet, and out the door, blindly running down the street, away from the image. In five years he had never done such a thing, never even THOUGHT of doing such a thing. And he had almost done it.
Now that he thought about it, she didn’t have any fear in her eyes. She just looked at him like she knew he wouldn’t do it. He just wished that he shared her confidence.
With a final tap of the razor against the sink, he turned off the water, and grabbed the towel. He missed them both so much, it was a physical ache in his chest. He wouldn’t go back. Not as long as he was afraid that he would hurt them.
Scrubbing the towel over his face, he dropped it on the edge of the sink, and turned away from the reflection of the man he didn’t like anymore.
~*~*~
Rupert looked down at the prone figure of his son, a tired sigh erupting from his chest. Spike was sprawled in the same chair he had been in the night before when Giles had gotten home, still passed out. On the table next to him, was the empty, cigarette butt filled scotch bottle. Rupert shook his head, sadness and worry weighing heavily on his heart. He didn’t know how to help him, and he hadn’t been able to get ahold of Xander for any kind of assistance. In fact, last night had been the first time in days that he had seen the blonde out of his room. He would come out after Giles was in bed, grab something non-substantial to eat, then disappear back inside his room, never answering when his father knocked. The phone was full of messages from reporters and fellow drivers, wanting to talk to him. The mailbox was filled with cards and letters from his fans, and well wishers. Nothing could break through the shell that Spike had built around himself, and Giles was at a loss.
The longer he looked down at his son, the more he let his anger take him over. The anger he’d had since the little prat had taken off with nothing but a note to explain his whereabouts. The anger he had that his son wasn’t thankful for the life he still had, instead of wallowing in self pity because he couldn’t drive a car around a track. Giles didn’t even pretend to know very much about NASCAR, or stock car racing in general, but he did know that plenty of other drivers had left their driving careers behind to have lucrative careers doing other things involved in the racing field. Announcers, owners, and consultants were all, more often than not, former drivers. He could do one of those things, and still have a foot in the world he had come to love. But he refused to see it.
An idea started to form in his mind, a childish, non-Giles idea. He could almost hear Rosemary cheering him to do it, because it would be something that she might do when faced with a depressed, mule-headed child. He turned away from the prone form of his son, and walked into the kitchen, searching the cabinets. When he found what he was looking for, he turned and completed his task. A few seconds later, he was standing over Spike once more, looking down at him. After contemplating him for a second, he lifted the pitcher of ice and water he had in his hand and dumped it on the unsuspecting man, soaking him and the antique leather chair.
“Bloody hell!” Spike sputtered, falling off the chair with a thud. He shook his head like a wet dog, spraying his father and the furniture in a fine mist of cold water. A piece of ice had slid down his jeans, and he was desperately trying to get it out before it reached his bits. Giles watched the display, not even trying to hide his smile. When the offending piece of ice had been retrieved, Spike glared up at his father, his chest heaving in deep breaths. “What. The fuck. Was that for?” he demanded, rising to his feet, his electric blue eyes clashing with those of his father.
“That, was a wake up call,” the older man said, placing the pitcher on the coffee table, then turning back to face off with his child.
“What?” Spike snapped, stripping off his sodden, black t-shirt. He looked up again at Giles’ sharp intake of breath. Rupert stared at Spike in shock. He had known that the boy had lost weight, he just hadn’t realized how much until this second. His body, which he had once taken so much pride in, was skeletal. His stomach, which was once ridged with muscle, was now slightly sunken, a testament to his lack of eating. Giles could clearly count each rib through the layer of pale skin. His arms bordered on sticks, and his jeans rode low on his hips, showing the too sharp outline of his hip bones. Spike looked guiltily away from his father, clenching his jaw, and making his cheeks hollow out even more.
“What the hell are you trying to do?” Rupert gasped, his voice stunned as his eyes took in the destruction his son had wrested on his own body. “Kill yourself?” Their eyes met then, and Spike’s scarred eyebrow shot up.
“You told me to find a less flashy way if doin’ it, didn’t you?” The older man’s eyes widened in the second before he moved, shocking his son with his speed. He found himself yanked against his dad, Giles’ hands banded tight around his once muscular biceps. He was surprised by two things. One, his father’s fingers hurt, biting into his flesh fiercely. Two, he couldn’t get away from him. He struggled weakly, his near seven month diet of booze and little food making it impossible for him to extricate himself from the iron grip. Rupert’s eyes were blue fire as he drew Spike closer, anger making his own body rigid.
“You stupid, selfish little git,” he started. Spike continued his token struggle, baring his teeth and practically growling at his father. “You think your life is over because you can’t drive a car around in circles anymore?” He gave Spike a small shake as if hoping to rattle some sense into him. “Of all the ridiculous things. You still have plenty of things you could do, but you’re too busy wallowing in self pity to see it.”
“What the hell do you know about it? What have you lost?” Spike snarled, realizing his mistake the second the sentence fell from his mouth. He stumbled back when Rupert pushed him away, and landed hard in the soaked leather chair once more.
“I lost the love of my life. Your mother, since it seems you need to be reminded.” Guilt slammed into Spike at the sound of raw emotion coating his father’s words. Tears rushed to his eyes as her image drifted through his mind. He blinked them back, his hands fisting in his lap. He refused to look up at his father when he continued. “I almost lost you. So don’t you dare sit there and think that you’re the only person to lose something. You’ve been so wrapped up in your own personal pity party that you’ve no idea what’s going on in your friends’ lives, do you?” Ever so slightly, Spike shook his head, risking a glance up at Giles.
“Haven’t heard from Xander since I got back,” he said, his tone accusatory.
“Oh, well, you’ll just have to excuse him,” Giles spat, his tone letting them both know just where his son’s sarcasm came from. “His marriage is in the process of falling apart. Forgive him for not rushing right over here and picking up the pieces of your life.” Spike’s eyes snapped back up to Rupert’s.
“What? Why?” he demanded.
“I honestly don’t know. According to Cordelia, he’s been gone for two weeks, and none of the others have heard from him, other than for him to let them know where he was staying.” Spike’s mind was spinning with this information, trying to figure out why. He had just seen them in February, and all had seemed well. *Wait,* he thought, *has it really been that long?* His eyes closed when he realized that, yes, it had been that long. Anything could have happened between now and then. He was ashamed of his selfishness, but he still wasn’t quite ready to let it go.
“Sorry to hear that. But it doesn’t change anything.” Giles sighed, wondering just where all this stubbornness had come from.
“You know, William. For the first time since she left us, I’m glad your mother’s gone. At least she doesn’t have to witness the selfish little prat you’ve turned into.” The younger man nearly lunged at his father for that, but wisely refrained. The condition he was in now, Rupert would be able to knock him back on his ass with no effort at all. He resorted to stony silence, letting the other man know, that as far as he was concerned, this conversation was over. Giles, however, wasn’t quite done.
“Now, I suggest that you get off your arse, and take a good, long look at what’s important. You still have your friends, your health, for the most part. And me. I love you, Will, and it kills me to see you this way.” A muscle in Spike’s jaw ticked at that, but he said nothing. “Get up, clean yourself up, and go outside. Maybe look for a place of your own. You have more than enough money.” Giles took off his glasses, and rubbed them, studying the tense line of his son’s face. “Will, your life is not over, despite what you think. You’ve grieved long enough. Now, it’s time to pick yourself back up, and figure out what you’re going to do now. You’ll never get Buffy back acting like this.” He chuckled when their eyes clashed again.
“She’s engaged, Dad,” Spike bit out, each word leaving a bad taste in his mouth. Rupert nodded, not denying the truth of the statement.
“Yes. Yes she is. She has been for six months now. And has yet to set a date.” Giles let that sink in for a moment before continuing. “Now, I’m going to work. I expect this mess to be cleaned up when I get home.” He turned and started towards the door, keys in hand. “Oh, and Will.” He looked back to his son, eyes boring into the younger man’s. “Don’t think you’re too old for me to put over my knee the next time you steal my twelve year old scotch.” Spike only scowled at that. Once the door closed, he snatched up the bottle in question and flung it, letting out a satisfied grunt when it shattered.
“And that had better be cleaned up when I get home, as well,” Giles said, poking his head back in the door. Spike growled as his father disappeared once again. He sat like that, for five full minutes, feeling the cold water seeping into the already wet denim of his jeans. He entertained a few black, nasty thoughts about his father, before unfolding himself from the chair and walking towards the supply closet. Muttering the whole way, he returned with the broom, a dustpan, and some towels. He glared at the picture of his father on the mantle for good measure, before bending down and cleaning up the mess on the floor.