lusciousxander: (grabby hands by Moscow_Watcher)
[personal profile] lusciousxander
Fic: Teenage Dirtbag
Author: [ profile] lusciousxander
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: PG 13
Setting: Starts during Lover’s Walk, S3. Spike's POV throughout.
Summary: Halfrek gives Spike the curse that will change his entire life.
Note: This fic is written for the Reviving Spander Ficathon.

Super thanks to [ profile] devo79 for being my awesome beta.

Previous Chapters

Part 14:

Made by Tickyboxes

Mrs. Taggart places the test booklet on my table, and with tired eyes I stare at where I’m supposed to write my name. I have studied. Been a true swot. But a certain brainless wanker kept interrupting my train of thought, and substance and energy didn’t seem to matter.

Glancing at the boy sitting behind me, all that worrying amounted to nothing ‘cause Xander hasn’t offed himself last night at the Bronze. He didn’t even go there. Rupert was generous enough to take my concerns seriously and called the boy’s house. He told me Xander pissed himself laughing ‘cause who goes out clubbing when there’s a big test the next day. He can lie through his teeth all he wants, but there’s no fooling me. He can’t hide it for long, one day I’ll catch him flat-footed.

Was it really a lie though? The question catches me flat-footed. Is Xander really harming himself? Not last night apparently, ‘cause there he is, fine as rains, and desperately trying to tick the right answers. Once Buffy shuts her gob that is.

“You see, the thing was, Faith knew I didn't even wanna go down there...”

Mrs. Taggart clears her throat. “Ms. Summers?”

Buffy turns around, jerking her seat and knocking mine, pencil flying to the floor. I really hate this chemistry lab! Every time I wind up here, bad luck strikes. My brassed off stare floats from Buffy doing a buttoning her lips gesture to the teacher to my pencil on the floor as I lean down to take it.

I turn to the first page in the booklet and stare at the twaddle written in it. Multiple choices; shouldn’t be hard. First question: This gas law deals with pressure and…

“Okay, so the best part...”

I grit my teeth when Buffy starts again. Can’t see the teacher. Must have slipped out to the loo or do something better than waste a whole period watching children sweat and whimper.

“Buffy. Test?” Willow interrupts Ms. Chatterbox urgently. “You know. Remember? The thing you didn't come over to study for?” Despite her passive aggressive approach, the bitterness in her words don’t seep into her tone.

“Right. Got it.” Let’s hope she means it. The slayer has become such a skiver since the last apocalypse – too much time with Leather Pants ought to do that.

I glance at her settling in her seat. She notices and mistakes my fleeting look for interest. Grinning from ear to ear, she pushes her chair closer next to mine. “So, Will, we were at the sewers…”

“Do I look desperately bored to you? Get stuffed!”

She purses her lips, then turns around to face Xander and Willow again. “Sorry. Okay, so we're down there, in the sewers, and Faith got three of them on her at once...”

“Hey! Whoa!” Xander cuts her off. “Can we resume Buffy's 'Ode to Faith' later, like when I'm not actively multiple-choicing?”

There’s a pause. “How come your eye twitches every time I say Faith's name?”

I look over my shoulder at Xander whose eye does twitch. “What?” He lets out a nervous chuckle. “No, it doesn’t.”

Buffy leans in closer to him, her eyes intently watching his face. “Faith.”

His eye twitches again, and he slaps his hand over it. “Cut it out! We got a test to take, okay? And I'm highly caffeinated, and I'm trying to concentrate. Some of us actually care about school. You know.”

I return my gaze back to the test, but once again Xander stands between me and conjugate acids. He appears perfectly normal with a side crush on Ms. Bad Influence. Is it all in my head? The boy isn’t really a sad clown after all?


Ride back is as silent as death; slow, agonizing and endless. I don’t think Rupert will utter a word. Last night still too fresh and raw in his mind. I rest my head against the glass and close my eyes – could use some shuteye after spending a whole night worrying about nothing.

“What do you think of the new watcher?”

The question comes as a shock on its own, and it takes a few seconds before what he asked registers. The council’s new replacement has arrived yesterday; a younger, rather carbon version of the codgers who shipped him to take over Rupert’s duties as Buffy and Faith’s official watcher.

“Uptight and a bit of a plonker. Why do you ask?”

Rupert shifts his hands on the wheel and arches his back, a long due sigh leaks out. “After our blow up last night, I have been thinking. In the past two and a half years, I have been neglecting you in favor of Buffy and her calling.”

I cock my head to the side. “Understandable.”

“Of course, but now that Wesley’s here, I thought instead of trying to drive him away – an approach Buffy seems to be taking – it would be for the best to take him under my wing, teach him how to operate well with Buffy. That should give us an opportunity to leave Sunnydale permanently after your graduation.”

My eyes strain wide as I process his words. “What?”

“You were accepted in Oxford, which wasn’t an easy task as you know. Two and a half years away from a proper English education was not in your favor. Your grandmother’s relations and connections contributed to your acceptance.”

His foot leaps to the brake, almost crossing a red light. Another sigh escapes his lips, and down goes the glasses for a quick clean up. I watch him, words lost, unable to comprehend what he’s saying. Leave Sunnydale? Away from the Hellmouth? Away from a chance of going back to where I belong?

“But this is where your part starts.” He puts his glasses back on and looks directly at me. “This is a chance of a lifetime, William. I know you will do well once you apply yourself.”

“What about being there for Buffy no matter what?” Is that curiosity in my voice or desperation to stay?

“That was before I realized your future is at risk.” Genuine smile of a father graces his lips. “You come first, William.”

I have never known my real father. Or if I did, I don’t remember him or his influence in my life. Anything about him has faded away in a century worth of more important and crucial events. Rupert’s heart to hearts always leave an unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach. Heart raging and body heating up, horrible feeling, add up his intense stare fixated on my face. Can we have a head-on collision with a car rollover on the side?

Rupert starts the car when the traffic light signals green. “Speaking of your future, how was your chemistry test today?”

Any words on that car crash?


Sodding hell, they are longer. I line up my fingers again, matching the base crease with the palm. My right hand fingers are still longer than my left hand fingers.

Hands dropped to my sides, I stare at the ceiling and fight off a new yawn, my leg swinging back and forth. No TV, no computer, no phone calls. Rupert should get a medal in the arts of punishment.

I push myself off the bed and wander around the room, touching this and that. The framed pictures already collected too much dust. Slipping onto my chair, popping my neck and my sigh turns into a full blown yawn. I start to open and close my desk’s drawer, watching the contents inside jiggling.

I open the drawer and stop, my gaze focused on William’s little notebook of love poems. There’s nothing else to do. I grab the small book and fling myself in bed. First page already has a poem handwritten by Nancy Boy.

Camouflaged Grief is the title. ‘Camouflaged’? Young William does have range, doesn’t he?

He jokes, he smiles
His laugh rings false for those who care
He jokes, they laugh
Of subterranean pain they are unaware

He charms, they buy
Uniting the world with his facetious might
Strolls about with the mask of a clown
Sealing the darkness underneath the light

Doesn’t sound bad. Not exactly keen on the rhymes, always felt they bound a poet. But for a child in the modern world, he’s got potential.

Now, of course, the object of our boy’s interest here is none other than Falstaff Harris. I check the date under the title; March 16th, 1997. William, you love sick puppy, been bearing a torch in silence for that long?

Look who’s talking, the bitter thought twirls in my head. Who is William but a modern version of me. My infatuation with Cecily should be locked and drained out of existence.

My eyes see, all he conceals
For the eyes of love are not always blind

‘Love’? William, oh, William, you naive little fool.

Behind all the smiles are the tears
For the contemporary loss conquers his mind

Night and night nightmares never end
Jesse appears and disturbs his sleep
Face of the devil bursts to dust
And his guilt and grief cut too deep

“William?” Rupert’s voice muffled behind the door. I stumble out of the bed and kick the notebook under the desk.

Soft knocks on the door followed by Rupert’s head peering inside. “Your mother’s on the phone.”

My eyebrows furrow. “Since when she started calling?”

“I informed her about what happened last night.” He has the decency to look guilty at that. “It’s clear you feel a tad full of resentment after what happened with your mother.”

Give me a break. The corner of my mouth tips up and my eyebrows sink into a disbelieving gaze.

“I just want to do what’s right. I want to make amends.” He opens the door wider and gestures for me to go out. “Best not to keep her waiting for long.”

I shake my head at him and walk out of the room.

I may not remember my real father, but I remember my mother well enough. Dread in the pit of my stomach, the thumping of my heartbeat blocking all sounds around me. Haven’t seen her since the nineteenth century, her face is a vague blur, but the intense feelings she evokes are as strong as I remember them to be.

Unsure fingers clasp the phone, and fear of impending doom takes over as the phone touches my ear. “Hello?”

“William darling, how are you doing?”

Coldness tempers my soul, and my tight grip on the phone loosens. “I’m doing all right.”

“No, really, your father tells me you have been experiencing some changes.”

Her voice, her tone, honeyed and penetrating, but doesn’t arouse memories or feelings. That’s not my mother’s voice. Years might have passed, but I still remember the croaky edge of her voice troubled by constant coughing, and the quiet affection that drips when she sings…

“William, are you still there?”

“Um, yes.”

“Did you get a backlash from your father?” her voice grows stentorian and unpleased. “You know how he gets sometimes.”

Anger tightens my chest and flushes my cheeks. “No, I don’t. How does he get?”

“You don’t need to get testy on his behalf.”

Unable to take it anymore, I directly ask, “Mother,” dragged out of my lips, “do you remember that song you used to sing me when I was little?”

“A song?”

“Yes.” Heartbeat stops in anticipation and dread.

“Wheels On the Bus Go Round and Round?”

Ice freezes my insides. As if I lost her for the second time. “Never mind,” I say thickly. “You needn’t worry. I am all right.” I smack the phone down and start towards my room, passing Rupert in the kitchen.

“Everything all right?” he asks, concerned.

The rising steam of his cooking warms the ice within. “You don’t have to beat yourself over the head anymore. I don’t wish her in my life any more than you do.”

He flings his towel on his shoulder, eyebrows creasing. “Did she say something that upset you?”

“It’s all right. I just… need to retire.”

His eyebrows fly up. “Retire?”

“Get some rest.” Whatever young people say these days. I’m already bursting with visions of Mother’s fangs, her cruelty which I’ve inflicted on her, tainting everything that was beautiful in our relationship.

Door slammed behind me, I lay down on the bed, trying to distract myself with any thoughts. I glance at the small book under my desk when a thought pops in.

Who’s Jesse?


Part 15
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September 2016


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