Today’s my posting day fall_for_sx and I have a five chapter fic, which I’m very excited about! I’ll be posting the first three chapters today, and the final two chapters on my second posting day, Thursday November 23rd.

Title: It’s Not
Author: cordelianne
Chapter: 1/5
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,209
Feedback: Yes please. Concrit is very welcome by email.
Disclaimer: Sadly not mine, Joss own them.
Summary: Yep, it’s a routine. And routines are good, right? That’s what Xander tells himself, anyway, because otherwise … well, it’s better not to dwell.
A/N: Thanks to spikedluv and truly_tazi for being such fabulous mods and for the opportunity to participate in fall_for_sx.
Thanks to the completely awesome and wonderful savoytruffle and spookymonkey for their invaluable pre-reading, betaing and support. Any mistakes are mine.



It’s Not
by Cordelianne

CHAPTER ONE


Alarm. Snooze. Alarm. Snooze.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Wake up, stumble into shower, grab something to eat on way out door. Go to work, try not to fall asleep. Pass out in front of TV.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Yep, it’s a routine. And routines are good, right? That’s what Xander tells himself, anyway, because otherwise … well, it’s better not to dwell. Better just to grab the briefcase, flick the lights off and go to work.

***

Red light. Xander picks up his shiny travel mug – a gift from Willow – sips and winces. He so needs to buy more sugar. Black coffee? Not his thing.

Green light. He puts the mug back in its holder, taps the steering wheel. The blue Impala in front of him takes its usual extra few seconds, doing god knows what, before driving.

Leaving two minutes earlier would mean not waiting behind the most careful driver in the world. Or maybe the other driver’s just spaced out. Spaced out is something Xander gets. He wants to be back in bed and not be on the losing end of his standoff with the alarm. Still, he takes his victories when he can. If he gets two more minutes sleep, it’s worth being stuck at the same light behind the same car every day of the week.

Driving, finally. He turns his head to see the “Reliable Fish & Chips” sign and grin. Gotta find the funny where he can. Attention back on the road. One-eyed drivers have to be alert.

Snow flurries drift through the air, dotting the landscape with white. Wipers are turned onto the lowest setting and Xander is relieved that the snow’s melting when it hits the ground. Mental note: winterize the car. The phrase sounds silly, like he’s accessorizing or italicizing or something else with a flourish at the end.

After California and Africa, the first winter in Cleveland had been weird. What with the cold and the snow and the ice. And did he mention the cold?

No more dreaming of a white Christmas. Cars not starting, skidding on icy roads and feeling cold all the time took care of that. No more chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Freezing rain, scraping ice off his windshield and nearly losing a toe to hypothermia took care of that too.

And no one roasts chestnuts in Cleveland anyway.

It makes him wish for the heat of Africa. A wish he never thought he would ever have.

But he is here. Wishing won’t change it. And isn’t a good idea on a hellmouth.

Work parking lot. Usual space. He turns off the engine and stares at the chain link fence.

A car door slams nearby. Xander stops watching the fence like it’s showing porn. He grabs his briefcase and steps out of the car.

***

Here comes the rain again. Falling on my head like a memory. Falling on my head like a new emotion. Madison’s greets Xander with the worst possible music for a cold, gray night and he pauses, hand on the door. Almost leaves. But it is Monday and he’s not missing out on his half-price wings and beer. Usual table it is.

He sits down and Carol has his beer in front of him.

“Wings coming up, Xander.” She smiles, disappears.

He drinks his beer, turns his attention to the game. He’s not sure who’s playing and he doesn’t care. It’s all a blur – big guys running, wings slathered with BBQ sauce, and cold beer. It’s like meditating. Focus on games, food and drink until that’s all there is.

The world is now a happy warm place. He stands up. Good to stop now, the next stage is less … good. He throws money down – doesn’t have to count, it’s always the same – and pulls his coat on.

Walking. The brisk wind sobers him so he doesn’t stumble on the block back to his apartment. Heads straight to the bed and collapses, clothes still on. Xander reaches up, turns the alarm on.

It starts all over again tomorrow. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

***

He splashes water on his face, then leans his forehead against the mirror, resting his hands on the sink. His right eye stares into the blackness of his left.

This dream was different from the others. This time he failed to save Anya in a Tolkien-like landscape instead of the usual Sunnydale setting. He still feels armor weighing on him. And the blow that knocked him down. Anya’s mouth open, no sound coming out, as a dragon rips her in half and drops her broken body to the ground.

He blames Andrew.

This is the result of their Lord of the Rings marathon: more interesting settings but more gruesome deaths.

And, wow, this is morbid. He shakes his head, turns on the water and drinks from the tap.

Xander falls back into bed, stares at the ceiling and waits for sleep.

***

Willow waves and steps into her building. He glances at the clock, 9:00PM. Still time for a beer at Madison’s but a yawn decides against.

Weird to be heading home so early from the Summers’. Well, Dawn and Buffy's new place, the Summers' place will always be in Sunnydale. They used to strategize, research and hunt till the wee hours, but now it’s updates on slayers, magic, studies and the Cleveland construction scene – no wonder they have early nights.

These days it’s just pizza and TV, hold the life and death.

Well, Buffy and Willow still do that stuff. With the back-up of a slayer army. But Xander’s no longer needed, except for the occasional repairs.

He glances at the empty passenger seat, turns on the radio. Some hit song by some American Idol plays and it’s times like this he misses Anya the most. So I prayed I could break away, I’ll spread my wings fills the car, but it's empty without her laughter.

It’s not like he’d imagined some white picket fence future with Anya – definitely not that, that kind of thing still fills him with fear – but it doesn’t stop him from missing her.

Missing what they could have had.

***

There’s a guy sitting by Xander’s door. He fumbles for his stake, feeling out of practice, stops when he sees the red glow of a cigarette. Right, if a demon wanted to attack it would probably choose a stealthier maneuver than sitting in plain view in front of its victim’s door.

Unless it’s a really cocky demon.

“Hey buddy, no smoking in the hall.”

“Let me in and I’ll smoke in your place.”

“What? … Spike?” Xander rubs his eye. Maybe it’s a wacky dream, not that he dreams about Spike, well, except for that one time. Eye open again and Spike’s still there. Now standing and ashing on the carpet.

Of course it’s Spike.

He’s been thinking about someone who died in Sunnydale. So of course a different dead person – and dead dead, not just undead dead – shows up. Fate has always had a sense of humor as far as Xander Harris is concerned.

“Don’t just stand there gaping. Let me in.” Despite the demanding tone, Spike’s shoulders slump just a bit and he looks down.

Xander sighs. “Come in, Spike.”



Continues here.