Probably written for Evil Xander at Good_Evil? He is, anyway.
Wrong Number (9/27/06)
Word count - 550
What if Spike did try to call Buffy when he got solid?
As the phone rang insistently in the sunny apartment, the dark haired man wearing the rakish eye patch groaned and awoke from the nap he’d been enjoying.
“Summers’ residence,” he mumbled, fumbling for the phone.
“Andrew?” The male voice on the other end sounded both familiar and dubious.
“Nope. He’s not here. Nobody here but us visiting pirates.”
Xander froze with the phone in his hand, turning as white as the ghost that seemed to be speaking from it.
“Who is this?”
“Who the bloody hell do you think it is?” came the growl from the other end of the line. “Anybody else you know who thinks you’re a whelp?”
“Spike? How? Where? Why aren’t you dead?”
“Am dead – just as much as I ever was, anyway; just not quite as charred as the last time you saw me.”
“Where are you?” For some reason he glanced around the room, as though expecting the vampire to step out of the walls.
“In LA. With the big poofter. Is Buffy there?”
“You’re with Angel? What the hell?”
“Long story. Where’s Buffy?”
Something in the vampire’s impatient tone reminded the man of how little he wanted Buffy to have anything to do with the souled vampire and he responded with asperity, “She’s not here. I told you, I’m the only one en casa right now.”
There was a sigh from the receiver resting against his ear and then, in a quieter tone, Spike said, “Alright, then. Will you just tell her? Tell her I called…that I’m alive and that I….” He paused, remembering whom he was speaking to, then with a muttered, “Sod it all,” he continued. “Tell her I love her. Will you do that for me, Whe-Xander?”
“Uh, yeah. Sure. You’re not dusty, you’re with Deadboy in LA and you’re still obsessed with Buffy. Yeah, I think I got it.”
“Thanks. ‘preciate it.”
Without a “good-bye”, Xander hung up the phone, returning to his place on the couch and staring hard at the floor. He thought about Buffy’s new boy friend who was showing her around Rome in his Ferrari, about Anya and the way he’d had to leave her body behind in Sunnydale as the vampire he’d just hung up on pulled the building down around himself and everyone in it. He thought about the way he and Willow and Buffy seemed to be working their way back to the solid friendship they’d had as teenagers. He was still thinking when the door burst open and Buffy and Dawn came bustling in, hands full of packages from expensive stores.
“Hi, Xan,” she greeted him cheerfully. “Did you get a good nap?”
“Uh, yeah. Up until the phone rang a few minutes ago, anyway.”
“Oh? Who called? Was it important?” A wistful expression flitted across her expressive face while she waited for his answer.
He shook his head slowly.
“No, it wasn’t important. It was nobody. A wrong number.”
“Oh. A wrong number, huh?”
“Yes. A wrong number. A very wrong number.”
“’K, then. Thanks for getting it for me.”
“Anytime, Buffster. Anytime.”
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