Rating: M for Mature language and m/m sex
Also warning for violence.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters
or products named in this story
Spike is a Homicide detective trying
to stop a serial killer before he strikes
again. Xander is a psychic who offers
to help him.
Important announcement at the end of this chapter.
Banner by BmblBee
Spike sat silently and watched while Xander cleaned up his
area. Once he had moved to the side, Spike was able
to see the carved headboard he was working on.
It was possibly the most magnificent bed Spike had ever seen.
With a fondness for all things nautical he instantly recognized
the raised outline of the Cutty Sark. The multi masted early
Within a double oval, the ship stood proudly against the
waves that lapped it's hull. The wood of the bed frame was a rich, dark
walnut that had been polished to a mirror like finish. It was all Spike
could do to keep his hands from caressing it, feeling the angles and
swirls of the carving.
Finally tearing his eyes away from it he was surprised to see Xander
setting on a small stool facing him, studying him. He had a rag in his
hands and mirrored Patrick's earlier movements of wiping and cleaning.
"Do you like it? It is a special order. A wedding gift of sorts for a man
to present to his sweetheart. Because of that I want to put my best
effort in it. I want the ship to appear so real it will roll and dip as the
motion of the bed stirs the waves."
"That would have to be some serious passion."
His gaze returned to the bed and he nodded.
"It is incredible. You do amazing work."
Xander glowed at the compliment. Propping his feet up on the rungs of the
stool, Xander rested his elbows on his raised knees, his hands as clean
as he could get them and the rag hanging forgotten in his fingers.
"But your admiration for my work is not why you came is it? What is
it you need? What can I do for you, Spike"
Spike chuckled and dropped his head, shaking it slightly.
"I have no idea, do I? I gotta tell you I don't believe in this hocus pocus
spook business but to be straight up, I got nothing else. I'm caught
in this investigation that's going nowhere and if I don't do something
fast more people may die. So here I am, grasping at straws."
Xander let loose a hollering laugh.
"Well, you sure are honest aren't you? That's good, I like that.
Did you call the number I gave you? Did you talk to Chief Traynor?"
"Yeah, yeah I did. Seemed like a nice guy. He told me about working
with you. I still don't know about all this......stuff, but I do know that
Chief Traynor thinks the world of you. Says you are fair, honest and
trustworthy. Something that I need to be really sure of in this case.
I can't afford to have the facts that we may discuss released to the public.
He also said that you are the real deal. That you can do what you say."
Using his thumb and forefinger in the tic-a-lock motion over his mouth
Xander vowed his silence.
"The Chief and his wife are the best. Great people. I was glad to be
able to help them in some small way. In any case it is the actual police work
and the dedicated officers who solve the case. I just try to give them
something else. Another piece of the puzzle. A new direction to look.
So how about if I take a few minutes and just tell you about myself
and how this works. Then if you have any questions, and I'm sure
you will, we'll try to come to a meeting of the minds. O.k?"
Spike sat up comfortably and nodded his agreement. That was exactly
what he wanted. Time to listen and process at his own pace. Analyze
both the man and the facts he presented.
Xander took a deep breath and, clasping his hands together, began.
"Everything in this world is made of energy. Our bodies, our souls
the animate and inanimate objects around us. As we go through
this life we leave impressions of ourselves through that energy in
different places and with certain people who pass through our lives.
It is that energy that I read. An area that has seen a violent or painful
passing leaves strong emotional energy. Often with the spirit still
attached, searching for resolution.
You see, dying is just another phase of our time. Stepping over
the threshold of the door beyond the grave is such a small step.
It is the one thing people fear the most, yet when it happens, seems so
insignificant, so silly.
One that happens so easily, so naturally that sometimes, if it happened
suddenly, the person doesn't even know for a while what has occurred.
They stay here, trapped by their own refusal to accept the reached out
hand of the loved ones that come to help them on. These are the
hardest to communicate with. They are sad, confused and frustrated,
sometimes angry. Others, the one's who have moved on to the next
plane, are the easiest. They move fluidly between worlds to watch
over us as well as enjoy their existence in the next. Each one of
us has someone in the next plain that stands by us, protects us and
Spike frowned and though he had promised to wait till the end, had to
"Are you saying there is someone here. Now. With me?"
Xander glanced to each side of where Spike sat and tipped his head.
"You have two someones. There is a man standing on each side of you.
Each has a hand on your shoulder. They resemble each other and
look a good bit like you. The older man to your right is shorter,
heavy, balding with clear blue eyes. He is chewing a fat cigar, tugging
his suspenders and says his name is..... Ray.......Raymond."
Spike stiffened. The blood in his veins ran cold. The description was
exact. It was the grandfather he remembered from his childhood. The
wonderful loving man that took him to the park, held him on his lap, and
when Spike was 10, passed from pneumonia and emphysema.
Still, Spike sat stony faced, giving no recognition. It could be a lucky guess.
A very lucky guess. Xander continued, paying no attention to Spike's seeming
"The man on your left is younger. Maybe 35 - 40 when he passed. He is
sadder. Remorseful. He regrets. He says he loves you and is very proud
of you but he feels he did not do right by you when you needed him most.
He needs your forgiveness. He knows he has passed but he remains
here. He can't fully shift over till he has your forgivness."
Xander grimaced, frowned and put his hand to the back of his head.
"His passing was violent, sudden, He should have been home. He should
have been with you and your mother, but he was out. He was drinking.
He was struck from behind. Struck several times in the head.
I think it was over a money dispute. He knew the man who did this."
Spike jumped to his feet. No one had ever been caught in his father's
murder. It was assumed to have been a random attack. It was just one
of thousands on the streets of London and very little time was given to
it investigation. When he came to the states it was the reason Spike
went in to police work.
Spike's brain searched frantically for a simple explanation. Some shred
of reason that he could grab on too and pull himself back from the brink
of this insanity.
Sure some of what he said could have been general. A lucky poke in
the right direction, but the rest......how could he have known?
No one knew about his father. He never discussed his private life.
Not with Faith and certainly not with Angel.
Spike's breathing came in short shallow gulps. Finally, anger, an emotion
he could deal with, took over and exploded.
"It's a trick! A mind game! How the hell did you know all that? Have
you been spying on me? Looking into my past?"
Xander sighed. It was always the same. They always demanded proof
then refused to believe it even when it was pressed under their noses.
"Your father, the younger man, is laughing. He says you kept your
promise. You never told your mother about the day he took you
to wait for him in the whore house. You were 8 years old and they
gave you crayons."
Spike passed out.