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The air in the Sunnydale High Library is thick with the scent of old paper, floor wax, and the distinct, musky tang of a predator. It’s Xander’s turn to take over the watch. Willow looks wrecked, her eyes bloodshot behind her sensible frames, her voice a raspy whisper from reading Jack London for three hours straight. She hands over the copy of The Call of the Wild like it’s a sacred relic, but Xander has other plans.
As soon as the library doors groan shut behind her, Xander drops his bulky, flannel-lined sleeping bag onto the linoleum with a heavy thud. He makes zero effort to be subtle. He isn't interested in the literary merits of sled dogs; he’s interested in REM cycle maintenance. In the corner, the heavy iron bars of the cage rattle. Oz—or rather, the tawny, snarling mass of fur and teeth that used to be Oz—paces the confined space. His yellow eyes track Xander’s movements with a mindless, hungry intensity.
Xander gives the padlock a cursory, half-hearted jiggle. "Yeah, yeah, you're a big scary beast, we get it," Xander mutters, stifling a massive yawn that makes his jaw ache. "Just keep the howling to a 'simmer,' okay? I’ve got a date with a dream about a world where I’m not a professional snack-cake."
He shuffles into the nylon cocoon, kicking his sneakers off and wriggling until he’s a lumpy mound on the floor. Within minutes, the rhythmic sound of Xander’s snoring competes with the werewolf’s low, guttural growls.
Across town, Spike is having a truly rubbish night. He’s been stalking a particularly plump guidance counselor for three blocks, imagining the copper tang of the man’s Type O-Positive, when something blurred and grotesque interrupts the hunt. It isn't a slayer, and it isn't a vamp. It’s something wrong—a wet, ripping sound, a frantic scream, and then the sight of a student, his skin looking like melted candle wax and scales, tearing into the counselor.
Spike watches from the shadows, lighting a Goldflake with trembling fingers. "Oi, that’s just rude," he mutters.
In Sunnydale, when the local wildlife starts mutating, the trail usually leads back to the Hellmouth's primary ZIP code: the high school. He drifts toward the campus, boots crunching on the dry October leaves, until he spots a flickering yellow glow emanating from the basement windows near the library. It’s the Scooby signal.
CRACK.
Spike doesn't use the door; he smashes through the reinforced glass of a high-set basement window, dropping into the stacks like a sleek, leather-clad weight. Xander jolts awake, the sound of shattering glass echoing like a gunshot in the silent library.
"Gah! I'm up! I'm productive!" he yells, scrambling to disentangle himself from the sleeping bag.
His feet catch in the nylon lining, and he performs a spectacular, flailing faceplant onto the hard floor. Oof. He lies there for a second, cheek pressed against the cold tile, before Spike’s shadow falls over him.
"Oi! Your little mutt just ate my supper!" Spike barks, his brow furrowed in genuine irritation.
Xander scrambles to his feet, heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He ignores the throbbing in his nose and glances frantically at the cage. Oz is there, crouched, his snout dripping with saliva, but he's still behind bars.
"No... someone else did," Xander says, his brain struggling to catch up with the sudden shift from sleep to supernatural confrontation. He does a quick mental headcount of the room. "Wait, what mutt? Oz has been right here being a rug the whole time."
Spike shrugs, leaning back against a mahogany bookshelf as if he hadn't just committed breaking and entering. He looks entirely unimpressed by the werewolf’s attempts to reach through the bars. "The swim team boy with the chemistry set," Spike says, his tone casual, as if he’s discussing the weather. "Clanner, Clomer, something like that. Saw him in that boring-ass lab yesterday while I was... scouting."
Xander stops moving. He stares at the floor, his eyes glazing over. Spike recognizes the look—it’s the "Harris Thinking Face." It’s a slow process, a mechanical grinding of gears that Spike has grown strangely fond of watching. He gives Xander the silence he needs. While he waits, Spike reaches into his duster pocket and pulls out a grisly, dripping scrap of something that definitely used to be inside a human being. With a flick of his wrist, he tosses the organ through the bars.
Oz lunges. The sound of wet tearing fills the room as the werewolf devours the offering. Spike’s lip curls in a mix of disgust and dark satisfaction. He’s decided, in his own twisted way, that the library is a neutral zone. It’s safe ground, mostly because the banter here is better than the brooding he gets from Angelus or the mindless drudgery of the Bronze. He especially likes the way Xander’s mouth runs faster than his brain.
Xander suddenly snaps his fingers, the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged room. "Peter Clamer? Five-eight, looks like he could be on the football team if he weren't so insecure about his calves?"
Spike nods slowly, a smirk playing on his lips. "Sounds right. Smelled like chlorine and cheap cologne. Tastes like... well, I wouldn't know now, would I? Seeing as your friend turned him into a Darwinian nightmare."
The adrenaline begins to fade, replaced by the crushing weight of Sunnydale reality. Xander’s shoulders slump. "Alright. So it's not a werewolf. Great. One less thing for Willow to cry about." He stops, his expression sobering as the details of Spike’s complaint sink in. "Wait, you said he ate your supper. Who were you stalking? Please tell me it wasn't a freshman."
"Guidance counselor," Spike says, inspecting his fingernails. "Nice, thick neck. Looked like he had a lot of pent-up stress he needed to bleed off."
"Aw, man. Mr. Platt?" Xander groans, throwing his hands up in the air. "Great. Just perfect. First, my best friend turns into a literal rug every full moon; now, my favorite counselor is a juice box for a mutant fish boy. If this keeps up, the only person left to sign my graduation papers is going to be the Reaper himself." He sighs, leaning against the librarian's desk. "And I bet his late fees are a killer. Probably charges by the soul."
Spike lets out a short, sharp bark of a laugh. He shakes his head, the peroxide-blond spikes catching the dim light. "You're a weird little man, Harris. Most people would be screaming. You're worried about your GPA."
"In this town? Grades are the only thing that stay dead," Xander mutters, though he can't help the small, crooked smirk that tugs at the corner of his mouth.