A Road Covered With Blood
Jul. 28th, 2007 12:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sevendeadlyfunPairing: Xander/?
Rating: NC-17 overall
A/N: You know why I'm writing this? Good, 'cuz I'm feeling lazy and don't want to type all that stuff out again. X-posted todarker_spike for challenge reasons, posted here for my memories.
Feedback: I'm easy like Sunday morning. But, leave me feedback and I'll do my sexy dance for you! :P
He keeps waiting to feel the yankpulltug that’ll send him hurtling away from this time and place. It never comes. Sometimes he wonders if he’ll just stay here, in this body, and maybe that’s how this is supposed to end.
Wouldn’t that be the fucking kicker if being nice to Angel and not sleeping with Anya was all it took to set the world spinning right on its axis? Sitting in Oz’s van, half-listening to Radiohead and Green Day and a few other bands he couldn’t place, and the bullshit angst was getting to him.
This was weird. He and Oz, driving to L.A., and he’s got all these memories that aren’t his. His memories don’t include a big heart to heart with Angel right before the snake-fest of graduation. But, now they do and he starts to believe that reality is slowly changing because as he remembers it (or doesn’t remember it, because it’s all kinda fuzzy), he mocked the hell out of Angel at graduation.
But now instead of seeing a tall, dark and pretentious bastard looming over his friend, he sees a grieving man. Someone who’s making a bad decision for the best of reasons and destroying a part of his soul in the process. He talks to the grieving man, softly and kindly. Tells him that he always has a place with them, not for Buffy’s sake but for his own.
I got mature, Xander realizes with a jolt. I got mature because of me. He’s in those memories, the him that he is now, and the Xander of then remembers him, which probably shouldn’t work. After all, if he’s changing reality, how can the different realities remember other realities that no longer exist? Hellmouth logic at its finest, that. This never happened, but I remember it so it did. He wonders if this is how Dawn felt when she realized nothing about her was real but she remembered it so it was?
He follows behind Oz, and there she is, dark hair shining and face alight with her genuine smile that she reserves for special occasions. His Cordy, but not his anymore and maybe she never was but she’s the Cordy he remembers, so he decides arbitrarily on that fact that she is his.
“Xander,” she says and he’s close to her, breathing in her subtle perfume that has never changed. She told him years ago that every woman needed a signature scent. Hers is something like daisies and cinnamon and nectarines, but it has a fancy name he never learned to pronounce.
He leans into the hug, just lets the Cordy-ness of her wash over him. Another thing he’d forgotten, or maybe just refused to notice. How much he missed her when she’d left, but they didn’t break up and she didn’t have a horrible scar on her belly this time. She’d thanked him for being true to her and asked him if he loved her. He’d told her yes, because she was Cordy and he couldn’t help but love her. She smiled; her genuine smile which didn’t cut you up like her other smiles, and proceeded to dump him flat on his ass.
For his own good, because she did love him. Just not the way she loved say, this Doyle guy, who’s giving off intense Cordy crush vibes and who she’s mocking twice as hard as she ever did him. Clearly, they’re destined for each other.
She whispers in his ear, “I’ve been waiting for you. It’s working, Xander.”
Then she steps back and it’s like she never said anything out of the ordinary. Oz is doing most of the talking, yet another scary out of place thing because Oz doesn’t talk much. Oz, who’d died a year ago or so he’d heard. Willow hadn’t been too clear on the details, probably because Kennedy was involved. Something about a rash of werewolf attacks, and Xander knew how to read between those lines. Oz smelled Willow on someone and lost his shit. Kennedy, who’d never really learned the whole Slayer Zen thing that Buffy and Faith had perfected, managed to take him down like an animal.
Surrounded by Cordy’s scent and thoughts of Oz bleeding himself dry in some South American town for love of Willow and it’s almost too much. He’d been too many places in his real life, seen too many things that had bled him dry and now, he’s too many Xanders.
Suddenly, he’s somewhere else in a normal way and Angel’s standing there. Xander looks up into his eyes, and he gets it. This is exactly how Angel must feel, memories upon memories of things both ugly and profound. How the hell does the guy stand it? Distantly, he remembers Angel had a hundred years to be insane. Maybe that’s all he needs, than. A good breakdown, and Angel is hugging him and everyone else is gone.
“Let it out,” Angel says and Xander can’t. He sits there, pathetically grateful that someone on this planet is still larger than him and can hold him like a child. But, he can’t tell Angel because first, Angel would think he was insane. And second, if he lets it out, he’s not sure he can ever put it all back.
“Let it out,” Angel says again. So, Xander does and it’s a jumble of apocalypses and they really need to get a plural for that because he’s been through so many both personal and global and missing eyes and missing chances and how the hell does Buffy handle the weight of the world? His shoulders are broader and he’s about to collapse and he doesn’t have any witty quips or kicky shoes so he’s pretty sure that those are both crucial and Angel just listens.
“I can feel it,” Angel tells him, and Xander just looks at him.
“Feel it?” He’s confused now. Feel what? His painful embarrassment at breaking down or the need for kicky shoes?
“Things are different. I’m different,” Angel replies, sounding lost and far away. “There are…echoes. Of me. Another me. Doing things I want to believe are lies because if…if they’re true, than I’m…”
“What,” Xander challenges him. “Flawed? Damn near human?”
“Somethin’ like that,” and there’s Spike. Standing there, half in the shadows and looking just as confused as the rest of them.
“Spike,” Angel growls and he stands up, placing his body between Spike and Xander.
“Relax, you nit,” Spike scoffs. “Not here to pummel you bloody or stick you with hot pokers. Actually, that was the plan but…”
“But what,” Angel snarls, but there’s no heat. This is an old grudge, thick with scar tissue. Xander knows from scars.
“Can feel it, Angel,” Spike mumbles. “Bloody ridiculous, but I can!”
“What? The beat down I’m about to give you,” and Xander laughs at that. Some things just never change and Angel’s goofy good-guy dialogue is one of them. Old spaghetti westerns and gangsters movies are not the best source material.
Spike just stands there, his hand half outstretched, half clenched into a fist and Xander knows. If Cordy’s here and Angel, then Spike is too. Simple math, and Xander was always good at math.
“His soul,” Xander says slowly. “Except, I think…the memory of his soul.”
“What the –bloody-hell,” they say in near unison, exceptions made for British slang thrown in because it’s Spike and there’s always a bloody something when Spike’s around.
“Spike, well my Spike, not mine per se but the Spike that existed in the same reality I did, he went and got his soul,” Xander tries to explain. “He went to Africa, something that involved demons and bugs and possibly a wish but I never got the whole story. Anyways, he got his soul back. You know, on purpose.”
There are two sets of raised eyebrows. It’s one of those movie moments where crickets are chirping and nobody moves, nobody even breathes because even breathing might force you to acknowledge what’s just been said. So, they all stand there. Just staring.
“Spike got a soul?” which overlaps with “Take that back, you tosser..! I did no such thing.” He’d answer but those damn crickets are back and instead of staring at him, they’re staring at each other.
“I could see it,” Angel finally says.
“Really?” and there’s a hopeful look on Spike’s face, something Xander’s only ever seen directed at Buffy. It’s Spike’s ‘notice me see me make me worth something’ look and Xander realizes that’s the look he remembers most about Spike and not what Dawn called his “grr” face.
“Yeah,” Angel says after another long, deliberative silence. “You always were the master of the cocked-up plan.”
That’s normal enough and Xander relaxes. Now, there’ll be more harsh words and then possibly some punches until the next temporary truce. Except not, because Spike just laughs.
“Did some right stupid things once upon a time,” Spike says, and its damn near nostalgic.
“Some,” Angel smirks. “That barely does you justice, boy.”
“Oi! Throwing stones from a pretty breakable house there. I can think of a fair few times you screwed the pooch, wanker,” Spike replies companionably.
There’s that yankpulltug he was waiting for, and he slips away from the two vampires quietly. No idea where or when he’s going to next and it almost doesn’t matter. The people he’s fighting for, or at least hopping for, are coming back to him. Bits and pieces and every time he slides another puzzle piece into place, they come back a little more. It’s like math, he thinks again. I’m good at math.
Rating: NC-17 overall
A/N: You know why I'm writing this? Good, 'cuz I'm feeling lazy and don't want to type all that stuff out again. X-posted to
darker_spike for challenge reasons, posted here for my memories.Feedback: I'm easy like Sunday morning. But, leave me feedback and I'll do my sexy dance for you! :P
He keeps waiting to feel the yankpulltug that’ll send him hurtling away from this time and place. It never comes. Sometimes he wonders if he’ll just stay here, in this body, and maybe that’s how this is supposed to end.
Wouldn’t that be the fucking kicker if being nice to Angel and not sleeping with Anya was all it took to set the world spinning right on its axis? Sitting in Oz’s van, half-listening to Radiohead and Green Day and a few other bands he couldn’t place, and the bullshit angst was getting to him.
This was weird. He and Oz, driving to L.A., and he’s got all these memories that aren’t his. His memories don’t include a big heart to heart with Angel right before the snake-fest of graduation. But, now they do and he starts to believe that reality is slowly changing because as he remembers it (or doesn’t remember it, because it’s all kinda fuzzy), he mocked the hell out of Angel at graduation.
But now instead of seeing a tall, dark and pretentious bastard looming over his friend, he sees a grieving man. Someone who’s making a bad decision for the best of reasons and destroying a part of his soul in the process. He talks to the grieving man, softly and kindly. Tells him that he always has a place with them, not for Buffy’s sake but for his own.
I got mature, Xander realizes with a jolt. I got mature because of me. He’s in those memories, the him that he is now, and the Xander of then remembers him, which probably shouldn’t work. After all, if he’s changing reality, how can the different realities remember other realities that no longer exist? Hellmouth logic at its finest, that. This never happened, but I remember it so it did. He wonders if this is how Dawn felt when she realized nothing about her was real but she remembered it so it was?
He follows behind Oz, and there she is, dark hair shining and face alight with her genuine smile that she reserves for special occasions. His Cordy, but not his anymore and maybe she never was but she’s the Cordy he remembers, so he decides arbitrarily on that fact that she is his.
“Xander,” she says and he’s close to her, breathing in her subtle perfume that has never changed. She told him years ago that every woman needed a signature scent. Hers is something like daisies and cinnamon and nectarines, but it has a fancy name he never learned to pronounce.
He leans into the hug, just lets the Cordy-ness of her wash over him. Another thing he’d forgotten, or maybe just refused to notice. How much he missed her when she’d left, but they didn’t break up and she didn’t have a horrible scar on her belly this time. She’d thanked him for being true to her and asked him if he loved her. He’d told her yes, because she was Cordy and he couldn’t help but love her. She smiled; her genuine smile which didn’t cut you up like her other smiles, and proceeded to dump him flat on his ass.
For his own good, because she did love him. Just not the way she loved say, this Doyle guy, who’s giving off intense Cordy crush vibes and who she’s mocking twice as hard as she ever did him. Clearly, they’re destined for each other.
She whispers in his ear, “I’ve been waiting for you. It’s working, Xander.”
Then she steps back and it’s like she never said anything out of the ordinary. Oz is doing most of the talking, yet another scary out of place thing because Oz doesn’t talk much. Oz, who’d died a year ago or so he’d heard. Willow hadn’t been too clear on the details, probably because Kennedy was involved. Something about a rash of werewolf attacks, and Xander knew how to read between those lines. Oz smelled Willow on someone and lost his shit. Kennedy, who’d never really learned the whole Slayer Zen thing that Buffy and Faith had perfected, managed to take him down like an animal.
Surrounded by Cordy’s scent and thoughts of Oz bleeding himself dry in some South American town for love of Willow and it’s almost too much. He’d been too many places in his real life, seen too many things that had bled him dry and now, he’s too many Xanders.
Suddenly, he’s somewhere else in a normal way and Angel’s standing there. Xander looks up into his eyes, and he gets it. This is exactly how Angel must feel, memories upon memories of things both ugly and profound. How the hell does the guy stand it? Distantly, he remembers Angel had a hundred years to be insane. Maybe that’s all he needs, than. A good breakdown, and Angel is hugging him and everyone else is gone.
“Let it out,” Angel says and Xander can’t. He sits there, pathetically grateful that someone on this planet is still larger than him and can hold him like a child. But, he can’t tell Angel because first, Angel would think he was insane. And second, if he lets it out, he’s not sure he can ever put it all back.
“Let it out,” Angel says again. So, Xander does and it’s a jumble of apocalypses and they really need to get a plural for that because he’s been through so many both personal and global and missing eyes and missing chances and how the hell does Buffy handle the weight of the world? His shoulders are broader and he’s about to collapse and he doesn’t have any witty quips or kicky shoes so he’s pretty sure that those are both crucial and Angel just listens.
“I can feel it,” Angel tells him, and Xander just looks at him.
“Feel it?” He’s confused now. Feel what? His painful embarrassment at breaking down or the need for kicky shoes?
“Things are different. I’m different,” Angel replies, sounding lost and far away. “There are…echoes. Of me. Another me. Doing things I want to believe are lies because if…if they’re true, than I’m…”
“What,” Xander challenges him. “Flawed? Damn near human?”
“Somethin’ like that,” and there’s Spike. Standing there, half in the shadows and looking just as confused as the rest of them.
“Spike,” Angel growls and he stands up, placing his body between Spike and Xander.
“Relax, you nit,” Spike scoffs. “Not here to pummel you bloody or stick you with hot pokers. Actually, that was the plan but…”
“But what,” Angel snarls, but there’s no heat. This is an old grudge, thick with scar tissue. Xander knows from scars.
“Can feel it, Angel,” Spike mumbles. “Bloody ridiculous, but I can!”
“What? The beat down I’m about to give you,” and Xander laughs at that. Some things just never change and Angel’s goofy good-guy dialogue is one of them. Old spaghetti westerns and gangsters movies are not the best source material.
Spike just stands there, his hand half outstretched, half clenched into a fist and Xander knows. If Cordy’s here and Angel, then Spike is too. Simple math, and Xander was always good at math.
“His soul,” Xander says slowly. “Except, I think…the memory of his soul.”
“What the –bloody-hell,” they say in near unison, exceptions made for British slang thrown in because it’s Spike and there’s always a bloody something when Spike’s around.
“Spike, well my Spike, not mine per se but the Spike that existed in the same reality I did, he went and got his soul,” Xander tries to explain. “He went to Africa, something that involved demons and bugs and possibly a wish but I never got the whole story. Anyways, he got his soul back. You know, on purpose.”
There are two sets of raised eyebrows. It’s one of those movie moments where crickets are chirping and nobody moves, nobody even breathes because even breathing might force you to acknowledge what’s just been said. So, they all stand there. Just staring.
“Spike got a soul?” which overlaps with “Take that back, you tosser..! I did no such thing.” He’d answer but those damn crickets are back and instead of staring at him, they’re staring at each other.
“I could see it,” Angel finally says.
“Really?” and there’s a hopeful look on Spike’s face, something Xander’s only ever seen directed at Buffy. It’s Spike’s ‘notice me see me make me worth something’ look and Xander realizes that’s the look he remembers most about Spike and not what Dawn called his “grr” face.
“Yeah,” Angel says after another long, deliberative silence. “You always were the master of the cocked-up plan.”
That’s normal enough and Xander relaxes. Now, there’ll be more harsh words and then possibly some punches until the next temporary truce. Except not, because Spike just laughs.
“Did some right stupid things once upon a time,” Spike says, and its damn near nostalgic.
“Some,” Angel smirks. “That barely does you justice, boy.”
“Oi! Throwing stones from a pretty breakable house there. I can think of a fair few times you screwed the pooch, wanker,” Spike replies companionably.
There’s that yankpulltug he was waiting for, and he slips away from the two vampires quietly. No idea where or when he’s going to next and it almost doesn’t matter. The people he’s fighting for, or at least hopping for, are coming back to him. Bits and pieces and every time he slides another puzzle piece into place, they come back a little more. It’s like math, he thinks again. I’m good at math.