By Lori Bush
~**~
Email: lwbush@charter.net
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon, etc. own Buffy. You know the routine.
Distribution: Let me know, 'kay? Any list it's sent to is cool.
Summary: If vampires are real, what else *could* be? And is it?
Continuity: Another post-“Gift” story. She’s gone, still.
Pairing: A/X, with hints of B/X and W/X
Rating: PG-13
WARNING: Dark, depressing, includes character death.
Author's notes: VERY dark. Caitlin, you should love this one. I’d been
reading stories on “The Darkness Within” and “The Darker Side Of Sunnydale,”
and decided I’d try my hand at one. I was particularly intrigued by a
post-apocalyptic story where Xander was one of the characters, and once
again, I’m also borrowing from something I did with a Xena story. I promise
more happy B/X fun and maybe even fluff on my next try. Read something sweet
by Shawn after this if you need cheering.
*Xander?*
His eyes flew open, as he heard her calling him. The same way he’d heard her
calling for the last few nights.
The first time, he thought it might be the tattered remnants of some
forgotten dream, whipping through his brain leaving only the bitter
aftertaste on the tip of his memory. The second night he was sure it was a
nightmare, and the voice was Glory, threatening him with words he didn’t
hear, only the echo of a female cadence remaining. His heart rate was long
in slowing, and he never did go back to sleep. The following night, some
small part of his brain was waiting, trying to pin down the elusive call, if
only to put it to rest. That night he heard his name, heard her voice, he
knew. She was calling him. And for a few nights he just listened.
Tonight he planned to answer.
*Xander?*
Last night she had called the second time, after he’d been fully awake and
aware. Somehow he knew she would again.
But how to answer? If he called out loud, he might wake Anya, and that would
not be good. She seemed so tired lately – tired of his silences, tired of
dealing with his apathy and his medications. He owed her some rest. So since
the voice was in his head, he would answer there, as well.
*Buffy?*
*Xander.* He could hear her smile, feel the relief in her voice. He was
sorry he hadn’t spoken to her before. She went on. *I can’t do this alone.*
*Do what? Be dead?*
But she was gone, and he received no answer. He was afraid to go to sleep,
for fear he’d miss her response, but he waited all night, and the voice
never returned. He finally fell asleep just before the sun rose, and when
Anya woke up she didn’t bother to wake him. He was still out on medical
leave from work; a part of the ex-demon wondered if he’d ever be well enough
to go back. She brushed back the hair from his sleeping face, seeing the
relaxed expression that had been so long absent, even in his sleep.
He’d seemed fine after Buffy’s funeral. He’d gone right back to work, as if
nothing had happened. Anya had moved the rest of her things into his
apartment, and they looked at china patterns and wedding dresses together.
One day, the toaster sparked and caught fire while he was preparing
breakfast, and his apparently fragile mental control snapped.
She’d come running when the smoke alarm went off, to find the toaster ablaze
and her fiancé curled in a ball in the corner, sobbing. Anya put out the
fire, called his supervisor, made excuses, then tucked him back into bed and
went to work. When she returned, it appeared he hadn’t moved all day, and
she called Giles in a panic.
“A combination of nervous breakdown and clinical depression,” the doctors
had told them, and comfortingly, “Medication should help.” But the medicine
made him groggy, and it seemed that all Xander would do from that point on
was sleep and watch TV.
“Don’t you want to patrol?” Giles asked him, trying to break through. But
Willow and Tara’s magic was almost as strong as any Slayer, and besides, Xan
der knew they’d never needed him, anyway. Only Buffy had ever needed him on
patrol, and only then to break the monotony of night after endless night out
in the cemeteries, alone. She fought, he accompanied. Except when Angel had,
or Riley – but they were gone now. And so was Buffy.
“Come watch movies with me,” Dawn begged, but it was too much work to go
there, to that house where once Joyce and Buffy shone, and now Dawn was the
sole light in the darkness. So she came to him, bringing light and movies
and popcorn and a small amount of joy to his colorless existence. So much
like Buffy…
“Make love to me,” Anya begged, without demanding. She treated him as if
here were fragile, and perhaps he was. But he just couldn’t. He couldn’t
even pretend he wanted to. Shaking his head, he went back to sleep.
“Wouldn’t you like some cookies?” Willow pressed, while Tara fluttered and
stuttered and waved her hands about in small movements, saying little. But
hunger was a distant memory, like sex, like freedom, like happiness. He ate
sometimes. His clothes grew loose and flapped as he walked, but he paid no
mind.
And the medicine helped him float through things, never better, but not
worse. Not much of anything at all, really.
Then she called him.
*Xander?*
She had heard him last time, and he was waiting this time.
*Buffy.*
*I miss you. I’m so alone.*
*Me too.* Never mind Anya, and Giles and Dawn and the rest – without Buffy,
he was alone.
*Talk to me, Xander.*
And so he lay awake, and in his mind he painted her pictures, wrote her
sonnets, told her about everything, and nothing. And she made it clear she
couldn’t hear enough. Every night she would come, and he would spend it with
her, and then he would sleep through the days, often forgetting his
medicine, forgetting he even had a life outside of the idyllic spot in his
head where Buffy would visit him. He, who had once been so talkative, rarely
spoke out loud any longer. Anya took him back to the doctor, who upped his
dosage.
“And make sure he takes it, from now on.”
And Dawn came to see him, and cried over him, although she was trying not
to. And for her, he tried to be better. He took his pills dutifully, ate
when Anya put food in front of him, even went out a couple of times. He
slept at night and stayed awake in the daytime. And Buffy stopped coming.
And as much as he loved Dawn, he’d already lost Buffy once for her, and he
wouldn’t again.
*Xander?*
*I’m here, Buff.*
*Where have you been?*
And that night, after he’d let the medicine wear off, and she came back to
him, they began making plans.
Anya figured out where he’d been ditching his pills, and she grew angry.
When that didn’t work she became sullen. Finally she looked resigned. He
cared so much for her, but she couldn’t understand, and in his heart he knew
she wouldn’t try. She’d never really understood how things were with him and
Buffy. Hell, he didn’t always, but he loved her nonetheless.
After spending days wondering, Anya decided to do the deed by phone. She was
afraid that she’d be weak, face-to-face. “Giles?”
“Anya? What’s wrong?”
“I quit.”
Her flat declaration left the Englishman speechless for a few moments.
“B-b-but…” He mentally cursed his damned stutter. “Do you need more money,
now Xander isn’t able to work? I could try to find it in the budget to give
you a raise.”
“I’m leaving.” If she kept it short and factual, she wouldn’t break down.
She hoped. But the silence from the other end held the unasked question she
didn’t want to answer. She sighed, and her voice hitched as she gave in.
“Xander’s dying, Giles, a little at a time. I can’t stay here and watch. I
love him too much.” Not waiting for the argument, not ready to fight again
the battles she’d already suffered wounds from in her own deliberations, she
pressed on. “Some one will need to take care of him – he won’t eat if he’s
not forced, and he forgets his medicine all the time. Maybe you could move
in here, or move him in with you and Dawn. I’ll write you when I decide
where I’m settling.” She hung up quickly, and bit her lip to ward off the
tears that threatened. Perhaps she’d go back to d’Hoffryn…
Xander never felt her kiss him goodbye, or her hard fought tears as they
fell into his hair, although he was technically awake. His eyes were glazed
and unfocused, staring at the television without comprehension. She knew he
wouldn’t really notice she was gone.
But she was wrong. That night he let Buffy know that the last barrier to
their plan was down.
*Tomorrow*, they agreed.
He woke to stunning clarity in the world. Edges sharp, colors were rich and
clear. It was time.
He gathered his supplies and tried to be patient. Nervously he paced, moving
more in the few hours of waiting than he had in the past who knew how many
weeks. Finally the hour hand moved into the correct place, after what seemed
an eternity, so did the minute hand. Clutching his bag, he stumbled out the
door and on to his destination.
“Xander?”
“Hey, Dawnie.”
She stepped aside to let him enter. For a moment, he saw the familiar house,
alive with the ghosts of Buffy and Joyce in his mind, and he froze. But he
shook himself free of the paralysis and peered around. “You alone?”
“Yeah. You know Giles is at the Magic Box. Why?”
“I love you Dawnie. Buffy does too.” He held her and as her consciousness
faded with each breath of the chloroform-covered cloth, she heard him say,
“I’m sorry it has to be done this way. We both are.”
They’d talked a lot about where to make the cut. He didn’t want to hurt her,
but they’d finally conceded that was probably inevitable. Still, it was
important he do no damage beyond what was necessary – no cutting of wrists
or her neck or anything. They’d finally decided, and he smiled at the memory
of their spirited discussion as he sliced across the palm of her small hand,
the left because Buffy was worried about her being able to do her
schoolwork, squeezing the blood into the carefully washed jar until he was
sure he had enough. Xander went into the bathroom, emerging with a
dark-colored washcloth that he used to clean the wound. Then he took his
time bandaging her palm, and laid her gently on the sofa. “Thanks for your
help, sweetie,” he murmured as he kissed her forehead. Before he left he
poured a small amount of the blood into another smaller container, and he
tucked them both in his bag.
Dawn woke up dizzy, her head swimming and her hand throbbing. “Xander?” She
peered around, but no evidence of her friend could be found. Still reeling,
she forced her body to the table that held the telephone, and called a
familiar number. “Giles? Something’s wrong.”
They went to his apartment first, of course. They checked the Bronze, and
all the cemeteries. It was Dawn who suggested the site where they’d fought
Glory. Where they’d lost Buffy, and a large part of Xander, as well.
Somewhere along the line they’d picked up Willow and Tara, and when they
pulled up at the place that held so many of their painful memories, the
redheaded witch jumped out of the car before it was in “PARK.”
“Xander? Xan? You here?” Her eyes blazed black, but there was no enemy here
to whammy, no apparent evil to fight. “Xander?” With the last call, her
voice faded to that of a scared little girl. Willow heard Tara gasp, and
turned, seeing something she couldn’t comprehend.
Somehow his body had landed right where Buffy’s had. But while Buffy had
fallen nearly bonelessly, landing as gracefully in death as she had moved in
life, he had landed awkwardly, and his head was turned at a strange angle.
*That must hurt*, Willow thought, before suddenly realizing Xander would
never hurt again.
Anya’s words came back to Giles. *Xander’s dying, Giles, a little at a
time.* But, in fact, it appeared he’d died quickly – probably at the instant
of impact. There was a small vial in his hand, broken, the stains on his
palm the only blood visible on his body. Searching the site for clues later,
he and Dawn found a larger jar at the top of the scaffolding, with evidence
that it had held blood. There was a bag there as well, with clean bandages
and a knife, also bloodstained. Rupert at that instant thought of all the
medical and psychiatric words the doctors had thrown at him and Anya, and
scrambled in his brain to see if “suicidal” had been one of them. He thought
not, but now, he couldn’t be completely sure.
Tara was frightened – her lover was apparently catatonic. The loss of Buffy
had brought out Willow’s dark side, but the loss of her oldest childhood
friend and the first man she had ever loved shut her down entirely. “Baby?”
she cooed, receiving no response. “Willow?” Realizing she wasn’t going to
get an answer now, and maybe for a long time, Tara wrapped her arm around
the smaller woman, and guided her to the car, where she sat in the backseat
like a stone.
Someone, Giles wasn’t sure who, called the ambulance. He thought it might
have been Dawn. Crisis after crisis had brought forth the iron in her spine,
and the girl was made of sterner stuff then even he was, the older man was
certain. Willow, in obvious shock, began to tremble uncontrollably in the
back seat, and it was decided they would all stay at the Summers home that
night, since it was closest. The next day, the police interviewed them all,
but it wasn’t as if they really cared. What was one more dead man in
Sunnydale? At least this one had no extra holes in his body.
Tara had been the one to figure it out. Dawn’s slashed palm, the vial in his
hand – he’d tried to use her blood to open the portal and join Buffy. They
all agreed it had been his madness that had driven him. All except Willow,
who still hadn’t said anything at all, days later.
They were back in their room, and Willow listened to the steady breathing of
her lover asleep. It wasn’t like she couldn’t talk – she just couldn’t think
of anything she needed to say, so she’d said nothing since she’d seen Xander
lying there, broken. The funeral had driven her deeper into her silence – so
many people there, and none of them knew him like she did. Not even his
parents. Anya hadn’t come, and she’d heard Giles tell Tara he didn’t know
where the ex-demon was right now. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.
For the only thing that mattered – the only *two* things that had ever
mattered – lay near each other underneath the dark Sunnydale earth. If she
listened with her heart, she could hear him calling her.
*Willow?*
*Xander? Is that you?*
*And Buffy. We miss you.*
~**~
The End.
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