Disclaimer: None of the characters mentioned herein are mine, obviously, or I'd be doing naughty things to Spike instead of sitting here writing this fanfic. Don't sue, all you'd get would be a mangled 20 and a bunch of spell components.
*****
So, we just finished watching 'Conversations with dead people' for the second time, and while dissecting it on the phone, my friend says something about Xander being in danger if Spike is feeding again, and I jokingly said: "Maybe that's why he wasn't in this episode." And she said:
"Oh my God, Xander's dead."
And now, I have to write a fanfic about it. And in 30 minutes. Aren't you all impressed?
*****
November 12, 2002
7:52 P.M
The ceiling.
The edge of a table.
The phone cord.
One of those was important.
Oh yeah, the phone.
Buffy.
Had to warn Buffy.
Xander Harris lay on his back, on his carpet, in his apartment, in a pool of his own blood. A regrettable situation, and one that easily could have been avoided had certain Slayers been more observant of certain vampire's reactions to stabbing certain vengeance demon victims, or had just listened to him when he said that letting said certain vampire move into his apartment was a bad idea.
Warn Buffy.
What am I warning her about?
Oh yeah, the 'harmless' vampire that just ripped my throat out.
He reached up weakly for the phone cord, the euphoria of approaching death via exsanguination creeping up his arms and legs. He batted at it weakly a few times, finally knocking the phone from the cradle. The dial tone seemed so loud, ringing, pulsing in his ears.
Told her so. I told her so.
The evening had started in the usual way. Come home from work, get cleaned up, head to the Bronze. As a gesture of friendship, he asked Spike if he wanted to come along. Spike had looked at him strangely, and said that the Bronze sounded like a good idea, but he could use a bite to eat first.
He tried to grab the phone, but it slipped from his blood-slick hand. How long had he been on the floor? How long did it take someone to bleed to death? For that matter, why was he bleeding to death? Why hadn't Spike just drained him?
"Going out for dinner" he said.
"Don't want to fill up" he said.
Have to call Buffy.
And now, here he was, lying on his back, on his carpet, in his apartment, in a pool of his own blood, and feeling both unsurprised by this turn of events and strangely exultant at the knowledge that he, for once, was totally and completely right about something. Not exactly his top choice on the list of things to be right about, but it was the principle of the thing.
What was I doing again?
Calling Buffy, have to warn her about Spike.
Killing.
Feeding.
I thought being right would feel better than this.