The Long Summer 30
Xander shifted beneath the sheet and flopped back against the pillows. A silken hand ran over his chest and he glanced lazily up at Dru. She sat up in the middle of the bed, swaying back and forth. Her head tilted back letting her gaze move over the ceiling, enjoying some vision only she was privy too.
He studied the line of her jaw, the way it subtly curved into her neck. His hand trailed over the sheet to her bare leg. He stroked the skin and it amazed him at how curiously warm it felt.
"You're melancholy." Drusilla turned her gaze down. He could feel her hungry eyes wandering over his face, but the drifting laziness he felt didn't dissipate. "Your thoughts tread down the dark paths, you dance in shadows."
"Why Spike?" Xander's hand continued to stroke her thigh; it was an idle gesture, borne of half felt thoughts and feelings.
"Hmm?" Dru's head sidled in serpentine manner as she bent down to look at him.
"Why Spike?" He slid an arm under his head, propping himself up so he could watch her face. He liked the way emotion played over it.
"My Spike was - effulgent. Full of dreams and pain and shadows; he ached with it." She rolled her head around, hair flowing as though with a life of its own. "I wanted to take away his pain, to consume it and to dance within the flames of it. He made such beautiful flames, my Spike."
"I don't see it." Xander mused. "I don't see him - feeling."
Her nails dug into his chest and he hissed at the gouge. Her dark eyes flashed at him as she leaned in closer. "We feel pain. We feel hate. We feel anger. We feel love, too."
"But you don't feel mercy." He licked his lips thoughtfully.
"Why bother with mercy? It serves no purpose to our survival. Besides - fear is fun." Drusilla laughed softly. "The screaming and crying is like music. My Spike could make someone hurt for hours until they were so hoarse, they couldn't cry anymore."
He sighed. He felt Drusilla's weight shift until she laid along side him. Her chin rested in her hand and her distant gaze more casually focused on the present. "You don't like my answer."
"No. I don't." Bitterness filled him, choking back the lazy respite he'd purchased in their frolicking. "He's a killer and a butcher. Yet, he clips someone's hangnail and they can forgive the rest."
"You're jealous."
"I am not." Xander's jaw clenched and he gritted his teeth. "I just don't see what they see in him."
Drusilla laughed. "They see hope."
"What?" He glared at her laughter.
"Humans need hope. I did. When Angelus tortured my family, I looked everywhere for respite and found only God." Her smile took on that manic quality and her gaze wandered off to that far away place once more. "But God couldn't save me. I promised Him everything and Daddy came."
Xander rolled his eyes and shifted so that he could lie on his side. He felt her cuddle up to his back. She liked the illusion of human comfort and he allowed her that. It was worth indulging her whims.
It seemed ridiculous to imagine that Spike represented hope. How the hell could he represent hope? It was inconceivable. He found himself remembering the bluff and the bleakness in Willow's expression. The volatile hate that swelled out to encompass everything.
He felt the blast tear through his chest.
The hot, searing pain as it rent into him and flung him away like a rag doll. The process repeated twice more, he wouldn't - no he couldn't let her do it. Yet, he couldn't stop her either. The power consumed all reason; all thought and left nothing but devastated emotion in its wake.
"I love you." He told her. "If I'm going to die - if the world is going to end. Then I'm going to do it right here - with you - with my best friend."
His stared into the darkness of the room and felt Drusilla. She stirred behind him, but where her fingers traveled, he felt nothing.
Nothing.
The nothingness within him seemed to be expanding.
"You have a scar," Drusilla whispered against his ear. Her fingers were tracing the burned pattern along his back. "A lovely huge scar - it dances on your skin - it dances in your flesh."
"Shut up, Dru." He whispered.
"It dances in your soul - "
He rolled over, his hand seizing her throat, cutting off her words. He leaned his face into hers, nose to nose. "Shut up, Dru." And he sealed her mouth with his and vented that bitterness into her willing form.
When they were spent once more and she fell silent in the repose of sleep, he slid from the bed and staggered into the bathroom. His chest felt hot and he touched the light switch with a weary hand.
"You have summoned the witch?" A voice asked and Xander looked up to see the burning face reflecting in the mirror.
"Yes." He whispered.
"Good. Dally as you will - but remember our purpose." The reflection informed him. He watched the burning features settle into his own and the fire that burned within gradually lessened until the cold numbness was restored.
He'd summoned the witch. The pain and the weariness vanished together.
He looked down at the sink, then back toward his reflection in the glass. No more pain. No more suffering. The mark on his chest seemed to have grown. He traced the black inkiness with a finger.
Yes, all gone now.
Xander shifted beneath the sheet and flopped back against the pillows. A silken hand ran over his chest and he glanced lazily up at Dru. She sat up in the middle of the bed, swaying back and forth. Her head tilted back letting her gaze move over the ceiling, enjoying some vision only she was privy too.
He studied the line of her jaw, the way it subtly curved into her neck. His hand trailed over the sheet to her bare leg. He stroked the skin and it amazed him at how curiously warm it felt.
"You're melancholy." Drusilla turned her gaze down. He could feel her hungry eyes wandering over his face, but the drifting laziness he felt didn't dissipate. "Your thoughts tread down the dark paths, you dance in shadows."
"Why Spike?" Xander's hand continued to stroke her thigh; it was an idle gesture, borne of half felt thoughts and feelings.
"Hmm?" Dru's head sidled in serpentine manner as she bent down to look at him.
"Why Spike?" He slid an arm under his head, propping himself up so he could watch her face. He liked the way emotion played over it.
"My Spike was - effulgent. Full of dreams and pain and shadows; he ached with it." She rolled her head around, hair flowing as though with a life of its own. "I wanted to take away his pain, to consume it and to dance within the flames of it. He made such beautiful flames, my Spike."
"I don't see it." Xander mused. "I don't see him - feeling."
Her nails dug into his chest and he hissed at the gouge. Her dark eyes flashed at him as she leaned in closer. "We feel pain. We feel hate. We feel anger. We feel love, too."
"But you don't feel mercy." He licked his lips thoughtfully.
"Why bother with mercy? It serves no purpose to our survival. Besides - fear is fun." Drusilla laughed softly. "The screaming and crying is like music. My Spike could make someone hurt for hours until they were so hoarse, they couldn't cry anymore."
He sighed. He felt Drusilla's weight shift until she laid along side him. Her chin rested in her hand and her distant gaze more casually focused on the present. "You don't like my answer."
"No. I don't." Bitterness filled him, choking back the lazy respite he'd purchased in their frolicking. "He's a killer and a butcher. Yet, he clips someone's hangnail and they can forgive the rest."
"You're jealous."
"I am not." Xander's jaw clenched and he gritted his teeth. "I just don't see what they see in him."
Drusilla laughed. "They see hope."
"What?" He glared at her laughter.
"Humans need hope. I did. When Angelus tortured my family, I looked everywhere for respite and found only God." Her smile took on that manic quality and her gaze wandered off to that far away place once more. "But God couldn't save me. I promised Him everything and Daddy came."
Xander rolled his eyes and shifted so that he could lie on his side. He felt her cuddle up to his back. She liked the illusion of human comfort and he allowed her that. It was worth indulging her whims.
It seemed ridiculous to imagine that Spike represented hope. How the hell could he represent hope? It was inconceivable. He found himself remembering the bluff and the bleakness in Willow's expression. The volatile hate that swelled out to encompass everything.
He felt the blast tear through his chest.
The hot, searing pain as it rent into him and flung him away like a rag doll. The process repeated twice more, he wouldn't - no he couldn't let her do it. Yet, he couldn't stop her either. The power consumed all reason; all thought and left nothing but devastated emotion in its wake.
"I love you." He told her. "If I'm going to die - if the world is going to end. Then I'm going to do it right here - with you - with my best friend."
His stared into the darkness of the room and felt Drusilla. She stirred behind him, but where her fingers traveled, he felt nothing.
Nothing.
The nothingness within him seemed to be expanding.
"You have a scar," Drusilla whispered against his ear. Her fingers were tracing the burned pattern along his back. "A lovely huge scar - it dances on your skin - it dances in your flesh."
"Shut up, Dru." He whispered.
"It dances in your soul - "
He rolled over, his hand seizing her throat, cutting off her words. He leaned his face into hers, nose to nose. "Shut up, Dru." And he sealed her mouth with his and vented that bitterness into her willing form.
When they were spent once more and she fell silent in the repose of sleep, he slid from the bed and staggered into the bathroom. His chest felt hot and he touched the light switch with a weary hand.
"You have summoned the witch?" A voice asked and Xander looked up to see the burning face reflecting in the mirror.
"Yes." He whispered.
"Good. Dally as you will - but remember our purpose." The reflection informed him. He watched the burning features settle into his own and the fire that burned within gradually lessened until the cold numbness was restored.
He'd summoned the witch. The pain and the weariness vanished together.
He looked down at the sink, then back toward his reflection in the glass. No more pain. No more suffering. The mark on his chest seemed to have grown. He traced the black inkiness with a finger.
Yes, all gone now.