Title: The Long Haul
Author: Becka
Chapter 4: Dragula
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Xander's sitting in his truck, cruising along at sixty miles per hour on a deserted highway. The radio's blaring "Dragula," by Rob Zombie, and even though Xander's screaming the words, he can't hear himself.
After all, what's the point of being a millionaire if you don't install a kick-ass sound system in your vehicle of choice?
Xander's eyes are on the road. Xander's hands are on the wheel. Xander's screaming "Dead I am the one, exterminating son." But Xander's mind? Xander's mind is taking a little trip down memory lane.
Mind you, this isn't a choice on his part. Xander likes to steer clear of the past. He doesn't need his father's voice in his head to tell him what a fuck-up he really is. But there's a question on his mind, and he's got no choice but to go back, back, back to answer it.
When did it all go wrong? When did _he_ go wrong?
Thankfully he can exclude dwelling on his little disappearing act – it was already in his blood at that point.
So... when? When did it happen? When could he first look at another human being and premeditate doing them harm?
Did it start when he helped to blow up Sunnydale? Sure, they evacuated the town, but the possibility of missing someone was there. What about that bum in the alleyway? Did he get out? How about that recluse that lived a few blocks away from his old house? It's possible the old man didn't get the memo.
Xander remembers thinking about it back then, and he remembers waving the idea off with a shake of his head. He'd had a job to do – save the citizens of Sunnydale. So long as almost everyone got out, it would be all right.
Thinking about it now makes Xander pause. When had he started thinking in terms of "acceptable loss of life?"
So, further back then that.
He rewinds a few years in his head, pausing to consider every once in a while. He picks a situation and asks himself, is that it? Is that when I went wrong? And each time he shakes his head – no, no, no – and backtracks a little more.
What about Glory? What about when Buffy died?
He remembers that fight, remembers watching from the shadows as Giles stood over the human host of Glory. What was the kid's name? Oh yeah – Ben.
Giles reached out with trembling hands, palm covering Ben's nose and Ben's mouth, and it had been a terrible thing to watch. He'd seen the haunted look in the older man's eyes before he did it. Back then, he'd wondered it Giles would go through with it.
He remembers thinking that if Giles couldn't do it, he would.
The soldier's mentality was already there. One life compared to one thousand. Acceptable loss. The needs of the many.
"Dead I am the sky, watching angels cry," his mouth yells.
He delves a little deeper.
What about the Ascension? What about when we stopped the Mayor?
Xander remembers his high school graduation, remembers the one-liners he'd discounted – "So," he could have said, "Who do I have to kill to get out of this joint?" Or, "Dad always said I'd be dead before I graduated – who knew he'd be right?"
He'd armed his fellow students to the teeth, studying each of them and noting their build, their height, before assigning them a suitable weapon. He'd handpicked the first line of defense, smiling as he'd led them to their doom. And there it was again – acceptable loss of life.
Jesus, he'd been eighteen when he'd started playing God.
Nope, Xander thinks, white-knuckled fingers tightening on his steering wheel like a noose. Nope, it was in my blood before that.
"Dead I am the pool, spreading from the fool," his mouth sings.
What about before Halloween? Before the soldier? Was he normal then?
No, Xander thinks, and he remembers Jack O'Toole and the Zombies. He remembers standing in the boiler room of Sunnydale High and looking into a dead man's eyes. He remembers the smile that curved his lips, the wistful tone of his voice as he'd admitted, "I like the quiet."
Acceptable loss had been a part of him before the soldier.
Lack of respect for life, even his own, had been there already.
"Dead I am the rat, feast upon the cat," his mouth cries.
Deeper still.
He thinks about the hyena, the creature in his head that takes up a third of his soul. He remembers the freedom, the lack of inhibition. He remembers the part of him that his possession unlocked.
He'd hurt Willow. He'd hurt Buffy. He'd been ready and willing to _eat_ someone for God's sake.
The key to his decision to go back further still is "unlocked."
The hyena hadn't given him anything that wasn't already there.
"Dead I am the life, dig into the skin," his mouth says.
So Xander goes back, and back, and back.
He remembers grade school. He remembers kindergarten. He remembers being five years old and ripping the head off Willow's Barbie just to see her cry.
Xander goes back as far as he can remember.
And it still isn't enough.
"Dead I am the dog, hound of hell you cry," Xander whispers, and his thoughts turn to yesterday. Standing outside a shady bar in Philly with a thug on his hands and knees. Wide eyes looking up at him, terror reflected in their depths, and a gun in his hand.
And Xander knows that tonight, or tomorrow, or whenever he settles down to sleep, he'll see that scene in his head. Only it will be his own eyes he's looking into when he pulls the trigger.
"Devil on your back," Xander says, and his foot pushes down on the gas pedal and his hand snakes out and turns the radio all the way up.
"I can never die."
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