Author’s Note: Warning. This part contains a dream sequence that involves non-consensual sex, violent images, and character death. Also, the use of the cross is not meant to be disrespectful.
As I drive off, a strange mix
of nervousness and guilt nags at me. I feel like I forgot to prep for an
important quiz and now I’m flunking. I thought I left that particular sense of
failure behind, when the old High School blew up and smoking bits of ex-Mayor
confettied on my graduation.
On my way home I go past
Revello Drive. Like I thought, the
lights are still on. Meaning I better check in. The door is unlocked, as usual.
I’m greeted by bouts of canned laughter and applause.
“Hello? Buffy?”
“Xander? In here.” Buffy’s
voice comes out of the living room. I close the door and walk in.
Abruptly, the laughter is cut
off, as Buffy puts the remote on the table, next to a bowl of popcorn and the
Sunnydale Times obituary page. She gives me a slightly forced smile. “I was
hoping you’d stop by before I have to leave for another patrol. How did it go?”
“Huh?”
“Spike. What did he have to
say?” She shrugs into her leather coat.
Nothing much. Except for the
offer to ‘service’ me. Which was one hell of a sick way of putting it. I shrug.
“I don’t know,” I say dismissively.
“Didn’t make much sense. The guy’s pretty much round the bend. Mumbled
something about a thing lurking in the school basement. I didn’t see anything
down there, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there. Why is it so important what
he said?”
There it is, that tiny moment
of hesitation, when she weighs how much to tell me.
“No biggie. It just, you
know, sounded like he knew something. He still has connections. You know, ear
to the ground, that kind of thing.”
I fish a handful of popcorn
out of the bowl. “What makes you think the bleached sicko still wants to help?
I mean, why should he? Why did he come back, anyway?”
She kneels down in front of
her weapons trunk and arms herself. That way she doesn’t have to look me in the
eye, when she replies. “I—I dunno, he just said he’d help, and I believe him. I
think.” She closes the trunk with a decisive snap.
“What about Anya?” I blurt
out.
“What about her?” Buffy asks
warily, as she stuffs her stakes into the pockets of her jacket.
“If it’s true and we’re in
for a big evil extravaganza, then Anya might have heard something. If you ask
her, maybe she can…“
“Anya is a demon, now,” Buffy
states. “No longer part of the gang.”
Yeah, like I need a reminder.
After all I saw her go all vein-y and kick Spike’s ass. Funny, but it didn’t
freak me out like I thought it would, the demon face, I mean. No matter what,
she’s still Anya, right? And Spike is still Spike, named for torturing his
victims with railroad spikes. I don’t need to see his pointy teeth and lumpies
to know what he is and always will be: an evil soulless thing, right?
Apparently some of my
thoughts register on my face, because Buffy gives me a comforting smile. “I’m
sorry Xander,” she says. “It’s just that… I don’t think helping us ranks high
on Anya’s agenda, you know. But, hey, Willow will be back soon, to help with
the research. How is that for timing?”
“Willow’s coming back?”
“Giles just called.
Apparently, she’s all de-toxed and ready. You’ll see, it’s gonna be just like
old times.”
Amen and can I get a
hallelujah!
Buffy heads for the door. I
grab another handful of popcorn for the road and follow her outside.
“Right, I better get going,”
Buffy says. “It’s getting late and I don’t want to miss it when Mr.
what’s-his-name wakes up all bloodthirsty. Tomorrow morning?”
“I’ll be there.”
I watch her receding back,
then take a deep breath. It’s a beautiful night. Warm air, the crickets do
their thing, the moon’s almost full. But I feel cold and I’ve got the smell of
burnt flesh clinging to my jacket. Swell!
***
It’s been four months. But
every time I come home and toss my keys on the kitchen counter, part of me goes
“Hey, where’s Anya?”
I open the fridge. No more
smelly cheeses. Just leftover pizza and three six-packs. I grab one. Maybe the
beer will help me calm down. I take it with me into the bathroom. I really have
to get rid of this smell. I strip, stuff everything into the overflowing hamper
and take a long hot bath.
Later, I open a new packet of
boxer shorts, slip into a pair (because all the pyjamas are in the hamper) and
then crawl between the sheets. To sleep. At least that’s the general idea, but
I’m still wound up like a clockwork. My heart is ticking too fast and my body
is tense. Normally, that’s my cue to spank the monkey, thinking about Anya,
Angelina Jolie, the Playboy centerfold or no one in particular. On a less
denial-y night my thoughts might even stray to Ben Browder in leather pants.
But tonight I really don’t
feel like getting in touch with myself, because I know where my thoughts would
end up. I’d end up wondering what might have happened if I hadn’t chickened out
or sobered up or--- whatever. Oh boy.
So, I toss and turn and try
to will all thoughts of Spike out of my brain. It takes a long time until I
finally fall asleep.
In my dream we are back in
that church. Spike is standing before the cross, naked. My eyes hungrily trace
the outline of his limbs. I admire his lean calves and thighs, dwell on the
hard muscles that ripple underneath milky skin. I step closer, open my pants
and pull myself out. Without hesitation I position myself and plough inside
him. One of my hands grips his shoulder, the other clutches his hip. Every
thrust pushes him against the cross. I can smell flesh burning, and smoke
starts to curl up. Suddenly, I realize that it’s not the cross that is branding
him, it’s me. Everywhere I touch him his skin hisses and blisters. It bubbles
like melting plastic then turns a charcoal black. He doesn’t scream. Just
writhes underneath me. Somehow I know his mouth is sewn shut. Then there’s a
whooshing sound and he’s suddenly engulfed by flames. I can feel the heat but
it doesn’t burn me. The next instant he’s gone and his ashes are scattering to
the floor.
“Oh god,” I hear myself say.
I hear clapping behind me. When I turn around (suddenly fully dressed) I see
Anya and Willow standing there.
“Willow!” I exclaim, glad to
see her. I don’t mind that her hair is black and that her eyes are bottomless
pits. After all, she’s my Willow.
“That was a nice effect,”
Willow is saying.
“Yes,” Anya answers, nodding
appreciatively. “Not bad for a beginner. But it was over too quickly. Vengeance
is a fine art. You’re supposed to make the pain linger.”
I’m about to tell them that I
don’t care about vengeance, but a loud beeping sound drowns out my voice.
Willow shakes her head and gestures towards her ear. “I can’t hear you,” she
mouths and I…
…wake up, all sweaty and
sticky, my heart racing. My hand slams down on the alarm clock, shutting it up
in mid-bleep.
The sun is shining into the
bedroom, cheerful and warm. I know it’s only in my head, but for a moment it’s
back, that horrible smell of burning flesh.
God, I think I’m gonna be
sick.