If there is anything in this world he’s hating more than his situation, it’s that yammering fag Andrew. The girls, he can get being like that. They’re girls. Andrew doesn’t have an excuse. So when Andrew turns up missing, he smiles his first smile of what feels like forever, and has to cover when one of the girls notices.
“Uh, he probably just snuck off to get his comics. It’s Thursday right?”
“It’s Tuesday, Xander.” Buffy says shortly, and while he can’t see her, he knows the look on her face, arms crossed, foot tapping away with that need to hit something that she never really found a healthy way to release.
He starts to stumble through an apology for not knowing what
day it is, but the girls are already babbling away and he feels a surge of
anger that she dismissed him, and then a surge of confusion when he remembers
that he *wanted* her to drop it, so he wouldn’t have to explain that he was
*happy* that Andrew was missing, and if he had two wishes, the second would be
for Andrews vanishing-act to be permanent.
(The first would involve his eyes back, and having been born in
A day later, Buffy drags Spike back to the house. He has to eavesdrop, since she won’t talk to anyone about it, but if you put your ear right to the vent, you can hear two people whispering in the basement clear as if they were standing right in front of you. Spike’s been a bad boy, killing and siring people. Something about a trigger, and a song, and his mother, and, best.part.ever, he killed Andrew and Buffy had to stake the useless twerp! He’s not sure how Spike missed him chuckling at that revelation, but he’s always been a dumbass anyway, completely shocked by the notion that anyone other than himself could be up to something.
But he can hear something else in Spike’s voice. He’s putting on a crocodile tears act for Buffy, all ‘I’m not safe to be around, I can’t control it, I don’t want to be a killer,’ but it’s too smooth. No hitching of breath, no hesitation, all perfectly timed and precise. He’s sure if he could see Spike, his face would be a flawless tragedy mask of despair and repentance. He’s knows from experience that Spike’s a fucking brutal poker player.
Buffy, oh wait for the shock, is falling for the entire thing.
Xander can feel the burning need to *do something,* but he knows that Buffy will stop him, and he waits patiently. That evening, he’s sitting quietly on the stairs when some sort of argument breaks out downstairs, and Buffy ends up walking out. Well, actually it sounds almost like Dawn threw her out! Go Dawn!
Faith rallies the troops, and they leave to go, oh, somewhere, and do something. He wasn’t really paying attention, only that they were leaving him alone in the house, with Giles, and Rhona, who still has a broken arm, as she’s pointedly reminded everyone every twenty seconds for what seems like for-fucking-ever (although she only mentioned it once in front of Xander, since the ‘eyes gouged out’ thing neatly trumps her busted wing and it was a rare moment of joy getting her to shut the hell up about it), and most importantly, Spike, chained in the basement.
Xander walks carefully down the stairs, wondering where exactly he could get his hands on a stake, and ends up in the kitchen. He’s pretty sure that a knife will do the trick, with the proper application of head-coming-off-ness.
Muttering to Giles that he ‘needs coffee,’ he rifles through the silverware drawer and finds a ridiculously large knife that *so* doesn’t belong here. It’s perfect. Slipping it into the back of his pants, he pulls his shirt over it, and then makes a cup of what smells like blood, although he’s not willing to taste it to make sure. He nukes it for twenty seconds, and it seems lukewarm, but he’s not really concerned about getting it right, so he carefully walks to the basement steps, going down one step at a time, one hand on the handrail, like the invalid everyone seems so damned eager to believe him to be.
“What’s all this then. Come to poison me? ‘S’about right, you’re too much of a nancy-boy to try anything else.”
“Shut up, Spike. It’s just blood.”
“It’s bloody tepid!” but he drinks it nonetheless, draining it in one long gulp, only interrupted by the knife entering his throat sideways and nearly taking his head off with the first thrust.
It’s all a blur, Spike’s legs flail out, something like a gunshot happens at the far end of the basement (the cup, he realizes, good thing he didn’t hit me with it!), and Xander’s thrown to the ground and Spike is tearing at his face and they both are pulled to the ground. Xander shoves hard on the knife, thanking God that Spike can’t talk at least, since he’d probably be bitching about what a ‘bollocks’ Xander was making of this. He kicks like a mule before Xander manages to push the knife in far enough. Then the struggles stop, but Spike is still there. He must have cut the spine or something, so he sets to work, ignoring the sounds from upstairs and saws Spike’s head off.
When Giles makes it down the stairs, Xander turns, bandages torn away, and Giles sees the man’s sightless eyes looking up at him from a pile of dust on the floor, and the Bringer knife in his hand rising.
“Xander, my God, no.”
“It’s not what you think, Giles!” Xander starts, having trouble getting up, because of whatever Spike did with that last kick. It feels like he’s breathing fire, like some sort of burning acid is pouring down his throat.
“You killed Spike.”
“Well, okay, it *is* what you think. But he really *really* had it coming.” He’s finally gotten to his feet, but is now having trouble standing. Where the hell is that support pillar thing?
“Put down the knife Xander,” comes a voice so very, very closer than he expected, and when he starts, he feels something stop him. The knife is left behind, and he’s made it to the steps and up, desperately *away* from what can *not* have just happened. His treacherous ears can hear a soft sigh, and a heavy soft, as Giles’ body slumps to the basement floor, and Xander makes it to the ground floor, only to hear Rhona’s voice in front of him.
“Xander, what’s going on? Are you okay? Did Spike attack you? Where’s Giles?”
He remembers that her arm is broken and he flails out to connect with that arm, pushing her aside. “They’re fucking dead, Rhona. Just like you’re going to be if you stick around here.”
The cool night air feels blissful on his exposed face, like he’s been suffocating under those bandages. He has no idea where he’s going to, he’s just got to get away from all of it. Whatever madness just happened, it’s because of that house. Those people. He can’t… Not Giles. It’s just not even possible. He shouldn’t have left us.
He shouldn’t have come back…