The Hell Diaries: Xander

[twilightofmagic]

Title: The Hell Diaries: Xander
Author: Twilightofmagic
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: R
Setting: post-NFA
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Joss Whedon entirely. I only play with them.
Notes: This story is part of the occasional series, The Hell Diaries. Chapters on Willow, Spike and Wesley are stored in my memories.

Thanks to my ever helpful flisties who responded to my usual pleas for help once I've committed to writing a story and have not one single idea to proceed with. ::hugs them warmly::

The story is finished at the very last minute so is unbeta'd. All errors are embarrassing and my own. I'll fix them as soon as I can come back to the story with fresh eyes.

The air is musty with the dry fungus smell of leather bindings on abandoned hymnals in each pew, mingled with the sweet musk of incense. From the shadowy darkness to his right, Xander can hear the creak of Spike’s leather duster as the vampire paces a parallel track down the far aisle of the church, head slightly raised, scenting the air for rank traces of demon. His heart thuds heavily in his chest and he knows Spike can hear it, his vampire senses tuned to the inner tides of blood and hormone in Xander’s body imprinted by the bouts of sexual frenzy they’ve shared in the past few months.


His own nervous system is hardwired now to this febrile brew of testosterone and adrenaline. Each time they are on the hunt, his cock rises to the promise of danger and remains hard until the end when, blood soaked and triumphant, they stumble into Spike’s apartment, tearing each other’s clothes off. Sometimes it happens at the scene, feet slipping in gore and the smell of death still in the air.

The sexual explosion after each demon hunt had been shocking at first, at least for Xander, but now he understands the permeable line between killing and fucking. He doesn’t question any more, just gives himself up to the mindless ecstasy.

Whether this life is better than the one he left in Africa doesn't matter much. It was bad there, bad here. When he’d walked off the cargo ship at Lagos after Sunnydale did its disappearing act, he was silent and exhausted. And he didn't utter a word for months after. Just a few terse syllables to get a pallet in out of the way hovels or a bowl of ground nut stew from street vendors wherever the ramshackle buses left him. He cared about nothing and he thought about less. Eat, sleep, walk through the days. That was all he needed, all he was capable of.

But somehow at the end of it all, he found himself in Los Angeles. Too burnt out for irony, he observed the demon ruled streets of the city of angels with dull eyes and survived on reflexes honed by two years’ travel in areas barely mapped in Lonely Planet guides.

It was Spike who had saved him one night as he was caught fast in demon claws, resigned and even grateful that his last moment had come. He’d stopped struggling, accepted the inevitable and suddenly he was on the slimy ground of the alleyway, air shuddering into oxygen starved lungs.

Spike stood, watching expressionless, before finally extending a hand to drag him to his feet. Xander had been taken home, fed and left to sleep on a sofa, covered by a thin blanket. And he'd simply failed to move on. Here was as good as anywhere, and his saviour was at least a familiar face. Xander wasn’t particularly curious about what had happened to Spike after the last battle against the First, but over the months, bits and pieces had come out. The fiery oblivion, the reappearance in Angel’s office, the recorporealization and the second final battle. Spike survived. Most of the others didn’t.

Apparently final was a slippery concept. But so was everything else. The route of the demon horde under the combined force of slayer special units fortified by magic proved temporary, and soon Los Angeles was overrun again.

So he went along when Spike went out to some new disaster. Only at those times, when Xander felt neck bones crack under his hands as he gave the killing twist or when a hard cock split him apart did he feel alive. The rest of the time he was paralyzed with indifference.

At some point, he’d stayed in Spike’s bed and Spike hadn’t bothered to kick him out. So they slept together, sometimes twined round each other’s bodies, but never talking about what they were doing. There was no need. Neither of them questioned what simply was.

“For fuck’s sake, Harris. Stay alert.” Spike’s low, intense whisper sounds near his right ear, making him gasp before he suppresses the physical shock of finding him so close.

“There’s something here, but I can’t locate exactly where it is.”

Xander compresses his lips. There isn’t any excuse for letting his mind drift in the middle of a hunt. It was what got him into trouble in the alleyway when he was a breath away from becoming one of the nameless corpses cluttering L.A. Streets every morning. He's still not sure he's grateful.

“I’m going to check the choir stalls,” Spike whispers. “Stay here until I signal it’s clear.”

He turns to go, and then looks back. “What I said, Harris. Keep your eye peeled.” He gives a grim smile at the tasteless joke and moves away.

Xander nods, watching Spike glide soundlessly down the nave. As he travels through shafts of light from stained glass windows, his pale skin glows red, amber, cobalt blue before disappearing into shadow, only to reappear in bands of jewel colour again. Xander never tires of watching him on the hunt. The man who in everyday life often irritates him beyond endurance becomes extraordinary, a lethal machine of coiled steel muscle and mindless fury in action. Or at least, Spike appears to be reckless, but Xander knows the reality is even more terrifying: it is fearlessness combined with cold intelligence. And it makes Xander’s cock stir at the root to witness the effect.

He shifts impatiently. Spike has reached the choir stalls and pauses, tense and hyperaware. Something has stirred his senses, but he can’t seem to locate its source. As he watches, Xander feels a thickening of the air around him, a prickling of the hair at the nape of his neck and then overwhelming terror floods his mind. He screams, but no sound comes from his mouth. The last thing he sees as darkness suffocates him is Spike’s face, lips pulled back in a demonic snarl, then nothing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Try to sit up a little. I don’t want to spill this down you.”

The voice is familiar. Xander feels himself supported by a strong arm around his shoulders. He tries to open his eye, but the message gets lost somewhere in the muddle of sensation in his brain. The edge of something cold and hard presses against his lips. He tightens them, resisting and then opens a crack when the edge nudges more insistently. Warm salty fluid floods his mouth and makes him choke before he gets his throat muscles under control.

“Hey, steady on. A little at a time.” The voice is quiet and low. Familiar. “Soup’s good for you. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

More fluid spills over his lips, but this time he swallows and feels the warmth spread to his stomach.

The next time he wakes, his mind is clearer though thoughts move slowly. He is in bed, and...something has happened. A faint throbbing in his head makes him feel slightly nauseous. He’d been...fragments of memory flicker...the musty smell, darkness, shafts of light illuminating dust motes in the air, the flash of a demon face and...a wave of gut wrenching terror turns in his stomach...a suffocating absence...the sensation of being sucked into pure emptiness, icy cold. He feels his heart thunder in his chest, muscles spasming into aching bands constricting his breathing. He sucks air in with a whoop, half rising in the bed in blind panic.

The bedroom door bursts open as Spike hits it on the run, crossing to the bedside in three strides.

“Xander. What?” He grabs Xander’s flailing arms and brings them down to the bed, holding tightly onto the wrists and staring intensely into his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

Xander can’t get his breath, lungs fighting to draw air in. He tries to free his hands, jerking against the restraint, but can only twist his shoulders fruitlessly.

“Look at me, Xander. Look into my eyes.” Spike’s head moves closer, his expression willing Xander to focus. “That’s it. Keep looking at me. Breathe. You’re safe. I won’t let anything get you.”

The drumbeat of Xander’s heart begins to slow as he stares into Spike’s eyes. They are open wide, the pupils dilated, almost swallowing the blue. He's speaking rapidly, trying to reach him through the haze.

“Xander. Listen. You've been poisoned from the demon bite. It's going to take you....you have to....”

But the words fade toward the end, and Xander feels the darkness flow over him like syrup, creeping into his mind, extinguishing light as it saturates consciousness.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The clanking of chains strikes his ears like blows, sending a unpleasant jangle of response from irritated nerve endings. Behind his closed eyelid, the light outside is tinged red. It's cold, freezing cold and echoing. He's not in Kansas any more.

“Get up.” The voice snaps out with unmistakable authority from somewhere high above him. “And pull yourself together.”

Xander opens his eye, tears immediately gathering in the corner as light floods in. Someone behind him punches his kidney a sickening blow, making him grunt with pain. He mutters a curse and pulls himself onto his hands and knees. His vision is clearing, but he still can't see who's speaking.

“Hurry up. I haven't got all day.”

The voice seems to come from a dark shape hovering many feet above him, silhouetted against a starburst light source. It's dazzling, but as his eye adjusts, the shape resolves into a scarlet robed judge, or cardinal, it's hard to tell. Xander straightens up, his wrist fetters clanking together as he moves. There's something familiar about the robed figure, floating in the middle of the air on a carved throne. Accustomed to power.

“Q?” Xander's voice comes out in a disbelieving croak.

“Well, you used to call me Giles, but Q, by all means. Any letter of the alphabet you like. It's all the same to me.” The voice is cultured English and the face as it becomes clearer is indeed the Watcher, though never before seen in such a magisterial get up.

Xander closes his eye. Hallucination, dream. It has to be something like that. Maybe it'll be gone when he looks again. Not as if it's the first time he's been lost inside lurid visions. His recurring bouts of malaria produce some doozies, not to mention a couple of opium dreams that scared the shit out of him. Dangerous place, the subconscious.

“I can be Q if you want.” The voice is kindly.

Xander opens his eye a crack, just in time to see Giles' face alter subtly until it's the petulant visage he's seen so many times tormenting Captain Picard. Fuck. Hallucination brought to you by Xander's wasted youth watching way too much TV.

“I'm not a hallucination, you know.” Q leans forward, one eyebrow quirking high on his forehead. “I'm your judge.” He leans back, staring down his aquiline nose. “And you've been very, very bad.”

“Yeah. Right.” Xander snorts mirthlessly through his nostrils.

“I'd advise an attitude adjustment, young man.” Q nods to the guard. “See what you can do.”

A horrendous blow smashes into Xander's kidney again, making him crumple to his knees, head bent almost touching the floor. He feels as if he's going to puke his guts up and gags, panting from pain. But the nausea subsides, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

“What the fuck did you do that for?” Xander looks up, rage making his fists clench.

“Just conditioning you.” Q smirks nastily. “But I see I've got your attention.” He nods to the guard again. “Help him up and let's proceed. Call the first witness.”

A stentorian voice fills the space, echoing from invisible walls and ceilings. “First witness take the stand.”

“Aw, Jesus,” Xander groans when he sees who it is. Looks like he's not going to be waking soon. “Of course. Who else? Hi Buffy.”

Buffy gives a brief nod from the witness box. She's older than he remembers. Still beautiful, but lines around her mouth suggest things haven't got any easier.

And then Xander recalls why he's here. Judgement. Looks like his subconscious is going to fuck him up. He shakes his head vigorously, trying to snap out of it. Wake up. Break off the dream or hallucination or whatever it is. For a moment the courtroom ripples, fades a little.

He tries to call Spike's name, get him to come into the bedroom, but it's as if his muscles are paralyzed. He wants to shout, feels himself straining to make the sound, but nothing comes out.

A booming voice surrounds him. “You're not getting out.” Q smiles gently with a hint of serial killer behind it. “You're ours until we decide to let you go.” He stares at his fingernails briefly, admiring their manicured perfection and then looks down at Xander again. “If ever. You've got a lot to answer for.”

Q leans forward on one elbow, chin in hand, and smiles at Buffy.

“Tell us your story, my dear. What did he do to you?”

Buffy looks toward Xander, eyes flat. “He ruined my life. That's all.” Her mouth tightens. If there'd ever been a friendship before, it is gone.

This is stupid. It's just a dream. Not real. But Xander finds himself wanting to make her expression soften. Get her to look at him like she once did, as a friend and a comrade.

“What are you talking about, Buffy. I loved you. Fought next to you.” He takes a ragged breath and then gives in. Okay, let's get into it, whatever it is. “What do mean, ruined your life?”

Her eyes are like jade, hard and unyielding. He's never noticed before, but her mouth, when it curls with dislike in that way, makes her face look pinched. Mean.

“Angel. He had a soul.” Her nostrils are white, lips a thin line.

Xander waits for her to continue, but she just stares at him.

“Yeah? I know that.”

“Yes. And you knew it when Willow restored his soul.” Her gaze has turned into a look of loathing. “Just before I sent him to hell.”

Oh. Xander tries keep his eyes from sliding away from hers. He'd forgotten. Had buried it so deep, it wasn't a fact of his life any more. His chains clank as he shuffles his feet uneasily.

“Who told you that?” How could she know? “Did Willow...?”

“You bastard.” Buffy's voice cuts through the room like a steel blade. Like the blade she pushed into her lover's heart.

It feels like the ground has dropped away under Xander's feet. A cold sweat breaks over his skin as he remembers that moment. Willow. She told me to tell you.... But at the last moment--a wave of revulsion overcomes him as he remembers--at the last moment, he refuses to give her what he can't have. In his niggard little excuse for a soul, he can't stand for her to be with Angel. The shame crashes over him like a wave and he sobs, deep in his throat.

“I'm sorry, Buffy...” He can hardly speak through a throat aching with mortification. All the years since and he'd forgotten, as if it was a minor error in judgement. But he knows what this forgetting means. He steps forward and raises his chained wrists, palms open in supplication. “Can you find it in your heart to...”

And the courtroom shimmers, dissolves.

“Find it in my heart to what, Xander?” A deep voice, close by.

Xander opens his eye. Oh. A dream. A fucking horrible dream. He still feels choked, his chest heavy. Spike is standing by his bed looking at him quizzically.

“You've been out for over twenty-four hours. Wasn't sure you were coming back.” Spike sits on the side of the bed and gazes at him for a long time, a faint frown on his face. He looks even paler than usual, dark shadows under his eyes. He touches Xander's hand awkwardly, a touch that persists and turns into something like a caress. “Got used to you, mate. I was hoping you'd...”

Blackness swallows the rest and Xander is on the blackwater rush into unconsciousness.

How long he is under this time, he has no notion. But he's afraid to open his eye in case he's back in the...

“Next witness.”

Fuck. He tries to lie still, hang on to the feeling of sheets against his skin, the hum of the air conditioner in the bedroom, but he knows he's fooling himself. He's sitting now, on a hard chair, his manacled feet side by side. His hand hang between his knees as if they're disconnected from him. He knows who's next.

“Xander. Wake up. Look at me while I condemn you.”

The voice tone is a combination of petulance and anger. She's staring at him with those huge, wounded eyes, brimming with outraged justice, too long denied. As he regards her wearily, he's shocked at how pretty she is. So lovely and so small. How could he have forgotten how tiny she was, almost fragile. A wave of nostalgic love overwhelms him.

“Anya, love...”

“Don't call me love.” She pulls at her blouse nervously, a blouse that is stained with old blood. “You never loved me, Xander. You just used me because I was willing.”

“No-o.” The protest is torn out of him. She couldn't have thought that at the end. She must have known that he... Xander's mind stalls. What was that thing he felt. It seemed like love after the orgasm-how she loved that word-that feeling of warm affection as he cuddled her sweet smelling body next to his. That was what love felt like, wasn't it?

“That's not love.” Anya is glaring at him accusingly and a surge of adrenaline flushes his skin. Can she read his mind? “You don't know how to love, Xander.” Her eyes bore into him. Somewhere deep inside, a bubble of dark humour threatens to escape. Funny how he can make beautiful women's eyes turn to stone when they look at him. His gift.

He opens his mouth to deny her claim, but stutters into silence.

She has turned away from him, her shoulder thrust forward like a shield protecting her heart. Glossy curls fall forward over her brow as she stares into her lap. When she speaks next, her voice is low, unspeakably sad.

“I loved you with all my heart, Xander. I gave up everything for you.” Her voice cracks on the last word. And something inside Xander breaks apart under the weight of her truth.

He stands slowly, like an old man, feeling the weight of his sins. She's dead. This is nothing more than his mind playing tricks. Something happened to him at the church and he's trapped in an imaginary world. If he can just wake up, find Spike by his bedside, then maybe...

But it won't matter. Whatever's brought him here has only excavated the pit of his forgetting, unearthed the whole stinking cesspit of his life.

“What do you want of me?” he asks.

But Anya's gone. The courtroom is dark, empty and bone deep cold. So this is hell. He's always known this place. His own personal hell carried inside him.

“You're wrong, Xander.”

The voice is gentle, but so unexpected that Xander flinches in shock. And it's not Q's any more, but the cultured tones of his old friend.

Giles strolls out of the darkness, hands in the pockets of his tweed jacket. As he was in the early days.

“It's not hell.” Giles puts an arm around his shoulder and Xander almost breaks down in relief to hear that familiar strong, comforting voice. Giles always knew. Always understood. He could be angry and stern, but of all of them, he knew what things really meant.

“It's the judgement seat. We all face it.”

Xander looks up at him hopelessly. “Have I been found guilty? Will I go to hell?”

“I don't know. You're the judge, jury and executioner. It's entirely up to you.”

“But this isn't real. I'm lying on a bed. I got hurt and... He loses track of what he's trying to say.

“It's real enough. And anyway, what's real? Haven't you figured out yet that things are a little more fluid than most people think?”

Xander shakes his head in frustration. “This is just a hallucination. None of this is real.”

“How do you feel right now, Xander?” Giles has dropped his arm from Xander's shoulder and looks at him now with a kind of calm curiosity.

Xander searches inside. How does he feel. And then it strikes him. He does feel. The permafrost that has chilled his heart since Spike destroyed the demon horde, going down into the hellmouth in a blaze of light..is gone.

And his heart lurches. Spike. He not only did it once, but twice. Sacrificed everything for the human race. And never once did Xander give him his due. Worse than that, ground him down with every word and action. Xander brings trembling hands up to his head and holds his temples. He feels as if he is going to fly apart from the onslaught of raw emotion-guilt, shame, disgust, but also a soaring respect and affection for the man he's been sleeping with for the last six months. His breath hitches in a sob and then his shoulders begin to shake.. Giles draws him into his arms again and lets him cry it out.

When the tempest subsides, Xander steps away. “Can I get back? Wake up out of this dream?”

“You've been able to do that from almost the first moment.” Giles' serious, calm face is beginning to fade. “But there was something you needed to do.”

“Is it finished?”

But he's alone again. The echoing cold is gone. He feels the comforting warmth of a quilt and the rustle of sheets next to his skin. Someone has opened a window, Spike he supposes, and he can hear sparrows in the bushes outside. As usual, they sound relentlessly cheerful. In the middle of the hellhole L.A. has become, they carry on as if the world will go on forever.

A door slams and boots cross the parquet floors to the bedroom. Spike's home after a night out keeping America free for democracy. Or something like that.

Xander pulls himself up in the bed and folds the quilt across his stomach. He's not feeling great about himself right now, but at least he's got his heart back, battered, defrosting old thing that it is. He feels ridiculously hopeful, as if he's on a first date, waiting for the door to open. And when it does, well, things are going to be different.