Bamboo Flute
Title: Echo of a Bamboo Flute
Author: BmblBee
Rating: NC17
Paring: Spike/Xander
Disclaimer: The Bee owns none of the characters or products named in this story
and makes no profit from it.
Author's note: The Bee does not claim to be an expert in the Viet Nam war, nor
in the symptoms or treatment of PTSD.
Warning: Angst. Misery. Mentions of war and all bad things that come with war.
Strong language and sexual M/M content.
Summary: HAU. This is the third and final installment in the Hang Ten trilogy. It
is three years from the summer of 1965 and two years since Xander was drafted
into the Army. When he returns, he is damaged both physically and emotionally
and it is up to Spike to try and reach him and give him back his life.
Special thanks to Naughty_Fae for the encouragement and to Silk_ Labyrinth for the
spelling and punctuation beta. Any other errors are on the Bee.
It was late in the evening and the living room was silent except for the canned laughter and the
tinkle, tinkle sound Samantha made as she wiggled her nose and created another catastrophe
in the life of her poor husband, Darrin.
The room was bathed in an odd grey-blue light that danced and flashed in shifting hues and shades
from the television screen that no one was paying particular attention to. Jessica's nervous hands
found some relief with her crocheting but the eye strain quickly had her lying it in her lap with a
sigh. Tony longed to turn on the news channel but feared the awkwardness of a discussion that it
may induce. Spike simply lounged in his favorite spot on the sofa.
Finally, in the last scene, Darrin put his foot down and demanded that Endora change the neighbor
back from a toad to a human. When he banished her from the house, the unseen audience exploded
in wild laughter and applause and Spike knew that that was his sign that it was time for bed.
He wished Endora could fling her arms in the air and alter his reality to make everything as it had
been just two short years ago. Life had been so easy then. So simple, hopeful and happy. Spike
missed happy. Just as Bucky the Ipana beaver danced onto the screen and touted the attributes
of his toothpaste, Spike rose to his feet. He stretched his arms high over his head and he scratched
his chest.
"Well I don't know about you, but I'm beat. I think I will go on to bed."
He circled around the coffee table and kissed Jessica on the cheek, after which he passed by Tony
and casually patted him on the shoulder. Then, with legs that felt as if they were encased in cement,
he climbed the stairs.
As soon as he opened the bedroom door, he could smell it. The sour stench of cheap whiskey. The
small goose-neck lamp on the study desk was the only light on, but it gave off enough illumination
to allow Spike to see the room and its other occupant clearly.
Xander was slumped in his corner and he had all but drained the remainder of the first bottle.
Actually, Spike thought, it could be worse. He might have been working on the second one.
Feeling Xander's intense focus, Spike kicked off his shoes and he took his time as he undressed.
When he was down to his shorts, he slipped into bed and he rolled over to face the nest.
"Why do you drink so much, Xander?"
To be honest, it was almost a rhetorical question that Spike never expected to have answered. At best,
he thought a response of 'fuck you' or a derisive snort would be the most he would get. Much to
his amazement, perhaps comforted by the cover of darkness, Xander began to speak.
"When we first got to Nam, we were stationed far from the actual fighting. We were in an
area surrounded by several small villages and a lot of the old men and women came onto the base
to do menial tasks like laundry, cleaning, and tending the ox we kept since no one, not even the
know-it-all officers, had a clue about caring for them. At the time, we were naive enough to think
that because they were locals and not the Cong, they were on our side. Pfttt. Fuckin' gooks."
Xander took another swallow while Spike lay motionless and waited for the story to continue.
After a foul-smelling belch, it did.
"So anyway, in the evenings the workers would leave the base and go back to their homes. Their
huts. There, they all played these flutes made of bamboo reeds. At night when the lights were out,
we would lay in our bunks and listen to the far-off sounds of these bamboo flutes. At first, it was nice.
It was a hollow, haunting sound that would lull us to sleep. Later on when we moved up towards the
hot zone, it changed. We would spend days at a time crouched in the tall, wet grass of the jungle
and all around us we would hear that fucking sound.
Those fucking bamboo flutes.
It was impossible to tell which direction it was coming from or even how near it was. It was a
mental torture that never stopped. It seemed like even the sounds of the bombs and gunfire
couldn't block it out. It drove us crazy. When our jeep hit the...when I had the accident and blew
out my eardrum, the sound settled in my head. I can't hear a fucking sound from the outside, but
that constant, hollow sound like a bamboo flute rings in my dead ear non-stop. The fucking quacks
at the VA hospital said it would eventually go away but it doesn't. It never goes away. Only the
whiskey makes it tolerable."
Spike was stunned. He thought he knew it all. He believed that his love would be all it took to
snap Xander out of this funk and return things to a semblance of normal. The reality was that
Xander's experiences in Viet Nam were so far out of Spike's depth and understanding that he had
no starting point for comprehending and dealing, let alone helping.
Spike pulled the sheet up under his chin and he sighed. "Oh. Okay."
"Yeah."
Xander drank the last swallow and tossed the empty bottle toward the trash can, over-shooting
it by several inches. It was a depressing miss that reminded him again of his ocular disabilities.
As his hand brushed over his eye-patch, Xander slid down and he curled up. With a sigh, Spike
closed his eyes and prayed for sleep.
A sleep that refused to come.
His body was exhausted. His eyes burned and his back ached but his brain simply would not
stop churning. All Spike could think of was his lover crouched in the misery of the jungle, wet
and scared, while Spike patted himself on the back for baking cookies and mailing boxes of stupidity
to a country halfway around the world.
Spike squinted his eyes open and glanced at the round clock that ticked loudly by the bed. One hour.
He had been lying here an hour. He then stared into the dark corner where Xander lay unmoving
and apparently sound asleep. With a sigh, Spike prepared to roll over and try on his other side,
but before he could move he saw the figure in the corner stir.
It was an action that would not have seemed out of the ordinary considering people move and roll over
in their sleep all the time. He himself was about to do just that. But this was different. This wasn't
the fish-flopping of a man in slumber seeking a more comfortable position. This was the
calculated, stealthy move of a predator crouched and focused on a prey.
It was slight and subtle. It was smooth and slow.
Spike held still. Like a possum, he feigned sleep, all the time watching through barely slitted eyes.
He maintained a steady pattern of breathing even as his heart rate escalated. His hands under the
covers balled into fists as his brain questioned if his body was in danger.
Was Xander a threat? Did he think he was back in the war and Spike was the enemy? Fear
was beginning to seep through Spike's bones like a cold chill as he waited to see what Xander would
do. Part of him wanted to jump up and yell "Hey!" to assure that Xander was wide awake, but a
little voice inside him told him to weigh caution over impulse.
So he did. He waited. And goosebumps rose on the surface of his skin.
Slowly, moving with the fluidity of a cat, Xander never took his eye off Spike as he moved around in
his nest to crouch on his hands and knees. He tipped his head just a fraction of an inch to the side
so that his good ear could pick up any room noise or deviation in Spike's breathing.
Then he began to crawl.
Spike swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. He was afraid to blink. He now knew what a
mouse felt like as the alleycat slipped in for the kill.
Closer and closer, Xander crept toward the bed. His knees and hands made no sound against
the hardwood floor as he slinked nearer.
The muscles in Spike's jaw clenched tightly together in terror, which was the only thing now
that kept him from screaming out his fear.
As Xander reached the side of the bed, he suddenly dropped down out of sight. Spike's eyes bugged
open and darted in all directions for a hint of where the soldier had gone.
Then, verrrry slowly, the top of Xander's head began to rise. He was now just inches from where
Spike lay.
First was the top of the head and the wild, uncombed crop of dark hair. Then the smooth, white
forehead that glowed in the reflected moonlight. When Spike saw the first tip of the black, ominous
eye-patch, he squeezed his eyes tightly shut and prayed to whatever saints protected foolish
boyfriends in danger.
Xander held his breath. He stealthily rose up until he could clearly see Spike's face in the limited light
of the small room. He listened for the pattern of breathing and he checked for the posture of the
blond's body to assure himself that he was sound asleep.
He wouldn't do this unless Spike was sound asleep.
Spike could feel the fear rising to an uncontrollable level but he knew escape was impossible.
Xander would have him before he could get off the bed.
Xander watched. Spike's eyes were closed and his face was slack. He was asleep.
He was unaware.
Slowly, Xander eased up and he very gently crawled onto the bed. In a move so smooth and liquid
that he made no imprint on the mattress, he quietly lowered himself until he laid prone next to the man
he still loved. With his back to Spike, Xander let out a long, slow sigh and he silently dozed off.
Spike's eyes bugged open and his mouth gaped as he focused on the back of the brown hair that rested
on the pillow beside him. Immediately his arm went up to wrap around Xander's waist and pull him
back into a full spoon. But he stopped. He knew instinctively it would be a deal-breaker and he laid
his arm back down.
Then, with a smile of contentment, Spike also fell asleep.
Author: BmblBee
Rating: NC17
Paring: Spike/Xander
Disclaimer: The Bee owns none of the characters or products named in this story
and makes no profit from it.
Author's note: The Bee does not claim to be an expert in the Viet Nam war, nor
in the symptoms or treatment of PTSD.
Warning: Angst. Misery. Mentions of war and all bad things that come with war.
Strong language and sexual M/M content.
Summary: HAU. This is the third and final installment in the Hang Ten trilogy. It
is three years from the summer of 1965 and two years since Xander was drafted
into the Army. When he returns, he is damaged both physically and emotionally
and it is up to Spike to try and reach him and give him back his life.
Special thanks to Naughty_Fae for the encouragement and to Silk_ Labyrinth for the
spelling and punctuation beta. Any other errors are on the Bee.
It was late in the evening and the living room was silent except for the canned laughter and the
tinkle, tinkle sound Samantha made as she wiggled her nose and created another catastrophe
in the life of her poor husband, Darrin.
The room was bathed in an odd grey-blue light that danced and flashed in shifting hues and shades
from the television screen that no one was paying particular attention to. Jessica's nervous hands
found some relief with her crocheting but the eye strain quickly had her lying it in her lap with a
sigh. Tony longed to turn on the news channel but feared the awkwardness of a discussion that it
may induce. Spike simply lounged in his favorite spot on the sofa.
Finally, in the last scene, Darrin put his foot down and demanded that Endora change the neighbor
back from a toad to a human. When he banished her from the house, the unseen audience exploded
in wild laughter and applause and Spike knew that that was his sign that it was time for bed.
He wished Endora could fling her arms in the air and alter his reality to make everything as it had
been just two short years ago. Life had been so easy then. So simple, hopeful and happy. Spike
missed happy. Just as Bucky the Ipana beaver danced onto the screen and touted the attributes
of his toothpaste, Spike rose to his feet. He stretched his arms high over his head and he scratched
his chest.
"Well I don't know about you, but I'm beat. I think I will go on to bed."
He circled around the coffee table and kissed Jessica on the cheek, after which he passed by Tony
and casually patted him on the shoulder. Then, with legs that felt as if they were encased in cement,
he climbed the stairs.
As soon as he opened the bedroom door, he could smell it. The sour stench of cheap whiskey. The
small goose-neck lamp on the study desk was the only light on, but it gave off enough illumination
to allow Spike to see the room and its other occupant clearly.
Xander was slumped in his corner and he had all but drained the remainder of the first bottle.
Actually, Spike thought, it could be worse. He might have been working on the second one.
Feeling Xander's intense focus, Spike kicked off his shoes and he took his time as he undressed.
When he was down to his shorts, he slipped into bed and he rolled over to face the nest.
"Why do you drink so much, Xander?"
To be honest, it was almost a rhetorical question that Spike never expected to have answered. At best,
he thought a response of 'fuck you' or a derisive snort would be the most he would get. Much to
his amazement, perhaps comforted by the cover of darkness, Xander began to speak.
"When we first got to Nam, we were stationed far from the actual fighting. We were in an
area surrounded by several small villages and a lot of the old men and women came onto the base
to do menial tasks like laundry, cleaning, and tending the ox we kept since no one, not even the
know-it-all officers, had a clue about caring for them. At the time, we were naive enough to think
that because they were locals and not the Cong, they were on our side. Pfttt. Fuckin' gooks."
Xander took another swallow while Spike lay motionless and waited for the story to continue.
After a foul-smelling belch, it did.
"So anyway, in the evenings the workers would leave the base and go back to their homes. Their
huts. There, they all played these flutes made of bamboo reeds. At night when the lights were out,
we would lay in our bunks and listen to the far-off sounds of these bamboo flutes. At first, it was nice.
It was a hollow, haunting sound that would lull us to sleep. Later on when we moved up towards the
hot zone, it changed. We would spend days at a time crouched in the tall, wet grass of the jungle
and all around us we would hear that fucking sound.
Those fucking bamboo flutes.
It was impossible to tell which direction it was coming from or even how near it was. It was a
mental torture that never stopped. It seemed like even the sounds of the bombs and gunfire
couldn't block it out. It drove us crazy. When our jeep hit the...when I had the accident and blew
out my eardrum, the sound settled in my head. I can't hear a fucking sound from the outside, but
that constant, hollow sound like a bamboo flute rings in my dead ear non-stop. The fucking quacks
at the VA hospital said it would eventually go away but it doesn't. It never goes away. Only the
whiskey makes it tolerable."
Spike was stunned. He thought he knew it all. He believed that his love would be all it took to
snap Xander out of this funk and return things to a semblance of normal. The reality was that
Xander's experiences in Viet Nam were so far out of Spike's depth and understanding that he had
no starting point for comprehending and dealing, let alone helping.
Spike pulled the sheet up under his chin and he sighed. "Oh. Okay."
"Yeah."
Xander drank the last swallow and tossed the empty bottle toward the trash can, over-shooting
it by several inches. It was a depressing miss that reminded him again of his ocular disabilities.
As his hand brushed over his eye-patch, Xander slid down and he curled up. With a sigh, Spike
closed his eyes and prayed for sleep.
A sleep that refused to come.
His body was exhausted. His eyes burned and his back ached but his brain simply would not
stop churning. All Spike could think of was his lover crouched in the misery of the jungle, wet
and scared, while Spike patted himself on the back for baking cookies and mailing boxes of stupidity
to a country halfway around the world.
Spike squinted his eyes open and glanced at the round clock that ticked loudly by the bed. One hour.
He had been lying here an hour. He then stared into the dark corner where Xander lay unmoving
and apparently sound asleep. With a sigh, Spike prepared to roll over and try on his other side,
but before he could move he saw the figure in the corner stir.
It was an action that would not have seemed out of the ordinary considering people move and roll over
in their sleep all the time. He himself was about to do just that. But this was different. This wasn't
the fish-flopping of a man in slumber seeking a more comfortable position. This was the
calculated, stealthy move of a predator crouched and focused on a prey.
It was slight and subtle. It was smooth and slow.
Spike held still. Like a possum, he feigned sleep, all the time watching through barely slitted eyes.
He maintained a steady pattern of breathing even as his heart rate escalated. His hands under the
covers balled into fists as his brain questioned if his body was in danger.
Was Xander a threat? Did he think he was back in the war and Spike was the enemy? Fear
was beginning to seep through Spike's bones like a cold chill as he waited to see what Xander would
do. Part of him wanted to jump up and yell "Hey!" to assure that Xander was wide awake, but a
little voice inside him told him to weigh caution over impulse.
So he did. He waited. And goosebumps rose on the surface of his skin.
Slowly, moving with the fluidity of a cat, Xander never took his eye off Spike as he moved around in
his nest to crouch on his hands and knees. He tipped his head just a fraction of an inch to the side
so that his good ear could pick up any room noise or deviation in Spike's breathing.
Then he began to crawl.
Spike swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. He was afraid to blink. He now knew what a
mouse felt like as the alleycat slipped in for the kill.
Closer and closer, Xander crept toward the bed. His knees and hands made no sound against
the hardwood floor as he slinked nearer.
The muscles in Spike's jaw clenched tightly together in terror, which was the only thing now
that kept him from screaming out his fear.
As Xander reached the side of the bed, he suddenly dropped down out of sight. Spike's eyes bugged
open and darted in all directions for a hint of where the soldier had gone.
Then, verrrry slowly, the top of Xander's head began to rise. He was now just inches from where
Spike lay.
First was the top of the head and the wild, uncombed crop of dark hair. Then the smooth, white
forehead that glowed in the reflected moonlight. When Spike saw the first tip of the black, ominous
eye-patch, he squeezed his eyes tightly shut and prayed to whatever saints protected foolish
boyfriends in danger.
Xander held his breath. He stealthily rose up until he could clearly see Spike's face in the limited light
of the small room. He listened for the pattern of breathing and he checked for the posture of the
blond's body to assure himself that he was sound asleep.
He wouldn't do this unless Spike was sound asleep.
Spike could feel the fear rising to an uncontrollable level but he knew escape was impossible.
Xander would have him before he could get off the bed.
Xander watched. Spike's eyes were closed and his face was slack. He was asleep.
He was unaware.
Slowly, Xander eased up and he very gently crawled onto the bed. In a move so smooth and liquid
that he made no imprint on the mattress, he quietly lowered himself until he laid prone next to the man
he still loved. With his back to Spike, Xander let out a long, slow sigh and he silently dozed off.
Spike's eyes bugged open and his mouth gaped as he focused on the back of the brown hair that rested
on the pillow beside him. Immediately his arm went up to wrap around Xander's waist and pull him
back into a full spoon. But he stopped. He knew instinctively it would be a deal-breaker and he laid
his arm back down.
Then, with a smile of contentment, Spike also fell asleep.