More fic
Thank you to everyone who left a review, I really appreciate them! Here is the next part of my as-yet-untitled Evil Xander fic.
Tara’s family never did call, and they didn’t show for her funeral. Neither did Anya, and Xander wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or disappointed. Several of Tara’s friends from the college did come, though. They were mostly Wiccans like Tara, and Xander was glad he had decided against a minister. The funeral itself was brief, and Buffy ended up doing the eulogy kind of by default. Xander thought she did pretty well, even though it was obvious she didn’t have a speech prepared or anything. Afterwards, he talked a little bit with some of Tara’s friends. They shared some stories about Tara with each other. It was good to know that Tara had friends that would miss her, outside of the Scooby gang. Outside of the people who got her killed.
After the funeral ended, he drove Dawn and Buffy back to their house. Dawn went straight up to her room and locked the door. She hadn’t really cried much during the funeral, just sniffled a lot. But now he could hear the faint noise of sobs coming from her room. He started to go up to her, but Buffy caught his arm and shook her head, saying that if Dawn wanted to grieve in private, let her do it. Xander figured she was probably right, but he hated leaving Dawn alone up there. It reminded him of how she had sat alone with Tara’s body that whole terrible afternoon.
So he and Buffy just sat there quietly for a while. Then she got up and pulled out a bottle of wine from the cabinet, and they started drinking. He must have lost track of time a little, because the next thing he knew the bottle was empty, it was dark outside, and Dawn was downstairs, looking disgustedly at the two of them. Buffy was curled up on the couch, asleep. Xander mumbled an apology to Dawn, then left the house and drove home. Very carefully.
The dreams came as soon as he hit the bed, like they did every night now. Each time they were different, but they all had one thing in common - they were very, very bad. He dreamed of darkness, and fire, and blood. Most of the time he saw the people he loved die, often at his own hands. Sometimes they were the ones killing him. Sometimes it was Spike or Angel doing the killing, and he could only watch, stuck in those molasses-slow dream movements.
A lot of the dreams were of real stuff, but twisted and wrong. He dreamed of Buffy dying in the Master’s cavern, and he wasn’t in time to save her, or else she woke up with yellow eyes and a bulging forehead. He dreamed of Willow or Cordelia dying alongside Kendra in the library when Dru and her minions attacked, and of finding Giles dead from torture in Angel’s mansion. He dreamed of losing to Jack, being tied up and helplessly watching the timer on that bomb count down. Or of the Gentlemen cutting into Willow and Tara, or of ADAM smashing Buffy’s skull in, or of Glory laughing as she cut Dawn open.
The second worst dreams were always of Anya. He dreamed of her dying, or of him killing her. He dreamed of her killing him sometimes, her face twisted into that demonic parody of the beautiful girl he had loved - he still loved.
But the worst dreams were always the ones where he was killing Buffy or Willow. And the worst thing about them was the sense of joy, of power, that he felt, as his hands turned red with the blood of his friends. He always woke up sweating and sick after these dreams.
The next few weeks were kind of a blur. Every morning he woke up as tired as if he hadn’t slept at all, and every night he stayed up as late as he could, afraid to go to sleep. Sometimes, if he drank enough, the dreams were muted. Most of the time, alcohol didn’t help at all. The lack of sleep, the booze, and the lingering memories of the dreams started affecting his performance at work. He was slowing Buffy down on patrol, too, and he could tell she was starting to get irritated with him. He had to admit to himself that he was getting a little short-tempered with her, too. It seemed like everything she did or said put his teeth on edge these days. He wanted to talk to her, tell her what was happening to him, but some hidden instinct restrained him.
Things finally came to a head between the two of them while patrolling one night in late June. They met up with two vamps in an alley downtown. One of them was both big and fast, so Buffy took him while Xander got his sidekick. Bloodsucker number two was a little guy reeking of grave-earth, so new he couldn’t even put on a human face. He was too eager, and just rushed Xander with his arms spread wide. He should have been an easy kill.
But Xander had already had a couple of beers that night, and he tripped as he lunged toward the vamp. He lost his grip on his stake when he fell, and somehow wound up on his back with the vampire straddling him, its hands around his throat. Xander thrashed and jerked, scrabbling for leverage, but got nothing. Just as he started to black out, the pressure on his neck suddenly vanished, and he looked up into a spreading cloud of dust. And Buffy’s stricken face.
“Xander, are you okay?” she asked, her voice shaking as she leaned over him.
“Yeah,” he rasped back automatically. Buffy’s expression suddenly changed, and she leaned forward and sniffed. Xander felt a sudden cold fist of dread seize his heart.
“Have you been drinking?” Buffy asked him, incredulously.
“Um...” Xander couldn’t think of anything to say. He didn’t have to, though. The answer was pretty obvious.
“I can’t believe-” Buffy stopped herself and stood up. “Let’s go,” she continued, her voice cold.
Xander scrambled to his feet. “Look, Buffy, I-” he started, but stopped when Buffy held up her hand imperiously.
“Don’t,” she said, and the expression on her face had Xander thinking that a hole opening up in the earth and swallowing him forever would be pretty convenient right now. She turned and stalked off.
They walked in silence back to Xander’s apartment. When they got there, he tried to apologize, but Buffy wasn’t having it. Squelching an irrational anger that suddenly welled up in him, Xander said good night and went inside.
The next night, he called up Buffy and she let him finish apologizing. Then she told him she didn’t want him to patrol with her any more. He tried to reason with her, to promise he wouldn’t drink before patrolling again, but she was adamant. Xander started getting angry, and argued more forcefully, which only made her more stubbornly refuse to listen to him. He wound up shouting incoherently at her, and she hung up on him. He tried to call back, but the phone was off the hook.
Xander went to bed that night seething with impotent anger. And dreamed.
TBC
Once again, feedback is much appreciated. I'm not very good with dialogue, which is why most of this is in third person voiceover (or whatever the writerly term is). Thanks again for reading!
Tara’s family never did call, and they didn’t show for her funeral. Neither did Anya, and Xander wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or disappointed. Several of Tara’s friends from the college did come, though. They were mostly Wiccans like Tara, and Xander was glad he had decided against a minister. The funeral itself was brief, and Buffy ended up doing the eulogy kind of by default. Xander thought she did pretty well, even though it was obvious she didn’t have a speech prepared or anything. Afterwards, he talked a little bit with some of Tara’s friends. They shared some stories about Tara with each other. It was good to know that Tara had friends that would miss her, outside of the Scooby gang. Outside of the people who got her killed.
After the funeral ended, he drove Dawn and Buffy back to their house. Dawn went straight up to her room and locked the door. She hadn’t really cried much during the funeral, just sniffled a lot. But now he could hear the faint noise of sobs coming from her room. He started to go up to her, but Buffy caught his arm and shook her head, saying that if Dawn wanted to grieve in private, let her do it. Xander figured she was probably right, but he hated leaving Dawn alone up there. It reminded him of how she had sat alone with Tara’s body that whole terrible afternoon.
So he and Buffy just sat there quietly for a while. Then she got up and pulled out a bottle of wine from the cabinet, and they started drinking. He must have lost track of time a little, because the next thing he knew the bottle was empty, it was dark outside, and Dawn was downstairs, looking disgustedly at the two of them. Buffy was curled up on the couch, asleep. Xander mumbled an apology to Dawn, then left the house and drove home. Very carefully.
The dreams came as soon as he hit the bed, like they did every night now. Each time they were different, but they all had one thing in common - they were very, very bad. He dreamed of darkness, and fire, and blood. Most of the time he saw the people he loved die, often at his own hands. Sometimes they were the ones killing him. Sometimes it was Spike or Angel doing the killing, and he could only watch, stuck in those molasses-slow dream movements.
A lot of the dreams were of real stuff, but twisted and wrong. He dreamed of Buffy dying in the Master’s cavern, and he wasn’t in time to save her, or else she woke up with yellow eyes and a bulging forehead. He dreamed of Willow or Cordelia dying alongside Kendra in the library when Dru and her minions attacked, and of finding Giles dead from torture in Angel’s mansion. He dreamed of losing to Jack, being tied up and helplessly watching the timer on that bomb count down. Or of the Gentlemen cutting into Willow and Tara, or of ADAM smashing Buffy’s skull in, or of Glory laughing as she cut Dawn open.
The second worst dreams were always of Anya. He dreamed of her dying, or of him killing her. He dreamed of her killing him sometimes, her face twisted into that demonic parody of the beautiful girl he had loved - he still loved.
But the worst dreams were always the ones where he was killing Buffy or Willow. And the worst thing about them was the sense of joy, of power, that he felt, as his hands turned red with the blood of his friends. He always woke up sweating and sick after these dreams.
The next few weeks were kind of a blur. Every morning he woke up as tired as if he hadn’t slept at all, and every night he stayed up as late as he could, afraid to go to sleep. Sometimes, if he drank enough, the dreams were muted. Most of the time, alcohol didn’t help at all. The lack of sleep, the booze, and the lingering memories of the dreams started affecting his performance at work. He was slowing Buffy down on patrol, too, and he could tell she was starting to get irritated with him. He had to admit to himself that he was getting a little short-tempered with her, too. It seemed like everything she did or said put his teeth on edge these days. He wanted to talk to her, tell her what was happening to him, but some hidden instinct restrained him.
Things finally came to a head between the two of them while patrolling one night in late June. They met up with two vamps in an alley downtown. One of them was both big and fast, so Buffy took him while Xander got his sidekick. Bloodsucker number two was a little guy reeking of grave-earth, so new he couldn’t even put on a human face. He was too eager, and just rushed Xander with his arms spread wide. He should have been an easy kill.
But Xander had already had a couple of beers that night, and he tripped as he lunged toward the vamp. He lost his grip on his stake when he fell, and somehow wound up on his back with the vampire straddling him, its hands around his throat. Xander thrashed and jerked, scrabbling for leverage, but got nothing. Just as he started to black out, the pressure on his neck suddenly vanished, and he looked up into a spreading cloud of dust. And Buffy’s stricken face.
“Xander, are you okay?” she asked, her voice shaking as she leaned over him.
“Yeah,” he rasped back automatically. Buffy’s expression suddenly changed, and she leaned forward and sniffed. Xander felt a sudden cold fist of dread seize his heart.
“Have you been drinking?” Buffy asked him, incredulously.
“Um...” Xander couldn’t think of anything to say. He didn’t have to, though. The answer was pretty obvious.
“I can’t believe-” Buffy stopped herself and stood up. “Let’s go,” she continued, her voice cold.
Xander scrambled to his feet. “Look, Buffy, I-” he started, but stopped when Buffy held up her hand imperiously.
“Don’t,” she said, and the expression on her face had Xander thinking that a hole opening up in the earth and swallowing him forever would be pretty convenient right now. She turned and stalked off.
They walked in silence back to Xander’s apartment. When they got there, he tried to apologize, but Buffy wasn’t having it. Squelching an irrational anger that suddenly welled up in him, Xander said good night and went inside.
The next night, he called up Buffy and she let him finish apologizing. Then she told him she didn’t want him to patrol with her any more. He tried to reason with her, to promise he wouldn’t drink before patrolling again, but she was adamant. Xander started getting angry, and argued more forcefully, which only made her more stubbornly refuse to listen to him. He wound up shouting incoherently at her, and she hung up on him. He tried to call back, but the phone was off the hook.
Xander went to bed that night seething with impotent anger. And dreamed.
TBC
Once again, feedback is much appreciated. I'm not very good with dialogue, which is why most of this is in third person voiceover (or whatever the writerly term is). Thanks again for reading!