Paring: Spike/Xander slash
Word Count : Chapter Three: 972 words
Genre: Alternate seasons of four and five produced this S5 dark fic
Warnings: Slash, dark fic, bloodplay, death and dark characters.
Table: 50 Dark Fics
Previous Chapters Here
Summary: Xander discovers that the line between sanity and insanity is as thin as that between pleasure and pain.
Xander blinked and rubbed his eyes. The world was cold and dark. He extended his senses – where was he? Ahhh yes, trapped in the asylum. Locked up by his friends and believed by none. He giggled; they thought he was insane. They thought he had lost it, that he was killing people. They didn’t believe him, didn’t trust him. They insisted it was mental instability, vampire thrall, and his favorite line that this was for his own good . They thought they were protecting him; he giggled again.
Sometimes even he wondered about his sanity, but he knew the truth. Remembered it quite well; it wasn’t like it happened all that long ago. He had woken up in Spike’s crypt, disoriented, with the frantic vampire pacing back and forth. It would have been cute if it his head hadn’t been pounding so much that he promptly hurled. He really disliked pain.
As soon as his head cleared, he could hear it. Faint in the daylight hours, he had learned to block it out. Not at night though. During the dark hours the whispers came through, soft and insistent. Telling him so many secrets, people’s thoughts, their dark desires, their pain, and even their deaths. He couldn’t block it out, the screaming and the cries. He would have gone insane, but Spike saved him. When the taunts got to be too much, he was pulled into the arms of his newfound love. Felt the penetration of fangs, the delicious pleasure pain of it all driving away the thoughts, narrowing his world down to his vampire.
He learned control, to focus the thoughts, to hone them. He had hoped to use the whispers to aide his friends. During this time, Spike held him, worshiped his body with his own, yet all the while refusing to coddle him. Spike had told him that they would never listen; that they would betray him and abuse him. Reminding Xander that time after time his friends had dismissed him, that they had reduced him to donut boy and comic relief. He hadn’t wanted to believe it; chalked it up to Spike trying to cause trouble, even though by that point he was quickly becoming Xander’s world.
Xander should have believed him. He should have known that Spike was trying to protect him. When Spike left to find a trinket that was suppose to be able to block the whispers, Xander experimented with new ways to subdue the noise. Sometimes he listened and took notes. Other times, he cut himself, watching the blood drip into an empty sports bottle. After all, no sense in wasting perfectly good human blood.
He had plotted his actions in silence. He began to liquidate the jewels recovered, racking up sale after sale in his bank account. He dutifully recorded the whispers, writing them all down until it became too much, and then cutting himself to drown out the sound. Amazing how the sharp cut made him hard and the feel of an actual knife could bring him to orgasm. It should have disturbed him, but it didn’t.
Then finally the whispers taunted him with their knowledge of the Key. Spoke lies about a sister that never was. He denied them, laughed at them, knowing they were testing his sanity. So he called a meeting. It was time to come clean. They had to know about the Hellmouth, about the whispers, and perhaps they would use the knowledge to save some lives.
Walking in, his stomach dropped, his feet fumbled, and his heart ached in sorrow. She was perfect – long dark hair, big expressive eyes and surrounded by a green aura. He should have known that the whispers wouldn’t lie; she was the Key, and she was beautiful.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have said that last part out loud?
The commotion had been overwhelming, the entire gang yelling and screaming at him. How did it know that and why was he saying that. Who had he told? How did he know? That last part they asked over and over again. How?
So he tried to explain. The whispers, the Hellmouth, and the secrets he knew. How he was connected, tied to the energies in a way he didn’t understand, but it didn’t make it any less real.
He could see their disbelief. He had proof. His notebook where he recorded the whispers. He told them about the murders on the edge of town, the ritual sacrifices. How the whispers had let him hear the screams, how he listened as they died, and most of all, how he had tried to save them but arrived too late. Always too late, and he was left with the cooling bodies and the whispers mocking laugh.
He told of how he’d come to know about Dawn from the never ending whispers. He didn’t tell them about Spike. He didn’t want them to think he was crazy.
He showed them the bodies and explained how they could use the whispers against the dark forces. How they could save people. How he could help.
They didn’t believe him. They found his bloody knife and saw his recent scarring. The whispers screamed at him to run, yet his so-called friends stopped him. They locked him up in this asylum. They didn’t even visit him.
Now there was no end to the whispers. They called to him, taunting him, laughing at him and he couldn’t even find a blade. Not a single way to cut himself, to bring forth the pain. He couldn’t block it out and he couldn’t run away.
Was he insane? Not yet. But he might get there soon.
But the whispers were his friend. They soothed him with their sweet news. Yes his lover was returning.
And then there will be hell to pay.