RATING: Adult entertainment due to m/m sexual activity
DISCLAIMER: This story is fiction. Conceived in the warped
hive of the BmblBee. She owns none of the
characters or products named and makes no money
from their use.
WARNINGS: Character death. Boys playing with boys.
Vampire/ human contact.
SUMMARY: Xander Harris is dead. Drained by a vampire in
the Longview Cemetery. When his body is discovered
his friends realize that no one has seen or heard from him
in the last five days. Willow comes up with a spell to send
someone back in time to find out how he ended up there
and possibly save his life. Spike is reluctantly recruited.
Thanks to Petxnd for the wonderful banner and patient preread.
5:52 am Saturday morning
Xander Harris has been dead nearly 7 hours
Xander wanted to scream.
Fear, pain, hunger and fury were the driving forces that consumed
his paralyzed body. Yet, overriding all that was a need of undefined
origin. A craving for something, someone that he knew could stop
all this torture. Bring him peace.
It crawled through his body and his brain whined for it.
Exhausted, he had stopped trying to force his rigid extremities
to move, to comply. He still had no memory of who or what
he was but it was irrelevant. Does the lion in the jungle care
what human man calls him when he is stalking his prey?
Does giving him a name make his victim less dead or the kill
No, Xander was operating on pure instinct, and that told him
that soon he would be released from this restrictive rigidity.
He also knew that when he was, the first thing he would do would
be to satisfy his bloodlust on the irritating creature that had been
pawing at him almost constantly.
It was agonizing. Each touch was like sharp knives scraping off the
first layer of his skin, setting fire to the exposed nerve endings with
the heat of her. Her breathing was loud, slamming into his ear drums
and never stopping, but the worst was the smell.
It filled his nostrils and infused his body, kicking the level of the caving
to almost unbearable heights. The artificial chemicals in her hair when
she leaned over him roiled in his guts, repulsing him but the most prevalent
was the smell of the blood.
Every time she walked by him he smelled it. Old blood. Rich blood.
Blood excreted and held between her legs. She teased him with it.
Tormented him. Thought him helpless.
'Yes' He hissed to himself, he would kill her first.
Giles slowly lifted his heavy arm and dropped his hand over his eyes.
He wasn't sure what time it was but couldn't risk any light seeping
through. His head already felt as though someone had sneaked into his
room while he slept and put a hatchet in the center of his forehead.
He tried his best to remember what had happen yesterday that would
cause him to go on a drunk of this obvious proportions but just the act
of thinking alone caused his skull to separate form the grey matter inside.
He prayed fervently, bargaining that he would never drink again if God
would just take away the pain, let him fall back to sleep, or at least make
a large bottle of extra strength Tylenol appear on the night stand.
Cracking one eye open a tiny slit, Giles peeked out from between his
fingers to discover that God was not delivering any pharmaceuticals
this morning. In addition, the act of opening his eye had put in motion
the swaying and spinning of the bed as well as the room around him
that only made his situation worse.
He groaned and rolled over, burying his face as deeply in his pillow as
possible, but to no avail. The next step in the mornings torture had
already kicked in as his stomach reacted to the movement of the room
with a severe case of car sickness.
With one hand clamped over his mouth, Giles struggled to balance on
wobbly legs. Tripping and stubbing his toes along the way, he made
it, with no time to spare, to the bathroom where he dropped to his knees,
stuck his head in a less than April fresh toilet and proceeded to vomit
his guts out.
Between heaves, he rested his face on the cool porcelain bowl and again
tried to remember. The sense of doom that hung in the back of his brain
told him it was bad, very bad, but he just couldn't bring it forward enough
to put a name to it.
When it seemed as though his stomach was empty, even drained of the
heavy acidic fire that burned in his throat on it's way up and out, Giles
pulled himself to his feet.
He splashed cold water on his face and ran damp fingers through his wild
thinning hair. He considered the advisability of leaving the sanctity of the
toilet when the next phase arrived right on schedule.
The claw like, unseen fingers that reached into his intestines, gripped them
and twisted them in a gut wrenching cramp that had him spinning around
and dropping down just as the first wave of stench and liquid shit filled
Rocking and moaning with his arms wrapped around his belly, Giles had
just one more prayer.
"Please don't make me throw up again. Not into that."
When he was fairly certain that both ends of his body had eliminated
as much vile, disgusting substance as they could, he pealed off the
wrinkled, foul smelling clothes that he had been wearing since yesterday
and took a shower. Hot. Scorching. Medicinal.
He knew whatever it was that he was trying to remember would come
back to him once he had gotten a few more hours of sleep and maybe
a dozen cups of tea.
He changed into his flannel sleep pants and an old tee before swallowing a
handful of aspirin. Tossing back the blankets on his bed, Giles stopped
before climbing in. He knew the burning lava in his stomach would only
go away if he put something bland in it and decided to go down to the kitchen.
A piece of dry toast would do the trick.
Toast and maybe a small hair of the dog.
His bare feet padded silently on the carpeted steps as he descended into the
wonderfully still dark house.
Maybe he was a merciful God after all.
Passing through the living room, Giles was startled to see Buffy curled
up, sleeping soundly on the sofa. She lay on her back, her hands high
over her head and resting on the overstuffed arm of the couch.
A knitted throw cover had been tossed over her but now lay mostly on the
floor. Her miniskirt had rode up nearly around her waist, and Giles stared
at the tiny thong underwear that almost, but not quite, covered her neatly
His eyes travelled slowly down her long legs, thin ankles and tan bare feet
to the toes polished hot pink.
His gaze then reversed and crawled back up, pausing, studying, and
examining intently the juncture of her body where legs ended and soft
cotton crotch began.
Suddenly, the hatchet that had smashed into his skull earlier, struck again.
Everything that had happened the night before came rushing back to him
in a painful, migraine inducing awareness.
Xander was dead. Something had killed him and they were standing guard
over the body till morning.
He was the adult. They were counting on him to know what to do.
He would have parents to call. The authorities would have to be notified.
Arrangements would have to be made for the body.
Xander was dead and it was all their faults.
Giles squeezed his eyes shut as a fresh wave of nausea swept through him.
He swayed on his feet and felt lightheaded, faint, weak and old.
When he was reasonably sure it had passed, he opened his eyes and looked
into Buffy's face. Still asleep. She was still asleep.
Giles turned, as quietly as possible, and crept back upstairs to bed.