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.
ADDITIONAL HINT. READ TODAY'S CHAPTER WITH AN OPEN MIND.
ALL MIGHT NOT BE AS IT FIRST APPEARS.
Thanks to Petxnd for the wonderful banner and patient preread.
10:30 pm Friday evening.
Xander Harris has 30 minutes left to live.
Spike rolled over, slowly settling on his back. He spread his hands
out at his sides, feeling around to assure himself that he was still at
home. Actually opening his eyes would just be out of the question.
His fingers dug into the sod floor and he felt the cool earth pack under
his dirty, ragged fingernails. The mud was irrelevant. He was home.
He was safely tucked away in his crypt. He was in bad shape.
Taking a quick inventory, he knew that even for a vampire he was
as close to death-death as he could be without becoming part of the
dust and dirt that coated the inside of his cemetery abode.
Starting at the top, his hair was filthy. He couldn't remember the last
time he had washed it. Probably the last time he took a bath which was?
O.k. On to the head. As long as he didn't move it, no, even that didn't
stop the excruciating, agonizing pain that split the skull neatly down the
It was the hangover to end all hangovers. Probably made worse by the fact
that he hadn't had human blood in more days than he could remember.
He knew the Watcher had blood. Kept it under lock and key like he
intended to drink it himself.
'Fucking selfish, sadistic prick. And they accuse me of being evil.'
Which brought him to his stomach. It was so empty it felt as though
it was rubbing his backbone. Spike recalled someone telling him once
that people who starve to death stop being hungry after the first few days.
That was apparently another fucking lie.
Sniffing, he could detect the rotting bodies of the rats and raccoons he had
caught in the graveyard. Unfortunately they would be listed on the menu
as the 'Too little, too late special.'
So Spike did what he always did. He drank. He still had several stolen
bottles of Jack Daniels and he opened them all. The last five days had then
been a cycle of drink, drunk, wake up and start again.
His hope had been to die of starvation in a drunken stupor and put an
end to this miserable, pointless existence that had become his unlife.
Yet here he was. Still around. He moaned as he remembered smashing
the last bottle of the last case.
'Guess the fuckin' universe ain't done with me yet. Shit!'
Spike continued to lay there as the fog in his agonizing brain tried to clear.
When it did, he attempted to sort through what was real and what were
vague alcoholic dreams.
He thought he heard a woman screaming several days ago outside his crypt,
but shit, graveyard in Sunnydale, so even if that really happened, no big deal.
He vaguely remembered the Slayer trying to force him to go help her, again.
He told her to piss off, again.
Spike frowned. He thought for a moment that she had offered him a blow
job if he would help. Immediately he disregarded that. Most likely a dream
and even if it really did happen, she would just renege. He clearly remembered
'Fuckin' Slayer could be such a cock tease.'
His next memory was of a dream He was creeping through a dark tunnel.
He was happy, he was loved and he was in a sexually charged atmosphere.
He could hear dance music in the background and he was having the time
of his life.
Spike was certain that was an alcoholic illusion.
He knew there was no way it could have happened. There wasn't enough
blood left in his body for a respectable hard on.
He sighed at the waste of a decent wet dream.
One other niggling thought came to him. The fearful possibility that he
had done something as stupid as making a wish.
A violent shudder racked his body. No, he decided, he would never
be drunk enough to do something that stupid.
Rubbing his dirty hand over his painful forehead, he left streaks of
fingershaped grime across his face as he conceded that what ever
was dream or reality didn't matter.
Using the last bit of strength he could muster, Spike gripped the edge of
his ratty old easy chair and pulled himself up into it. He sat there for
a moment and finally pried his matted, crusty eyes open and looked around
at the squalor he had created.
The crypt was as bad as any had gotten, but he no longer cared.
He wondered if anyone would come along and clean it, sweeping
aside the small pile of dust that laid in the center of the floor.
They would probably think local kids had been using the place to party.
They would never know that a 120 year old vicious, Master vampire
had lived and died here.
Spike sighed as he slumped into the soft, worn cushion of the chair.
He thought about his life before he was turned. He smiled. He hadn't
talked about his mother in more than fifty years. He wanted to. He
longed to but there was no one who was interested.
Angelus had slapped him across the face one night telling him that
no one wanted to hear his whiny little stories about a feeble old white
woman unless she was being fucked or eaten. Dru had thought that
was the funniest thing she had heard in years.
Spike's brain still felt as though it were being shoved through a meat grinder
but he forced himself to go on. If this was to be his last night, he needed
to remember it all.
He chuckled as he remembered waking up after Dru's attempt to turn him.
As usual she had lost interest half way through the process and Angelus had
to finish it by offering his own blood.
Spike had always thought that made him special.
A childe with two parents in this day and age was almost unheard of.
Not that it mattered now. Where were they when he needed them?
No, Spike shook his aching head. He couldn't blame them. He could have
moved on at any time.
He should have left Sunny-fucking-dale years ago.
It was no one's fault but his own that he was in this situation. Depression had
him holed up here instead of out killing and feeding like any self respecting
It certainly wasn't fear of Buffy that kept him from slaughtering the population.
And it wasn't like he was trying to impress her or make her love him.
Spike bellowed, listening as his curse bounced off the stone walls and
echoed back to him in a hollow empty, mocking sound.
Throwing his head back, Spike's hoarse voice cracked and broke
as he tossed out his final challenge to the cruel fates that toyed with
him so unmercifully.
"Send me a fuckin' sign. Last chance or I walk off into the morning sun.
I'm done you bastards. You fuckin' win."
Dropping his face into his hands, the tears fell as he whispered.
"You fuckin' win."
Silence. Apparently fate couldn't even give him the respect of one last
Dragging himself to his feet, Spike snorted and staggered to the door of his
crypt. For one frightening moment he was afraid he didn't have the strength
left to push back the solid stone door. Relief flooded through him as at last
one forceful shove and it slid back just enough for a very thin, very weak
vampire to squeak through.
Leaning with his spine against the outside wall, he slid slowly down till
his butt rested on the cold damp ground and he closed his eyes to wait
for the healing rays of the morning sun.
"Spike? Jesus, Spike, what the fuck happened to you? I'm sorry,
I didn't think I hit you that hard."
Spike's eyes popped open as he felt the warm arms scoop him up.