Part eleven in the Candy Perfume Boys series.
BtVS
- Far in the future
WARNING:
Character death, angst, mentions of slash.
Spike
& Xander
Rated
PG
Has To Be
(Track 11)
Spike
sighed and paused to rest in the shade against the corner of a building. He ran
a shaking hand through his thinning hair and pushed up his sunglasses to rub at
increasingly tired eyes. If he had remembered the annual street fair was this
weekend, he would have never left his apartment.
“Hey,
Pops!” the vendor whose cart he was near called. “Quit blocking the product,
people want to shop.”
Spike
turned on the man with a spark of his former fire. “Maybe I want to shop too,
you wanker! Give an old man a break.”
“Okay!
Okay! Sorry,” the young man waved him off.
Spike
looked down to find himself confronted by a table of clutter. It was all
“antiques,” he realized, which meant fifty year old things no one else
remembered or even knew what they were most of the times. He was used to that.
Reflecting the rays of the summer sun he spotted some square plastic cases. He
pushed aside some t-shirts bearing slogans and logos of music groups he no
longer bothered to keep up with. A stack of CD’s fanned across the table. Most
were music he did not like or had not heard of. The last case held a familiar
image. A pretty blonde woman with her hair streaming in the wind stood against a
blue-green background. “Ray of Light,” he whispered and picked it up. With
some difficulty, he opened the jewel case to find the disc intact and
surprisingly unscratched. He held it up. “How much for this?”
The
man barked a laugh. “Figures an old guy like you would still want to buy a CD.
You got something that will play that?”
“Yes,
as if it’s any of your business,” Spike snapped. “How bloody much?”
“Aw.
Take it. No one wants plastic now that it’s all virtual.”
“Thanks,
mate.” Spike stuffed the case in the pocket of the sweater he wore despite the
sunny day. He headed back to his cozy apartment with a purpose; his mind was
filled with thoughts of a young man he had once cared for.
With
a sigh, he collapsed in his leather chair and closed his eyes. A tiny, chocolate
brown cat leaped up on his lap with a chirp. He petted her without looking.
“Hello, Fred. How was your day?” The cat circled and snuggled on his lap.
“I found a treasure today. A CD. Actual plastic. Not scratched.” Fred purred
and enjoyed her ear-scratch. “Madonna’s Ray of Light. I’ve not listened to
that in… God. Sixty years. I’ve told you about Xander, haven’t I? Yeah.
Know I have.”
Spike
managed to work the CD out of his pocket with a minimal disturbance of Fred and
her comfort. He looked at the picture, thinking how often both he and Xander had
played it, long ago. With unsteady hands, he reached the often-repaired boom box
on the table beside his chair, knocking off an empty pill bottle in the process.
Fred jumped down to investigate the new toy. Spike removed the still-loved Sex
Pistols (although now played at a much lower volume than in his extended youth,)
hit play, and leaned back to listen.
As
the songs cycled through, he allowed himself to remember Xander. From long ago
he summoned how the boy had felt, tasted, and sounded. And his scent. Spike
could suddenly remember the unique scent of musk, wintergreen, and chocolate
that was Xander. They had not fooled around many times, maybe a dozen, but each
time was special and new. Somewhere and something different. They had grown
together, connected, and bonded. If only the world had been different, Xander
would never have gone to Africa, and they may have…
As
the last song played, Spike wept, his heart fluttering, as he thought of the
fine strong man he’d loved and lost. The song ended and he moved to play the
CD again, when more music started. Spike’s hand froze in mid air. Fred jumped
up on his lap and snuggled in again. “I don’t remember this one, Fred.
Maybe? No. I’ve never heard this in all my long days.” He let his hand drop.
“Must be some a special edition. Maybe an import.”
I know there's someone out there
There must be someone out there
Don't sit there like a fool
A different kind of school
I should be glad that I'm alive
It could have been much worse
I might have never loved at all
And never known what I am worth
Tears
ran silently down his face. “Fuckin’ Madonna. How could she have known? Gods
above? Powers that Be? I saved the world again. Stupidly jumped back in the
game, and my reward is this. Shanshu. Huh. Shanshit. Old, alone. No one to talk
to but a cat.” Fred looked up at him, slowly blinked her big ice blue eyes,
and butted her hand into his arm. “Not that you’re not fine company,
just…” He looked blankly again at the CD cover. “The old gang called and I
went. Honestly old by then, you know. Needed a vamp in the mix to save the
bloody world. Went there, did that, woke up human again.
“Not
that it wasn’t fine at first. The sun, the food… I had it all. Got to grow
up, I guess. Had life. True Love. Then I lost it. Bit by bit, it all went away.
She went away. They all went away.” He fumbled a tissue and blew his nose.
“The irony of me outliving them all is not lost, my girl.
“Oh,
Xander. Sometimes I wish you’d let me turn you. Then maybe… shit. Then
you’d still be young and I’d be this husk.” He coughed a laugh. “You’d
poke fun at me now, Wanker. I don’t have to dye my hair any more. It’s all
white as snow.” With a thoughtful sigh, he picked up the case and found the
magnifying glass he kept for reading labels.
“’Ray
of Light,’ ‘Candy Perfume Girl,’ ‘Ashtangi,’ that was a fun song,
Fred. Bonus track. ‘Has To Be.’ Fourteen tracks, not thirteen. Huh.
Damn…”
Spike
pressed play again and faded off to sleep with fond memories of Xander Harris
and a little cat for company.
+++
From
the files of the L.A. Times:
Sunnydale
Crater, California. April 9, 2097. The body of William Blooden, noted horror
writer, was found on the beach early yesterday morning. His novels set in and
around the vanished town of Sunnydale and include the Edgar Award-winning “The
Soulfire Gem” a fantastic tale of the town’s collapse. They still enjoy
steady sales and a fanatic following. Vampires, girls with super powers, demons,
and magic are all skillfully woven together in his plots of undying love,
loyalty, and sacrifice. His lesser-known histories of the twentieth century are
still thought of as valuable references.
Believed
to be approximately 88 years old at his passing, Blooden’s early life is
shrouded in mystery. He was apparently in his late 20’s when his first novel
was released. His bizarre claims to be two hundred years old rested on
well-researched details, which are readily available in public records.
However, his claims of date and place of birth London are mysteriously
less well documented.
Blooden
kept his privacy carefully guarded throughout his career. Often seen in the
company of beautiful men and women while in the early fever of his success, he
settled down and married Cameron Summers, granddaughter of Buffy Summers. When
his wife passed away twenty years ago, Blooden retreated from the public eye
completely.
Mr.
Blooden was found dressed in a trademark leather trench coat. His body was
neatly laid out and surrounded by what appeared to be offerings of whiskey,
chicken wings, chocolate, and small dishes of blood.
The
autopsy revealed heart failure as the cause of death, and no foul play is
suspected. Police believe he was discovered and recognized by fans who often
linger around the crater.
As
per William Blooden’s request, donations are to be sent to the Giles-Summers
Academy for Gifted Girls in London, England instead of flowers.
Lyrics
to "Has To Be" copyright Madonna 1998.
Much
thanks to Velvet_virago who sent me the track I did not know existed. I had
thought this world closed, but you never know...
Thanks
for the last beta, Pet.
