Tiny bitty bit of Angst
Angst, angst, angst. Oh, the angst. *Lays hand on forehead*. S/X. Character death warning. I am so very sorry for this. Wrote it two seconds ago, haven't a clue why, I just thought of sitting still and this is what I came up with. I think I may have actually crossed the Acceptable Angst Line. Ah, well.
Spike adored him. Everyone who knew them could see it in his every movement, his every touch. Through the way he always found a way to hold Xander or be held by him, and fuck you if you didn’t like it. Spike killed for him, was willing to die for him. Screamed at him in jealous rages, even hit him once or twice. Always was there to hold him after, always kissed away the bruises and cradled his love after. Brought him stolen CDs, trinkets whenever they traveled and never left for more than two days without storming back, demanding an explanation for why Xander hadn’t called him nine times and sent him four letters. When Spike did something, he did it in the extreme. Loving – that was something he’d always done with a passion so great, a fire so bright it consumed everyone who got in the way. He needed Xander. He needed Xander to need him. And it worked out that way.
Xander died of a heart attack on a Monday morning at his construction site at age 35. Spike ripped our the throats of the doctors who’d failed to save him. Then he sat down. And didn’t get up.
He was expected to shout, rage, throw things, break things … predictable reactions that could be fixed. Not this stillness. Not the way he sat so silently. No pretty tears trickling down cheeks so sharp they looked as though they could slice the tears in two. No quiet murmurs of for his lost love. No romantic speeches about love or devotion, no hugging of crosses or quests to regain Xander from the clutches of the inevitable violent death that came to him. Nothing. He just sat. And he stared. And he said nothing at all.
For there was nothing left for him to say.
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