Fandom: BtVS, post season 5
Characters: Spike/Xander, PedanticFaerie!Giles, LoonyFaerie!Drusilla, TricksyFaerie!Buffy,
Rating/warnings: Mature Adult (implied slash; actual nudity, cannibalism, and character death).
Characters: Not mine.
Feedback: …is more addictive than crack and more satisfying than chocolate. Please feed my addiction while helping to slim my hips!

Summary: Desperate times call for wicked, devious measures among the dying wee faeries of a drought-ridden Sunnydale….



Santa Ana Sacrifice


by
Viking Princess


The hot, dry Santa Ana winds had blown unrelentingly from desert toward ocean for weeks, and the gardens were all withering and dying in Sunnydale. What was worse, the faeries were reduced to walking because the winds were so relentless, and their wee faerie feet were bruised and cracked from bearing weight and from treading the dead cracked earth, and the even hotter, searingly unnatural iron-roads laid down by the Big Men.

It took nearly all day for those who dared to gather in the witch’s garden, a last remnant of cool almost-greenness in the midst of land once claimed from the desert with great struggle and sacrifice… and rapidly returning to it. Something had to break soon. Already, wee faerie wings were shriveling from lack of moisture, growing brittle as the browning grass, and even easier to snap. None but the very strongest could fly any more… and even they were cautious. Fearful. Fading.

Gone was the merriment; vanished were the pranks and sexcapades; invisible were the mischievous tricks with faerie dust and the seduction of unsuspecting Big Men. Not one wee faerie had the energy left to do anything but survive, and the uncharacteristic grimness and depression was killing them almost as quickly as the deadly dehydration.

The oldest and wisest among them (as well as most pedantic and ruthless), removed the wee faerie spectacles he had taken from a Malibu Barbie doll, and polished them with the ragged edges of his formerly shimmering moon-grey loin cloth. “Something Must Be Done,” he announced in a voice that would barely have whispered to a Big Man, but that was resonant and powerful in the pointed wee faerie ears all about him. “Sacrifices Must Be Made,” he went on, unflinchingly.

All the wee faeries stared up at him, balancing somewhat heroically on the withered Shasta daisy’s browning blossom. Murmers of “Not me,” “Ain’t volunteering,” and “What about the children,” squeaked through the air. A couple of bolder, younger wee faeries shouted, “You do it,” and then hid themselves behind the others. One particularly dehydrated wee faerie sang something about dandelion puffs all crying for their daisy mothers in the dark of the moon, but she was quickly suppressed in a plastic baggie.

“So, no volunteers, then? Right,” crisped the pedantic wee faerie in the Malibu Barbie spectacles. “How will we choose, then?”

“No one with children.” “No one pretty.” “No one too young.” “No one too old.” “No one too smart….” Suggestions filled the air as thickly as the squeaks of bats at sunset, and as shrilly; every wee faerie there was determined to make suggestions that could not possibly include him or herself. (Except the wee dehydrated singing faerie, who was quietly chewing on the slithery plastic of her impromptu prison. She seemed to rather like the taste of it.)

“Silence, silence,” squeak-shrieked the pedantic wee faerie. “Without willingness, a sacrifice means nothing anyway. What we need is a Hero.” He thought a moment. “Or, a Virgin.”

All of the wee faeries stared up at him in shocked disbelief, then fell on the sere brown brittle grasses, howling with laughter. A faerie virgin, indeed! How ludicrous! However, they soon exhausted themselves, and were ready to listen again.

“A new faerie,” proposed the pedantic wee faerie, “would be a virgin….”

“Ooohhhh,” gasped the wee faerie crowd in delight. That was a very clever loophole indeed!

“Go forth and find some Big Men that are more useless than usual,” he commanded, “and Dust them!” The Shasta daisy bobbed under his wee faerie feet, as he bounced in excitement. Clapping the Malibu Barbie spectacles back on his wee faerie nose, the pedantic faerie smiled ruthlessly. “Make sure they want to be Heroes, too,” he added. “The useless ones always do.”


~*~*~*~*~


Xander swatted irritably at the large moth that kept on buzzing him as he was arguing with Spike in the graveyard. “You can’t just toss those butts aside now, Spike,” he was insisting for the twentieth time that night. “You’re going to start a fire. And, correct me if I’m wrong here, but fire is unusually bad for vampires. Not to mention, it doesn’t do humans a whole lot of good either!”

“You nag worse than any Cheapside fishwife,” the vampire complained, “just because we’re shaggin’ like rabbits an’ all.” Spike reached out a lightning fast slap to the side of Xander’s head.

“Hey,” the whelp squealed in reaction, then again in astonishment. “Hey! That didn’t hurt at all! You losing your touch, or….”

But Spike was silent, looking at something fluttery in his palm. Something that was making a high keening noise of pain, almost too shrill to be heard. “Bollocks,” the blond vampire said quietly, with none of the usual heat. “Thought you were just a bug, I did.” His expression was a bit sad as he looked down at the rainbow-winged sprite in his hand, a perfect wee faerie woman with pale blonde hair and huge green eyes. Her wee faerie bosom was heaving with pain, and her wee naked faerie body was contorted as though things were broken inside.

Brown eyes wide and panicky, Xander looked from Spike to the wee faerie and back again. Her squeaks were too high pitched for him to understand, but Spike’s vampire hearing seemed to be picking them up just fine.

“We have to help her, Spike. We have to take her somewhere to be healed,” he said breathlessly. “Poor little thing….”

The wee faerie woman twisted her head to look at the boy, and although she grimaced from the pain, her sharp pearly teeth gleamed in what appeared to be a smile of thanks.

“Right, mate,” replied Spike, “that’s what she’s askin’ for. Wants to be taken to Red’s garden, she does.”

“Well, what are we waiting for, then?” Xander pulled a hankie from his pocket, and draped it carefully over the broken wee faerie on Spike’s palm. He felt the burning heat of Spike’s eyes on him, and shrugged uncomfortably. “Have to keep her warm, right? Fight shock or whatever?” The laser-blue eyes kept him pinned until Xander began to flush uncomfortably under Spike’s unblinking regard.

“’Course we do,” the vampire finally said. Neither one of them mentioned just how much the razor sharp smile of the wee faerie woman reminded them of the one Buffy gave, just before she died the second time.


~*~*~*~*~


Not too much later, the vampire and the boy stood in the backyard of Willow’s parents’ home, being very careful how they moved. The wee faerie Buffy look-alike had seemed to stop breathing before they got there, and they’d laid her crumpled wee faerie body down next to the wee faerie leader. That worthy had knelt by the contorted figure and whispered something into her wee faerie pointed ear, then kissed her wee faerie forehead. Spike had tried to hear what was said, but the squeaking had been too faint even for him to hear. Still, the wee faerie beauty’s expression seemed to be one of peace now, and not pain. Just as Buffy’s had been, back at the start of the summer, on a pile of bricks.

Pale-faced and grim with guilt, the vampire and his boy stood perfectly still, ready to do whatever needed doing. Crowds of sad-looking wee faeries were all about Spike and Xander’s feet, and they were afraid to move too much for fear of crushing the delicate little things. Most wee faerie faces were nearly lugubrious with sorrow, though in the backs of the crowds there was some indecorous pushing and shoving… and some muffled, nasty giggles.

But Spike and Xander’s entire attention was on the wee pedantic faerie in the moon-grey loincloth, still sporting the Malibu Barbie spectacles on his nose. He just seemed like someone they should be listening to, and as the heat-drenched moon rose, silver and sterile above the dust-dry streets and gardens of Sunnydale, they were both nodding earnestly at his instructions. Well, Spike was nodding earnestly, then telling Xander what was going on, at which point the boy would nod earnestly in his turn.

“Makes sense,” he said when the wee pedantic faerie was finally done explaining to them. “Water shortage is hard enough on Big Men… I mean, humans… but these little guys just don’t have any reserves. So,” Xander squared his shoulders and tossed the brown lock of hair that somehow always found its way into his eyes back, “They transform us, we face a test, and then they have the power to end the Santa Ana weather, right?”

“Nutshell, mate,” replied Spike, looking equally determined. “Now, strip.”

“What?” Xander’s brown eyes grew wide and shocked. “What do you mean, strip?”

“Don’t see bloody heinous Hawaiian shirts and jeans on them, do you? Only that older gent has on so much as a loincloth; the rest are starkers. Us, too, for the transformation to work.” Without further ado, Spike removed his leather trench coat, tossing it far behind him to the back porch, where it would crush no wee faerie folk.

Xander’s eyes got wider and wider as he stared at Spike, whose black clothes fell away to reveal a body as white and shining as the moon coming out from behind clouds. Utterly comfortable in his nudity, the vampire arched his scarred brow at him. Moonlight and shadows chased each other across the rippling planes of his abdomen and chest as he took some utterly uneccesary breaths.

“What’s keeping you, Harris?” A wicked twinkle flashed in those blue eyes, and again Spike stared until Xander blushed… and grew hard. Sniffing the air deeply, Spike smirked, and finally turned away.

“I hate when you do that,” hissed Xander. “It’s totally unfair!” His Hawaiian shirt and plain white T flew to join Spike’s clothes on the deck. “I can’t smell when you want me, damnit!”

Spike looked back over his gleaming shoulder, smirking at Xander’s struggle with jeans’ buttons and throbbing erection. “Always want you, pet,” he said softly.

Xander gaped, and his mouth fell open. “Oh,” he replied with great intelligence. His hands stilled on his buttons, and he just drank in the sight of Spike looking at him that way. “Okay, then,” he finally added, and carefully drew off his jeans and boxers.

Naked and gleaming in the moonlight, both turned to face the wee faerie leader. Xander tried to hide himself with his hands, but Spike wore his nudity like the height of fashion. Thirteen wee faerie pairs of gossamer rainbow wings fluttered around them in the moonlight, darting and weaving with the last of their wee faerie energies, and glittering dust fell like magical pollen over the shining alabaster vampire skin of Spike and the dusky mortal velvet skin of Xander. Unconsciously, the two men reached out to one another, and clasped hands, there in Willow’s dying garden, as the magic took them, and transformed them.

It hurt. It hurt like making love the first time, or the piercing joy of an utterly beautiful sunset, or the keen pangs of losing something wonderful forever. Spike and Xander found themselves kneeling on the ground, clutching each other around the waist and clinging for dear life to one another, as the beautiful pain wracked their bodies.

Fantastic iridescent wings sprouted from their shoulders, erupting through the skin like the agonizing pleasure of an overwhelming orgasm, and they shuddered in each others’ arms as the wings unfurled, and dried, and began to hum, edges brushing against one another in a whole new world of sensation.

But before they could reorient to their new world view, before their glistening wee faerie wings were sturdy enough to bear their weight, and before they could bear to let go of one another, the lead faerie –wee no longer, at least not by comparison—cried “Attack,” in a perfectly familiar British voice. Stunned, Spike and Xander looked at the Giles faerie in shock, and saw that his face wore the same ruthless expression of the night of Buffy’s death… the night the human Giles had strangled Ben with his own hands so that Glory could never return.

Spike was fast enough to leap to his new, wee faerie feet, wings humming in agitation. Xander wasn’t fast enough to do even that much.

Like a swarm of winged piranha encased in twinkling lights and magical dust, all the wee faeries swarmed the former vampire and the former human, slashing at them with wee faerie claws and wee sharp faerie fangs. Blood splattered all around, thick wet gouts of it, hot and red from Xander, cool and crimson from Spike. Faeries swooped and sped by, tearing chunks of flesh from their “virgin heroes” and stuffing the dripping bits into their wee faerie maws.

It wasn’t long at all before Spike and Xander were unrecognizable lumps of bloodied flesh on the ground, still trying desperately on hamstrung legs, broken knees, and fingerless hands to crawl to one another, to at least die together.

Once enough of Spike was destroyed for the vampire to decay into glittering faerie dust, it took even less time for Xander to be reduced to piles of shining, moonwhite bones.

“Looks like rain,” said the wee blonde faerie beauty who had led the sacrifice there, as she licked her bloody fingers clean.

“Indeed it does, Buffy,” replied the wee faerie leader. “Indeed it does.” They turned their wee faerie faces up to the sky, where rain clouds were swiftly covering the shining silver moon.




The End







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