Shattered Glass -- BtVS fic -- R

[tigriswolf]

Title: Shattered Glass
Fandom: "Buffy the Vampire Slayer"
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Just for fun.
Warnings: slash Xander/Jesse, Xander/Spike; mention of B/A; child abuse
Pairings: look up
Rating: R
Point of View: third
Notes: This was inspired by The Dark Jewels Trilogy by Anne Bishop, “If Belief Was Enough” by gekizetsu(ff.net), and my own twisted psyche.
Wordcount: 1530

I

If it wasn’t so bittersweetly ironic, Xander’d have laughed. If it didn’t hurt so much, he’d have thrown back his head and howled at the damned irony and just how right it was.

Instead he watched in silence and felt anger take root deep inside his soul.

II

If it wasn’t such a shitty move, Xander’d tell her exactly what he thought, about her and her ‘destiny’, about her and her ‘true love’, about her.

If it wouldn’t break her so much she’d never be put back together, never be healed and whole again, he’d lean over in the library one night and whisper the truth. But he bites his tongue every time the desire fills him, tells himself he’s not evil, good people aren’t allowed to feel such things, and closes his eyes.

Instead of saying what he thinks, instead of doing what he wants, he sits in silence and lets the rage swallow his soul.

III

Xander isn’t a bad boy, honestly he isn’t, but he is his father’s son and he is what his father made him.

A child can only take so much before his soul shatters, and the pieces are so small, so scattered, not even all the king’s soldiers and all the king’s men can put him back together again.

But Xander was gently picked up off the ground, glued back together, and then held in tiny arms, fragile and so, so tender. Xander’s brow was kissed and his hair smoothed against his forehead and his tears wiped away. He was held in small but powerful arms, a young voice assured him everything would be alright and he’d never be alone, never because I’ll be here, always, I swear, please stop crying and finally the tears tapered off.

Why? Why’d he do that to me?

Because he’s evil.

And then Xander’s savior died and a bit of his soul—the better part, the holier part, the hopeful part, the happy part—went flailing about and screamed as it fell into the abyss.

And instead of weeping, instead of mourning, Xander stood there silently and felt his soul—what remained—darken and twist into something new.

IV

When a child breaks it is never a pretty sight. When their young souls shatter into a million pieces, when their bodies lie still and silent, shells and living corpses—adults break beautifully, ‘tis true, but there is something darkly compelling about a broken child.

Xander was a broken child, shattered over and over by his father, but Jesse—I’ll be here, always, I swear, please stop crying—always pieced him back together, held him, lent him strength and hope.

Jesse taught Xander about love and happiness, about hugs and kisses, and touches that didn’t begin or end with pain. Jesse showed him the light in the world, showed him darkness didn’t need to rule.

And then Jesse died, even though he swore to be with Xander forever, and so he lied. He’d told Xander he loved him, but that must’ve been a lie, too, since he left Xander alone. Which meant, to Xander’s maddened-with-grief mind, that everything uttered by Jesse’s mouth was a falsehood.

Xander held on, for a time. A part of him knew that Jesse did love him, that Jesse would not want everything to have been in vain, that Xander giving up and letting the dark have his soul would make Jesse’s death mean nothing.

But part of Xander—the happy part, the hopeful part, the part with faith in the light—turned to ash with Jesse and blew away in the uncaring breeze.

V

Xander’s father taught him many things growing up. How to duck, how to hide, how to pretend, how to run, how to make drinks, how to not show pain, how to hide hate and rage—many, many lessons.

Xander learned quickly. He took everything shoved at him by dear old dad and molded it to fit the man he was swiftly becoming.

If Jesse hadn’t died, Xander knows, so many things would be different. He’d be a completely different person, have traveled completely different roads.

And Xander isn’t a bad boy, not a bad man—he’s only what his father made him—and Jesse’s gone.

VI

Why? Why’d he do that to me?

Because he’s evil.

Am I evil, Jess?

No, Xan. You could never be evil.

Swear you’ll stay? Swear you’ll never leave me?

I swear, Xander. I’ll be with you forever.

A man’s mind, Xander knows, is like a glass vase, fragile and strong at the same time. A glass vase is beautiful; a glass vase can stand for years, defiant and powerful—but one hit, one fall, and the vase shatters, irreparably broken, forever marred.

A man’s soul can break so well it’ll never be fixed, never be healed. A man’s mind breaks even better, jagged pieces of a life that’ll never be the same.

Xander broke so many times and was then pieced back together. But after the largest, kindest part of him was stolen, no one tried to mend him.

Time after time he stitched his body, his soul, back up, but his mind he never bothered with. No one cared about his well-being, so he let it go.

VII

When the Slayer and the Watcher and Will saw what Xander became while possessed, fear took root deep inside them. He was the leader, the darkest of the Pack, the strongest—and without Jess, after the exorcism, the darkness remained. Flourished. Something that was always there can’t be removed so easily as the catalyst that revealed it. But Dad had taught him to pretend everything was sunshine and daises when it wasn’t, and he played for them now. He played and he faked and acted so well he deserved an Oscar. He hid his rage and pain and hate—his despair—deep down inside, beneath smiles and laughter and jokes.

He hid how close he walked to the edge beneath one-liners and bravado, beneath an act so well played no one could’ve seen through it.

No one but Jesse, the one who taught him to remove his mask. Jesse the liar.

Jesse his savior; Jesse who died, leaving him alone.

VIII

Blood paints a beautiful picture, filling the vase of Xander’s mind. Blood, warm and slick, sticky and thick, blood—the drink of vampires, blood that stains the ground crimson during war.

Blood is the life. Lack of blood is death.

And finally blood runs dry, leaving Xander’s dad a corpse. Xander smiles, completing his ruby mural on the wall with a flourish.

Spike smiles at him, a ne’er-do-well smirk that doesn’t rival Jesse’s warm grin and never could.

Spike is a master of death, trained in the art by one of the best. He hasn’t turned Xander, and he won’t—the boy is dark enough, a sadist while alive. Placing a hell-spawned demon inside him would be too much.

“Where do you want to go next?” Spike asks, twining about Xand and licking his neck.

“The Watcher,” he answers, claiming Spike’s lips with his own.

He isn’t a bad boy, honest he isn’t, but his soul shattered and the healer is dead.

IX

A smirk crosses Xander’s face as he watches the Slayer weep. His soul is shattered and stitched back together improperly.

Spike isn’t as good as Jesse was, can’t stitch as well, and Xander shows that in his eyes. Once upon a time, between the time of Jesse’s promise and Jesse’s death, a light shone from Xander’s eyes, a bright hope that showed happiness.

Now his eyes show only death and madness, a darkness Spike can never match because the human soul has the greatest capacity for evil in all the worlds.

Buffy begs Spike for mercy; he laughs and snaps her right wrist. She sobs harder, her vase broken, and he lifts her above his head.

In his own way, Spike loves Xander, so he, as a gift, asks, “What do you want me to do with her?”

Xander grins, a dark echo of Jesse’s smile, and stalks up. He pats Buffy’s face and croons, “Having fun?”

She hangs limply in Spike’s grip, no longer the powerful Slayer but instead a terrified little girl in far over her head.

Her fear is beautiful and Xander laughs. Spike drops her and lunges forward, claiming Xander as his, even though he knows it’s more the other way around.

“Mine,” Spike growls in his ear.

“No,” Xander responds softly, tracing Spike’s face with his fingers. “I’m Jesse’s. But you can borrow me for awhile.”

Together they kill the Slayer, rending her limb from limb and then paint the walls of her mother’s home with her blood.

X

If it wasn’t so bittersweetly ironic, Xander’d have laughed. If it didn’t hurt so much, he’d have thrown back his head and howled at the damned irony and just how right it was.

Instead he watched in silence and felt anger take root deep inside his soul.

His spirit is broken, his soul shattered, and his mind in pieces.

He once was a beautiful vase and now he’s beautifully broken, and he can’t feel regret.

Comments

[stretfordditto.livejournal.com]

Heartbreakingly sad. :(

[davinci-1985.livejournal.com]

Intense, dark, beautiful (and, let's admit it, a little disturbing). Wonderfully written and moving.

I just love this one. So perfect.

[tigriswolf]

Thank you so much!

[tigriswolf]

Thank you so much for reading and letting me know!

[yanagi-wa.livejournal.com]

Wow. A very different picture of Xander. And so horribly possible. Excellent work. Thank you.

[tigriswolf]

Thank _you_ for reading!

[strickens-girl.livejournal.com]

*wibble*

This is so beautiful. Crazy good. Loved this.

[tigriswolf]

Thank you so much!

[alznthlay.livejournal.com]

Gah, LOVED this. I just...*fangirls you*

Oh Xan.

[tigriswolf]

Aww, *blushes*

Thank you for reading!