Of Incubi and Inversion Redux
(True Lies Remix)

Author: Lar

Original Story: Of Incubi and Inversion by Minim Calibre

Summary: Xander's dreaming. Or is he?

Rating: NC-17

Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Xander knows he's dreaming, but in the manner of all true nightmares, that doesn't seem to matter. He's running, barefoot and in his pajamas through Woodlawn Cemetery. He knows it's Woodlawn because he just passed the Jenkins' mausoleum; the one with the statue of the little girl ballet dancer.
 
Damp earth clings to his feet, oozes between his toes, and bits of grass march up his leg in a washed-out splatter pattern. He knows Anya's somewhere behind him, and if he can just put enough headstones between them, everything will be alright again.
 
As he leaps over an open grave with the dexterity of an Olympian, he hears the faint sound of a guitar being plucked to no particular melody. His legs immediately slow, and he picks his way across the graveyard, inching behind headstones, and watching for movement.
 
Xander pokes his head around a marker chiseled with Romanesque script in pink marble: "Laura Clark, 1980-1999". Oz sits perched on a granite slab, fingers picking out the non-tune.
 
//strobe flash//
 
Xander's laying on the smooth surface of the carved rock as Oz plays some classical guitar piece Xander doesn't know. The moon has sucked all of the color from the entire world, reducing the cemetery,grass and open graves, Xander and his green and white striped pajamas, Oz and his changeable hair, all to black and white and every shade shades of gray between. Everything is painfully, perfectly clear.
 
"The moon's full." Xander can hear Buffy somewhere to their right, trading barbs with a vampire who doesn't seem to be in the mood to listen to her critique of his wardrobe.
 
"Yup." Oz shifts to Zeppelin, the bead necklace he wears clicking against the top of the guitar in a steady rhythm, almost like a percussive beat.
 
"You're not all wolfie."
 
Oz lifts his eyes from his fingers to Xander's face and that cool, almost-smile is there. The one that says he knows things. "Only one of us can deal with our issues at a time."
 
Xander nods and says, "My issues are mainly daytime issues."
 
Oz's gaze returns to the pattern his fingers are drawing over the guitar strings. "Except this one." Little silver trails follow behind his fingertips and disappear.
 
Xander's head bobs again; his shoulder blades press down against the hard surface of the rock. "I miss you, you know, in a friend way."
 
"In this kind of friend way?"
 
The music stops, fades away and Xander has his Mr. Bubble t-shirt hiked up so that most of the fabric is pinched in his armpits. Oz's feet kick against his shins accidentally, rubber-tipped soles not even bruising, just registering. Black painted fingernails appear and disappear in the fly of Xander's jeans. All Xander can really think about, besides "weird" is about how Oz has Return of the Jedi sheets on his bed, and how he always wanted these exact sheets as a kid.
 
He lets his head hit the pillow and slides his right hand into Oz's blue hair. "In all the friend ways."
 
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
 
"Bad, bad boy. No fun for you!" From behind, Dru holds his head in a grip she never really possessed. As he tries to jerk his face to the side, her nails bite into his cheeks and scalp, drawing blood. He tries to leverage his feet beneath him to slide away or jump to his feet, but the floorboards are too well oiled, and the soles of his shoes are calfskin.
 
His eyes refuse to shut, even as Angelus shoves his mother's head to the floor and mounts her from behind. The shimmering, gray curls serve as a harness, and Angelus rhythmically beats her head against the floor as he slams into her body.
 
"This is boring. I have a better idea." He slides back slightly, repositions himself, and Spike can actually see the head of Angelus's cock slide into his mother's ass.
 
"Dru, let me go! Please, let me go!"
 
Angelus laughs, but what's worse is that his mother does too.
 
Spike slides through the floor, down, down, spinning as he goes and lands on the floor of his old crypt. Desiccated vines slither down from the walls and out across the floor, tethering him as he crouches where he lands.
 
"Just in time, my boy!" Angelus's crowing cackle snaps Spike's head up. He wishes his reflexes were slower, because maybe then he would have closed his eyes and hung his head before he heard the crying.
 
"No, please, just let me go, I swear I won't ever tell anyone. Never. Just don't hurt me anymore." The Nibblet is laying on the closed lid of the sarcophagus dressed in the prom dress she wore the night of the semi-formal dance. Her hair falls in tangled disarray, and her neck and face are livid with a multitude of finger-sized bruises.
 
"This one I should thank you for. How Sunnydale keeps so many virgins stocked is beyond me. Don't they use those for ritual sacrifice anymore?"
 
Angelus's pants hang open, and his pubic hair is matted with blood. But the real carnage is spread over Dawn's thighs and staining the blue satin of her gown.
 
"Spike, please, help me." Her face turns towards him, eyes bright with unshed tears, skin flushed, mouth swollen from the things he's done to her, made her do to him.
 
"Help me, Spike! Hear that? You want to help her, don't you? Yeah, we both know what kind of help you want to give her." Spike finally can close his eyes, and as he does, the imagined taste of Dawn's blood races from the back of his mouth to his cock.
 
His eyes snap open, and his fingers reach for the first thing at hand: a contraband ashtray that he hurls against the wall. The shattering glass isn't nearly loud enough to drown out what he can still hear inside his head.
 
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
 
Xander fades out of the scene where he and Oz play Playstation in the nude in between handjobs. He falls directly into his own bed with his eyes wide open. Since he's disoriented, he pops up out of bed and ambles into the next room. Spike stands in the middle of the living room in bare feet and no shirt, his jeans rucked down and unbuttoned. He appears as confused as Xander feels.
 
"Spike?" Before he can voice more of a query, Xander's on his back on the carpet with Spike's fingers twisted in his hair and holding him still.
 
"Did Angelus rape you?" Spike's face is backlit by the full moon straining through the crack in the drapes. Xander can't tell what he's thinking by facial clues.
 
"Yes, I told you that over and over." Once it was in Venice, skipping stones in a canal. Another time it was in a cave made of salt while they waited to be rescued by Care Bears. Never had this exchange happened in Xander's living room before. Dreams were weird like that. One minute it's Amy Yipp naked and wet at the waterslide and the next it's the crazy vampire they forced you to take as a roommate pinning you to the living room carpet.
 
Spike's fingers ease up slightly, no longer a death grip, more of a tentative restraint. His face drops so that his cheek rests against Xander's and his mouth presses against his ear. "How old were you?"
 
Xander explains it again with exaggerated care. "Sixteen. You were older, and we both liked it sometimes. It's ok, Spike."
 
It's the tears that alert Xander to the reality of the situation. A cool rivulet streaming into his ear. Xander's dreams are strange, but Spike never cries in them. The hip-rocking and the erection are normal, though. And since Xander knows that Spike wouldn't ever rat himself out as a cry-baby, he figures he won't be telling anyone about Xander's fingers on his cock anytime soon, either.

end

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