disclaimer: work for fanfiction. all i get is that cheap thrill "ooo lookie something i wrote got published. for pretend. yay me."
author's note: this is really, really raw. but i had to write it so it had to be posted. feedback welcome. oh, and laney, please update all your stuff. you're the bestest.
Xander fell to his knees.
They did it. Glory was gone.
But so was Buffy.
Xander sank back on his heels. Spike looked like his heart was broken. Xander knew his own was. Giles' too. Maybe that's why no one cleaned up after the battle. Swords, axes, stakes and crossbows were still littering the site of the tower.
Struggling to his feet, Xander shook his head. People often get suicidal after loosing loved ones. He wasn't the only one. It was damned irresponcible of everyone--all the Scoobies--to leave these weapons out, easily accesable. Hell, anyone coiuld come across these things.
Only after looking down at his hands did Xander realise he had been cleaning up even as he thought about it. He was holding two broadswords and a Japanese katana in one hand; crossbows were slung over both shoulders and an axe was in the other hand. And there was so, so much left to clean up. It was useless. No one man could clean this up all alone. The blood stains, the weapons, the bodies--not Buffy's, her's was in the morgue--of demons from both this dimention and others, the smells, and what about that tower? Grimacing as he sat down, Xander composed a short ditty in his head about the tower: Hellmouth, Hellmouth, I love you, you hide everything, yes, you do. No one sees and no one hears EVEN WHEN THERE'S A HUGE FREAKING TOWER IN THE MIDDLE OF TOWN.
It wasn't until he already had stopped bleeding, flesh once again whole and unmarred, that Xander noticed he had sat on one of the swords and ripped into his thigh. I wonder if it hit the bone
Could he heal over weapons?
Ever since his death earlier that year Xander had healed with amazing speed. Oh, he knew he was dead, even without that Amanda chick in the bar explaining the game to him. In fits of serious depression Xander would kill himself--poisen was his favorite, with suffication a close second--only to awaken later, no worse off despite his efforts.
Legs strate, katana held firmly in his left hand, Xander drove the blade deep into his upper right thigh, cleanly severing the artery and wedging the weapon in the very top of his femur.
The cut felt so good. So fresh. And the blood loss. The sweat poured down into his eyes; Xander closed them. Yes, he could feel his blood pouring out, coating both him and the ground. It soaked through trousers, boxers, hair, shirt and mind. Just before he would have died Xander sat bolt upright and grabbed one of the broadswords.
"I'm being a coward, Buff!" he yelled. "I'm gonna really do it! No more fighting for Xander!" and, unlike with his play deaths of late, when Xander's stregnth ran out and the broadsword severed his head
Across town, in a pile of bloody, crying, sleeping Scoobies, Spike's eyes open, the light of a nearby quickening flashing in them. One tear falls from each eye and he whispers, "Xander."