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I’m Crying Out

There's no need to go ahead
My life is gone, I'd rather be dead
What did I do to deserve this pain?
I’m crying out

~ Lyrics by Ginuwine

[*~*~* and italics indicate flashbacks]

Xander managed to hold Spike off for a week. He made excuses, pretended to sleep, kept to himself, and acted as if everything were fine. He would come home from work, looking more tired than anyone had a right to be, and rubbed at the bags under his eyes while he stared unseeingly at the television. Spike would make him some dinner, and he’d push it around his plate with his fork until it was too cold to eat, then force half of it down before moving back to the sofa to continue to stare at the screen.

He slept fitfully, awakening throughout the night to sweat, vomit, and shiver on the floor of the bathroom. Spike would hold him, without speaking, and eventually get the young man back into bed, curled into a ball under the sheets, while Spike sat on the chair across from the bed, watching him and smoking.

Things went as such until one night when Spike was watching television with Xander. They sat at opposite ends of the sofa, with Xander flipping through the channels. Spike was chain smoking and picking at the threads in the seam of a throw pillow beside him, and Xander was sitting completely still, except for his thumb on the remote. He would leave it on a channel for almost exactly ten seconds before hitting the button again and continuing the cycle of stations.

Spike stood up and went into the kitchen to pour himself a mug of blood when it happened.

Xander landed on HBO. There, on the television, was a white man forcing a darker skinned man to blow him. The scene was graphic, loud, and violent. Xander’s eyes widened, he broke out into a sweat, the remote dropped from his hand, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the screen. On the screen, the white man finally twisted the darker man’s neck, killing him instantly, and bent down to begin fucking the dead man’s face. Xander doubled over and vomited directly on the carpet. Spike was at his side in seconds, running by the television to switch it off on his way to Xander, who, after vomiting, slid off the couch beside the mess and began rocking, reminiscient of his actions the first night his past was discovered.


“Shut up, you fucking bitch. You open your goddamned mouth and take it,” growled Mr. Harris. “I feel any teeth, and you’re gonna be fucking sorry.” Xander squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the pain from everywhere his father had hit him.


“Xander, luv, it’s just me, it’s ok, you’re ok, it was just a tv show, stupid bloody fucking Oz,” Spike was rambling, trying to pet Xander’s hair, but Xander didn’t acknowledge him, even to panic at the touch of another person. He simply continued rocking and trembling. Cool sweat began to break out over his forehead, and his eyes were squeezed as tightly as they would go.


“You like that, you little fucking whore?” Mr. Harris grunted, slamming his cock painfully into Xander’s raw throat, ignoring his gagging and gasping. “Get it nice and wet, or you won’t be able to sit in the morning, son. I want it hard tonight.”

Tears streamed down the boy’s face at the misplaced endearment. At fourteen, his father hardly spoke to him. When other boys were playing baseball with their fathers, and being called “son” at times when their fathers were showing affection, his father only called him son when he was raping him.

“You’re such a good boy,” Mr. Harris moaned.


“Xan, luv, please,” Spike was whispering, holding Xander’s tear-stained face to his chest, rocking the young man in his arms, as he tried to calm him. Tears streamed down Spike’s own face, and his voice hitched on a half-suppressed sob. “Please.”


Xander sobbed brokenly as his father pushed violently into his body, invading with enough force that Xander knew he would be torn when Mr. Harris finally finished. He was on his knees on the floor, the carpet burning into his kneecaps as his father gripped his hip roughly, holding his head against the rug while he shoved himself in and out rapidly.

“Be a good boy, son.”


Spike was sobbing without restraint now, clutching Xander to him and petting his hair, not knowing what to do to help his love, but knowing he couldn’t take this much longer. Xander was in a world of his own, completely unresponsive to every kind of comfort Spike tried to administer. Spike cried out his pain as he continued trying to soothe the young man.


When it was over, Mr. Harris pulled out of his body and pushed him down to the floor roughly, before refastening his pants and leaving the room, shutting the door behind him. Xander lay on the floor, whimpering as silent tears streaked his pained face.


Xander gasped, suddenly brought out of his waking nightmare as his body went rigid. His eyes opened and darted around the room in panic, until he remembered that he was in his apartment, with Spike. He breathed a sigh of relief before beginning to sob.

Somehow, Spike knew that Xander was back with him, and tried to stop his own sobbing, but was unable. He simply continued to hold Xander until Xander finally clutched at him in return. They sat on the floor, rocking and sobbing, together.

Spike calmed first, and continued to soothe Xander until the sobs quieted down to hiccoughs. Xander took a few ragged breaths before his body tensed again, and he began to try and push away from Spike’s arms. Spike let him, but only for now.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I just…on TV, there was…and I started to remember, and I just…” Xander started to sob again, but stopped himself. Spike closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his strength.

“What did you remember?”

“What do you think?” Xander snapped angrily, pushing up off the floor, and heading for the kitchen. Spike followed and watched as Xander got a glass from the cupboard and filled it at the tap, ignoring the broken mug and splattered blood on the floor. He drank quickly, then breathed hard as he refilled the glass. He set it beside the sink and braced his hands on the counter, hanging his head over the basin.

“What did you remember?” Spike repeated.

Xander whirled on him, exhaustion and pain etched on his reddened face.

“I remembered him coming into my room, forcing me to blow him, to get on the floor as he fucked me, and called me a good boy, and called me fucking son, the only time he ever called me good, or son, or anything else remotely fatherly was when he was fucking raping me!” Xander slid to the floor, the sobs breaking through his words again. “He’d come in and he’d hit me if I tried to fight him, and then he’d tell me what he wanted, and he’d make me do it, he’d hold me down until I opened my mouth, and he’d tell me he’d hurt me more if I tried to bite him, and then he’d fuck my mouth, and I can’t breathe, and it doesn’t matter because he never cared, he never fucking cared, and he’s telling me how good I am, and what a good boy his son is, and it hurts so much, and he’s pushing me down and fucking me, and he takes so damned long and I just want it to be over, but he keeps hurting me, and then he’s gone, and I’m lying on the floor, broken, and I hope I’m not too torn because it’s going to hurt tomorrow when I try to sit at school, and I hope he didn’t hit my face too badly, because I don’t want to lie to Willow about the bruises again, but I know I’m going to have to and I can’t…I can’t…” Spike had him in his arms again, holding the sobbing man as the memories took over everything else, and wishing once again that he didn’t have a chip in his brain so he could go find the elder Harris and kill him.

Xander eventually quieted, his body exhausted and wrung out, and the two sat on the floor for long minutes, one holding the other, one barely holding on at all.

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