Imprint - 10. Ch. 2 Part V

V

Xander Cain opened his eyes, once again in his bed alone.

He pulled himself into a sitting position, feeling unpleasantly lightheaded, a horrible itch in his arms, like something crawling under his skin. He glanced down, seeing red splotches at random spots on his forearms. Fucking wonderful.

Where is he? The blond? Uh, Strife?

He climbed out of bed, following a long trail of discarded black clothing to his bedroom door, far more than what a person would be wearing at once, which he noticed but thought little of. Out in the hallway, stopping only when his foot slammed into something stretched across his path where the end table had once been; the impact was stunning, not painful. He looked down.

A sword; a thick, brutal looking piece of dark metal, about as long as the torso of a reasonably tall man

(is he a man though?)

and maybe half as broad, hardly looked like something that could be swung

(not without some enhancement, anyway)

Came to a wickedly sharp, slightly curved point; jagged saw teeth down the blade, thick and barbed points, meant to break, crush and tear. He didn't think he had ever seen anything quite like it.

(specially made, designed to inflict maximum damage with a single swing, because he likely won't get another shot...he's not a swordsman, can't win at skill, its a last resort until he can get at...)

He thought of Strife's ears, the series of hoops and dangling metal strips. Stepping carefully around the discarded weapon, he kept walking.

Strife was in the den, as he had been earlier in the day, dressed in a borrowed overlong shirt; he stood with his back turned in front of the entertainment center but he wasn't looking through it this time. Xander reached the wall he had leaned against before and stayed there, waiting silently.

Strife's hand was raised and moving slightly, but he couldn't quite see what he was doing.

“Now that you know my name, why don't you tell me yours?”

Xander raised a brow; he had a thought to ask but it was dim, distant, he couldn't make his mouth work.

(he looks good in black leather, thickened armor that won't hamper his speed which was always one of his greatest assets. It was always easy to get off of him, too, because at the end of a raid neither of us have any fucking patience for things like buckles and ties)

Strife's head turned so that one yellow eye was visible; the left eye, with the small curled foreign lettering and colored dots around it from the end of his pale blond eyebrow to the bridge of his nose. He smiled. “Not that one,” he said, “Your real one.”

(or black silk hanging indecently off his body, lounging back on the bed, white furs a nice contrast, pretending to read a book...oh yes, I'm sure you don't realize I'm watching you, I'm sure that slipping down your shoulder was an accident, I'm sure you need to lick your fingers every single time you turn a page...I lost this game last time, I don't intend to lose now; you will come to me before I come to you, and you will be begging)

(he always wears black, why is...)

(...tainted...)

Strife turned slowly, holding his hand up. He had some dark red jewel, walking it over his knuckles, back and forth, back and forth

(used to do that with knuckle bones)

flipped it into the air and caught it in a quick graceful motion. He grinned wider. “Catch!” and the garnet rock went flying through the air at his head........

….....The sky was red, glowing dimly with the dying rays of the setting sun, a celestial reflection of the carnage below. Xander stood alone, the only living being in sight, surveying what looked to be open wetlands. The thick, muggy air smelled of metal and fire; that damn itch was spreading to his legs now.

He was staring at a horse a few yards away, a long cut in its side, fallen and left to die. Its dark eyes were frozen open, flies crawling in and out of its nostrils. Just to the right of it, a small messy pile of unidentifiable blackened organic matter that he assumed was all that was left of the horse's rider. The immediate area was littered with such piles, and discarded weapons, clothing and armor torn and burnt. The ground was soaked through with blood, squelching up between his toes. A short distance away, the remains of a hastily thrown together camp

(...they were travelers?...or just running...hiding...)

tents and carts that horses would have pulled along smashed and mostly burnt around the edge of the battlefield

(sacrificial altar...its for you, all for you)

Xander's head turned to the left and there he found the bodies, near close enough to touch. They were in a pile as tall as he was, not a single one whole that he could see, limbs missing, every head severed and tossed in their own pile on top. Didn't look like more than thirty people, but it was hard to tell for certain.

It didn't occur to him to wonder what had happened here. He felt no surprise to feel the metal bump against his calf, to look down and see the dripping ax clutched in his left hand. That itching rash was a solid band around his wrist, spots appearing at random further up his arm.

(I remember when its weight was familiar enough it was like an extension of myself...I remember the feel of blood sticking your clothes to your body, drying on your skin so it pulls a little when you move or crack a smile...I remember blood so thick on the ground, soaking through, that every step you can feel yourself sinking down just a little)

The heads atop the pile were suddenly on fire, flames spreading unnaturally fast until the whole pile was engulfed. Xander could feel the heat, intense from where he stood, pushing him back a few steps. He could smell burning hair, cooking flesh; not a pleasant smell by any stretch of the imagination, but one you can become used to if you're around it long enough. Even has a certain nostalgia.

(this is wrong though...I shouldn't be alone, why would you miss this when it was always........)

….....sitting on the edge of a large, comfortable bed, the sheets soft under his fingers; in an overly opulent bedroom, black and red and white

(and how much of this was meant to impress me? more comfortable squatting in a cave)

On an open balcony, highlighted by the rising sun was...something. A suspiciously empty space, a void where he knew something belonged; some image his mind was struggling with, to bring into focus, to put it in place

(something...someone...)

That rash was a line, a red line under his skin, wrapped around his forearm, spreading upward.

He thought of iron, a forged weapon

(in the shape of a man)

fire blackened and blood stained, beautiful and deadly. Not on the surface perhaps, the decorative epidermis the uninitiated masses got to see; it was the darkly beating heart beneath, the razor wire skeleton, the poison flowing freely through steel veins.

Blood poured like a fountain from the top, the head, the blood of countless battle dead running from its fingers gripping the entryway on both sides, cutting a red path down the white wall. Cascading down a barbed back, and the image of a glowing black gear wheel with red tipped spikes, a single crimson slash running diagonally through it

(but no clockwork)

Blood pooled on the floor, running forward despite the flat surface, curving in a scarlet ribbon to caress his foot like a lover. He caught sight of a dark red eye watching him over a smile of jagged obsidian and rusting nails........

….....a banquet hall, empty now, the light shining down through the grand stained glass ceiling revealing an abandoned feast, every chair at the large rounded table pushed back

(as they all stood up, jumped back in surprise and horror...they were all here too, the ones who mattered...the one time I do something dramatic and I want a fucking audience)

The food set about the table was in disarray, the sight of some epic struggle; crushed, smashed, stepped on, strewn around, a thick pool of something dark blue soaking through the middle of the table, drops of it splashed further afield

(its blood...he even bleeds blue, how wonderful was that?)

The red line under his skin had reached his shoulder, where it was forming another solid band.

Xander's eyes fell on a thick carving knife planted in an overturned roast beef at least a foot away from its plate of origin, its blade stained blue

(it carves face as well as meat, slide that blade along pale flesh, a line of blue appears; slip, slide, back and forth, gouge a hole in his temple, add a few more lines to his forehead, one swipe and the top of his ear is gone, another swipe and the lobe follows; work the tip into the corner of his mouth and yank upward, like smirking at me you miserable fuck, well here now you can smirk wider, all the way to your fucking ear or what's left of it; drag it slowly across that wide blue flame eye, feel it pop, deflate, ooze white down his smashed in nose, like beautiful tears)

Xander felt his lips curl into a wide smile, strange waves of near ecstasy pulsing through his torso, damn near orgasmic

(well, there were many wet dreams about this moment, before and after. Fuck, I was hard at the time, wasn't I, in spite of the pain. He noticed it too, couldn't have missed it the way I was sitting on top of him. I can only imagine what must have been going through his mind, what he thought it meant, what I would do with it, in front of everyone, I hope it made him sweat. Count himself lucky I'm not him, he would have deserved it)

Eyes shifting to the side, to one of the chairs pushed back from the table, one that would've had a perfect front row view of the violence. A suspiciously empty space, a void where he knew something belonged.

(that's where you were sitting, as surprised as everyone else though they'd never believe it, it was the truth. I didn't tell you what I was going to do, I kept you in the dark for months, years. I didn't want you to stop me, I didn't know what you would do; this was move was going to push you in a corner, make you choose, me or him, and I wasn't sure...after the first few seconds, when the shock would have worn off and you still didn't move, that's when I knew, I'd won)

The screaming must have echoed wonderfully in here; his hand curled reflexively into a fist, three clusters of red appearing on the back.

(I could have cut his tongue out, I can see it there in his ripped open mouth and it would be easy; pierce it through, tear it off, make him swallow it, won't have to hear any more smart comments or that clown laugh...but no, no, speech is one power I'm not going to take from you. I want to hear you keep screaming, begging me to stop even though we both know I won't. I want to hear it now and I want to hear it later, a day from now, a week from now, a month, a year, ten years, I want to come to you over and over again and hear you tell me all your various aches and pains. Sing me sweet lullabies of your fears, your weakness, helpless and pathetic, jumping at every shadow, wondering if its me, come back again to cut off another piece of you. I will leave you with speech if nothing else, leave you to wail and rage at the unfairness of it all and I will always be close enough to hear your cries. You want mercy now but you'll wish for death later, and that's why I'm not going to give it to you. You're going to survive, whether you like it or not; you're going to live, forever, and I am going to make you suffer)

His eyes alighted on an overturned meat cleaver in the center of the table, in a puddle of blue, a deep gouge in the wood cutting through

(the blade was dull as shit, miserable fucking thing, if it hadn't been for that I could have taken all his fingers. But he jerked his hand away when I had to take a second swing so I only got the two, the last two. And aren't they beautiful now that they're mine, my little trophies, proof that I own you, I own you now I own you always. You will never get these back)

Metal, salt, some strange sweetness caressing at his tongue, an old ghost plucking at his taste buds, but real enough here in this dreamscape. He found himself licking his lips for that invisible fluid; closing his mouth again and half expecting the crunch and snap of delicate bones before his teeth came together; that easy slide down his throat, a few hard swallows, beautiful completion.

An intense pain shot up his arm, almost doubling him over in sudden agony. With some effort he managed to uncurl his fingers, stiff and shaking; that old trench dug through the middle of his palm and, to a lesser degree, along the tops of his fingers, glowed hot and red; smoking.

(and what is the scent of your own flesh cooking? Is it strange to find it surprising it smells no different from anyone else?........)

….....He stood in another empty, blood stained room, normal blood this time no fancy colors; the joy the last scene brought him had vanished like it had never been there.

(not there yet...its all connected, one into the other)

leaving behind a feeling of dread. His hand was still hurting but not because it was burning, because his nails were digging hard into his palm, his tightly coiled fist shaking in impotent rage.

The details of the room shuttered in and out of focus, there and past his notice; this mind couldn't, wouldn't, settle on anything for long. Empty now, he never saw the place occupied but he didn't need to; the evidence told its story clear enough.

Chains hanging from the ceiling. Blood on the floor beneath, new on top of old on top of older on top of ancient; a small table near by

(don't look too closely, don't want to see what's on it, don't even want to know what that cackling clown would keep on hand)

Blood drops and smears leading away, toward the locked door; bloody hand prints up the wall, across the door, making their probably desperate way toward the handle, toward the lock

(so close...)

long smears down the wall on the other side, down to the floor and pointed toward the corner, desperate fingers trying to find anything to hold on to but there wasn't anything, anything at all

(and I'm sure you knew it, learned it before)

and in the corner a larger pool of blood, droplets sprayed against the wall in a violent abstract pattern

(that's where you went down...never had a chance)

Fist curling tighter, shaking with anger, this place even smelled like fear

(and I know what that smells like, I've been here before, in rooms like this but on the other side...I know what I would do, I can only imagine how much worse...)

(“No...please...”)

(...with someone like that...and you have nothing to offer, to make it stop...)

(“Please don't look at me.”)

(you do something violent and everyone wants to know why; when the answer seems evident, they don't bother asking...a million different stories, a million different motives; any one of them could have been true but none of them were...I don't even think that cackling clown ever knew why, just assumed, that I hated him and I was psychotic, or maybe he didn't even care why...I doubt it ever occurred to him that I knew or, probably, that I even cared...its probably better that way)

Follow the trail, back and forth, from the chains to the corner; following every drop of blood, every smudge and smear and spray, wondering just how it got there, could've been a hundred different things, each more horrible than the last.

(“I don't want you to see me like this.”)

Xander's eyes closed.

(no...I don't want to be here, I don't need this in my head, not now, not when........)

….....a breeze signaled to him that the scene had changed again and Xander opened his eyes. Outdoors again, on a slight hill surrounded by trees; nothing notable and yet he knew it, turned his head left and up to find the large manor on the mountain top higher up that he knew would be there.

(it would have been a great place to hold off a siege, if the siege could have been stopped...it looked beautiful as it burned, like a second sun, took days to go down, and I sat here and I watched it...sat here with...)

“Lovely night, is it not?”

As if summoned, that smooth cultured voice spoke at his side. Turning his head again, to his right...a suspiciously empty space, a void where he knew something belonged.

(focus...concentrate...)

The metal man, barbed and dripping gore from head to foot

(focus...concentrate...you can do this...)

Slowly, he became aware of some other image, flickering into view, struggling to pull itself out from the cobwebs of his sleeping mind and take its rightful place next to him

(focus...concentrate...I know that face, I know that form...)

concealed in ponderous, overwrought black leather robes

(not animal hide though...I didn't believe him when he told me, no, I had to see it for myself...)

Blood red and corpse white; a reeking abattoir, cold as the grave. The Red Raven; gore spattered battle wraith; uncontained chaos, madness without mercy, dread demise; unstoppable, implacable, as a pulled arrow, a swung sword, a funeral pyre; spurting veins, dropped limbs, spilled intestines, rolling heads, carnage incarnate. They called him by title alone, spoke in furtive whispers and side turned eyes, by men who made a place for him at war's edge, offerings left at the boundary not to make him welcome to but to bid him stay away. Only the most insane of men ever called his name directly, knelt at his altar, accepted his blessing from his cold right hand – freedom, unfettered, blind to fear, numb to pain, relentless reaper; a walking weapon once unsheathed can not be stopped, until you either hit the ground empty and lifeless, or mount a makeshift throne of your slain enemies, their leader's newly stilled heart clenched between your teeth, dripping down your throat. Blood and battle and death; powerful, beautiful and

(mine...he was mine, as I was his...)

Dark, glittering garnet eyes watched him out of that pale white face; blue tinted lips turned up at the corners, you could see just a hint of those sharpened metal teeth. Pride and possession in that gaze, amusement, affection like a parent for a child, an artist for their creation; no lust, not then, but it was too early for that, here, now, it would come in time.

(but wasn't this...wasn't this when I first...first thought that maybe, maybe...I wanted...)

He could see those lips moving, bear trap jaw opening to form a word his ears could not hear but he knew, his mind knew it if only it could grab hold.

(I know you...better than anything, I...I know your name...)

(names...I know...I know...)

….....seagulls. He could hear them, despite that he couldn't see them, couldn't see anything along this endless, empty shoreline.

Something feels different here, this place, its...

He could feel no breeze, no warmth from the sunlight that seemed dim and filtered, more an idea than an actual presence. Though he stood on a beach he could not feel sand between his toes like he could the blood earlier; it was flat and even, more like an linoleum floor made to look like sand. The color was off, too, faded almost. Xander looked up at the sky, a dim faded blue above his head, a pattern of motionless, uniform blobs of white scattered about. Then over at the water, off color and still, looking as sturdy as the pseudo ground he now stood on, like he could walk right out over it if he wanted to; in the distance, sky and sea blurred indistinctly together.

Xander's arms had stopped itching but the red remained, chains of it wrapped around his wrist, wound about his arms, wrapped around his shoulder. Spots appeared in between in a way that was anything but random; spots, but he could swear it was more than that, if he could see more clearly, if it could come into focus, there was something there, some meaning to be found. The skin didn't feel raised or disturbed in any way when he ran idle fingers over it, just oddly warm to the touch.

He could hear humming, a soft voice humming an uncomplicated melody; familiar but didn't most tunes sound the same when stripped down to their core? Xander looked around but didn't see anyone near by, just what looked like a jungle on the other side of the beach, a clear path laid out like a welcome mat cutting through the trees. The voice seemed to be coming out of the atmosphere, like the light, but now that his eyes found the path he couldn't turn away, knew he had to follow it, that's where he would find...whoever, whatever...

This place, its...foreign, and yet...

(...familiar...?)

He took maybe four steps forward before abruptly stopping for no reason he could think of. Automatically glancing down, he saw a large stain on the sand like surface right at his feet; it was old, and with the warped color scheme, it appeared black against the faded beige ground.

Is that...? Would make sense if it was. Seems to be a running theme tonight.

(two thin arms outstretched, the small hand underneath clutching desperately at the slightly larger, near limp one on top...a heartbeat in your ear, rapid, frantic...hitching inhale and the ground rises, exhale in a pitiful sob)

(shh...don't cry...)

Xander stepped carefully, reverently around that black patch and calmly moved on.

The landscape got stranger as he moved on down the path laid out for him, framed by leaves that were faded green, perfectly shaped and featureless, attached to trees that were dull brown, straight and smooth. He wondered what it would feel like to touch, but couldn't hold on to the thought long enough to stop. The trees cleared a little to reveal a small settlement, or a rough sketch of one at any rate; near blank spaces in the shapes of small buildings, washed out like an old photograph until every last detail was gone.

Around a corner in this makeshift path, finally a spot of color, of life. Sitting in front of one of the only buildings that had some form, enough that you could see it was constructed from wood and stone, a carpet covering an entryway and a small porch in front where they were sitting; thick black hair and long, dark olive skinned legs curled up. Xander paused at the corner, silently waiting.

The humming stopped and all was silent, more silent than he had ever experienced before. The distant head raised and turned and he felt eyes on him, heard a shocked gasp. “What did you do to your hair?”

It was a high pitched, almost feminine voice, with a heavy accent he wasn't familiar with but had no trouble understanding. He frowned, unconsciously raising a careful hand to run it through his hair. What's with all the fucking comments?

The distance and the odd lighting didn't allow him to clearly see the face watching him, the dark eyes that were fixed on him, the flash of white that looked to be a wide, happy grin. The stranger rose to their feet with fluid, enviable grace and stepped carefully down from the small porch and out into the road to face Xander directly.

He might have thought it was a woman, or at least wondered about it good and hard, but he didn't, he knew better. He might have thought young, still a boy even, but again he knew better. The stranger was wearing a black silk robe, long in the arms to the point that not even his fingers were visible; it was short where it counted though, indecently so, if it wasn't belted so tightly, if there had been any sort of breeze, Xander likely would have gotten an eyeful. Even the sight of those bare legs, long, slim and perfectly smooth, was making him uncomfortable, itching irritably at his mind not the least because he knew, thanks to years of careful observation, that those were the sort of legs men found attractive. The men he had known in his life certainly would, they would look, gawk, leer, make comments, concoct fantasies about those legs and what (or whom) they would wrap around, and then Xander would have to kill them. Beat their brains in for those thoughts, pull their leering fucking eyes out of with his bare fucking hands, throw them against the wall like a fucking racquetball, hear them splat, watch them run wetly down the plaster, last thing you'll ever look at

(why are you dressed like that?)

Xander had no idea where this anger was coming from; being confused was starting to feel normal.

(was it ever not normal?)

The stranger folded his covered hands in front of himself, watching Xander oddly, trying hard not to smile. “I am not at all happy, having to find you like this,” he sounded like he was trying to go for stern, but his voice couldn't quite carry it; it was effective nonetheless, “Take care of yourself this time, yes? Don't put us through this again.”

That's what's odd...he couldn't put his finger on it before but now, he saw it. The boy's eyes were focused in his direction but he wasn't looking at him, more over his shoulder. Xander frowned, straining to see better, mentally willing the boy to come closer.

As if hearing his thoughts, the boy, giving up the fight to keep a straight face, started walking forward slowly and carefully; Xander kept his gaze raised lest he catch a glimpse of something he didn't want to see. Six, seven steps closer and he could see the problem clear as day; there was something very wrong with the boy's eyes, beyond an unusual coloring. They looked bleached, filmed over, his pupils, lightened to a dark gray, blown wide and pulsing visibly; fluttering almost, like a flower, blooming open to its furtherest edge before pulling back in on itself again, then out, repeat. How can he even see with eyes like that?

(he can, though; he can see me just fine)

He had marks, tattoos of his own, black vines, or maybe they were very dark blue, at his collarbones; creeping up both sides of his neck, along the edges of his face into two large blue circles inked on each temple. The boy's thick mop of curly hair did nothing to hide them though, judging by the movements of his head, the way he kept it slightly lowered, it was clear he wished it would.

The boy stopped a little more than an arm's reach away, his feet resting perfectly together, hands still folded in front of him; very body conscious, keeping to himself, keeping distant. His disturbing eyes were on Xander's chest and the happy smile never left his face, making him look younger than he already did. “He is with you, yes?” he asked after a beat in a quiet voice, “Your husband?”

Xander frowned, on the tip of his tongue to ask what the fuck that meant, but he still couldn't make his voice work. No matter, the boy seemed to sense the question and gestured with a silk sleeve at Xander's hands.

Xander glanced down, seeing an unfamiliar black and gold flash on his left ring finger... although not entirely unfamiliar since he did see it once before in a

(dream? vision? seizure?)

That ring again that Strife was wearing around his neck, or at least its twin...triplet?

Xander looked back up at the boy, wanting desperately to see some surprise, some confusion there, surely he couldn't be the only one that didn't fucking get it. But the boy only looked pleased with that, nodding his head and smiling still. “Good,” he replied, “I'll be along shortly.”

A long pause and the boy took another few, deliberate steps closer, coming directly into Xander's space, standing so their toes were touching. Xander never particularly liked people being too close to him, it got under his skin for some reason, made him uncomfortable; people seemed to sense this and kept some distance from him, stayed within his immediate line of vision, or if they did approach they did so with some degree of caution, subtle or not, like he was a feral animal. Not so here, the boy was confident like he belonged here and Xander didn't feel bothered in the least; or not by this anyway.

The boy's gaze raised a fraction, up to neck level now; he blinked his eyes a few times very purposefully, as though they were feeling dry. This close Xander could see a shadow, a faint off-off white ring just at the edge of one pulsing, fluttering pupil that he thought may have been the faded remains of an iris; the only suggestion that the boy's eyes may have once looked different.

A moment's pause and the boy raised a hesitant hand, the black silk sleeve falling back to reveal another nasty surprise. His fingertips were blue, down the the first knuckle, every one; he had no fingernails, though a faint indent could be seen where they once would have grown. Those dark, blue-black vines snaked down his long fingers from the bright blue tips, gathering first in another bright blue circle that covered the palm of his hand, to a second smaller circle on his inner wrist and then continuing up his arm. Xander again eyed the marks on his face and drew the obvious conclusion; he felt another flash of pure rage and wasn't sure why.

Confidence gone, he was more tentative than Xander was even used to, that inked hand raised higher and gently laid against his cheek. That hand was ridiculously hot, especially in the fingertips, it took all his will power to keep from jerking away from it; that, he knew, would have sent the boy scurrying backwards with a fifteen minute apology tumbling from his lips and...well, no need to spook the kid. Those fingers touched him so lightly, cautiously, running a thumb along his cheekbone, down his jaw, over his brow; smiling his warm smile, his eyes, odd as they were, as alien as they should have been, looked like they were laughing.

He felt like he should say something, but there were no words and too many and none that made sense. His mouth still wasn't working, which hadn't mattered at any point before but did here because...

...because this place is different.

That hand crept upward on his head and pushed its way into his hair; the boy's eyes rose to chin level now as he stared up. “Is this real?” he asked, raising his other hand (marked in the same fashion) and tugging on a few dark red strands. “I like it,” he said with a small laugh, “Its...different.” His fingers scratched affectionately through Xander's scalp; used to the odd heat he gave off, the actions felt good.

Those eyes finally raised enough to meet Xander's own, pulsing and fluttering hypnotically. Even this close there was something unfocused about that gaze, but the warm smile his full lips curved into suggested awareness, pretty and charming in spite of everything. Xander could feel a lump forming in his throat and he didn't understand this anymore than he did the earlier anger, or anything else.

The hands left his hair and the arms wrapped around his shoulders; the boy leaned forward, resting his thin frame against Xander's chest and tucking his head underneath his chin. “I missed you.”

A pause and Xander's arms moved on their own, wrapping tight around the boy, fingers digging into that silk robe. He managed to pry his frozen jaw open but yet nothing he desperately wanted to say, wanted to ask, would come out. “Where are you?”

He could feel the boy's body stiffen minutely. “Close,” he answered, voice soft and muffled, “I just have...something to take care of first. I won't be long.”

A harsh laugh escaped his throat, he didn't know at what, didn't know what he was saying. “You're only ever vague like that when you know the answer is going to piss me off.”

The boy laughed himself, genuine, happy, raising his head to look in his face once again. “And I see you are doing well enough.” The hand came back to the side of Xander's face again with much less hesitance than before, stroking down his cheek. “That is good to know, Can-”

Xander sat up in bed.

It took time, sitting there, breathing heavily, eyes moving around at first seeing nothing, to calm down, reorient himself to his surroundings. Still here, still in his bedroom, it was two in the morning according to the clock on the nightstand; this was still the real world and that was...

...that. What the fuck was that?

His eyes drifted to the other side of the bed to find it empty, the blankets pushed back.

Deja vu all over again.

Together enough to deal with this, not wanting to delay, Xander got up and, forgoing clothing this time, made his way for the door.

Strife was still here, and for the life of him he couldn't figure out how or why that happened. He had made breakfast for the little shit, they had eaten in silence and then...just drifted to the den. He kept the television on to avoid talking, to give himself time to digest everything he heard and saw; Strife seemed to get some enjoyment out of going through his DVD collection, later using the remote to go through every channel with some strange, inexplicable interest in what he was seeing, at least until he paused too long on some irritating children's show with foam costumes and songs about friendship at which point the remote was taken from him, tossed across the room, possibly broken. Then back to bed. At no point did Strife offer to go, at no point did Xander think of asking him to; it was a little unsettling when he stopped and thought about it, but he didn't find Strife's presence jarring despite all he's done and caused. There was even something almost normal about seeing him lounging nearby, filling up some

(empty space, a void where something belongs)

The sex was nothing to complain about either.

He found Strife in the den, sprawled naked on the sofa, smoking a cigarette without ever asking if he could, despite that Xander didn't smoke himself. Presumptuous little shit. It was dark in the room but Xander's eyes were well adjusted and he could see Strife watching him with a grin.

“You know, I do hope that whole tossing in your sleep thing was a one night only event,” he said when Xander stopped halfway into the room, leaning forward and tapping his ash into a glass filled with water. “If its some new habit I think we're going to have to move your ass out here. I can't sleep though that shit, you know?”

Xander raised a brow, presumptuous little shit. “This is my house.”

Strife scoffed, “Yeah, and?”

For whatever reason, it made him smile; not because he thought Strife was kidding, in fact he rather hoped he'd try it. “I want to ask you something.”

“Oh?” he sounded interested.

Again, Xander's mouth was working without him, he wasn't quite recovered enough for conscious thought. “And I want you to answer it, honestly, without giving me any crap. Understood?”

“I'll see what I can do,” he saw Strife sit up a little straighter, blowing smoke into the air, “What's on your mind, hot shit?”

Oh there were so many questions he could ask, so many he wanted to ask, who even knew where to begin. The one that came foremost to mind

(is that my ring?)

he couldn't, because that was insanity, to even think it...

“What's my name?”

Strife looked as baffled as he himself was. “You said Xander Cain, right?”

“Not that one,” he replied in echo, “My real one.”

Strife raised a brow, watching him through the smoke rising off his cigarette. “And just what do you mean by that?” he asked a little too carefully.

It really wasn't that hard to see through him; it gave Xander some bit of confidence that he sorely needed here, it wasn't a stupid question. “I told you, don't give me shit. I don't want to hear anything about how you can't answer for some reason you can't explain.” He took a step forward, keeping the coffee table between them. “You want me to believe you, want me to let you hang around here until I can remember where I've seen you before? Then you need to give me something. This is all a little much to swallow otherwise.”

Strife scoffed, “You already believe me, or you would've thrown me out by now.”

“I don't know what to make of you,” Xander corrected, “That is why you're still here, and I can change my mind at any time.”

Strife didn't seem too concerned, he grinned, “The sex is pretty good, too.”

(“Well, there is that.”)

“...Well, there is that.”

It sounded meaningless but it must not have been; Strife's eyes widened a fraction, his smile looked pleased. Xander didn't quite understand but at least his instincts were still good, on the right track.

“Give me this,” he said again, “Answer this one question, prove to me you're not full of shit. Or get the fuck out and don't bother me again.”

Strife leaned forward, dropping his cigarette in the water glass; his yellow eyes watched Xander with some fascination. “You think you know it?” he eventually said, “Don't you? You think you know what it is?”

Xander wasn't sure of that, but he was trusting his instincts right now; he tried to look like he knew what he was doing.

Strife nodded, “Okay then, I'll play along.”

He rose to his feet, stepping slowly around the coffee table, dragging the moment out for dramatic effect; pausing at Xander's side with a hand on his shoulder, leaning up to whisper in his ear before continuing on back to the bedroom, where he would wait for his partner to come back and join him for round...whatever, who's counting anymore.

Xander did know it. It was what the boy with the pulsing eyes and tattooed hands had called him before that dream ended; it was the word he watched being formed by blue tinted lips and sharpened metal teeth, that his mind could not grasp hold of. It was brand new and yet intimately familiar; a piece of himself lost long ago, the first of many pieces gone and now, found again, perhaps the key to finding them all, getting it all back; all those empty spaces filled again, all those wrong feelings fixed, he can get back where he was supposed to be, doing what he needed to do, no more of this confusion, this pointless waiting around. Music to his ears, soothing to the soul, the beginning of everything.

“Canaan.”