Changing
Tomorrow 7
by
Danielle
** emphasis
// thoughts
The visions of the future had left him woozy and emotionally wrung out. Priya
had said he’d remember more, but not that it would feel like getting hit by a
truck. The human knew most of his headache and nausea was *not* about the
alcohol.
On top of that, his dream last night had really bothered him.
He’d been lying with a brown-haired beauty. Xander recognized her from the
visions as Drusilla. Sorrow made his heart hurt as he leaned in and //Eww!// bit
her, drinking until she was dust.
He’d tasted his own blood before and
he knew everyone did it. It was a common, mundane habit: a paper cut and the
first impulse was to suck on it until the blood stopped flowing. So he knew that
regular blood tasted like pennies.
But in the dream when he tasted
Drusilla’s blood, underneath the current of copper was a spicy taste. Mint and
sage and violets and darkness.
As unsettling as that was, he woke up
with the taste of her blood in his mouth. The combination of the visions, his
crush on Spike, and the dream had left him a basket case.
Xander
fidgeted and fumbled through the following day. The brunette thought he might be
getting better--by lunchtime the trembling in his hands was barely noticeable.
“You okay, Xander?” Buffy asked finally.
The memories had played
hell with his appearance. A new world weariness haunted his eyes, and the
brunette would never know how much older he looked and acted.
“Uh…yeah,
Buff,” Xander smiled weakly, the ache in his head still sharp. “I had some bad
pizza last night, so sleep? Not really something I’d know much about today.” The
lie rolled smoothly off his tongue. They seemed to accept it easily enough. Then
he fumbled with his lunch tray and it went clattering to the floor.
“Are
you sure nothing else is wrong?” Willow’s guileless eyes were large with
concern.
Xander knelt down to pick up the scattered mess that was his
lunch with shaking hands and a rolling stomach, staying silent until he was
done. He looked up at her beautifully innocent face; then the memory of the
vein-y, apocalypse-happy witch she would become overshadowed it. He winced
painfully.
Unsettled and distracted, he pushed his lunch--tray, change,
silverware and all--into the trash.
Willow eyed him nervously. He
decided to try a different tack as they headed toward the table. “Nothing a
truck full of antacids won’t cure, Wills. So, how about the exchange student
that’s coming to your house, Buff?”
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