Biscuit (Prologue)
 

Xander wondered how long it took to go from being hungry hungry to being...food.

He didn't know how long he lay out in the desert, baking, baking like a Namibian human biscuit.

Mmmmm biscuits.

Biscuits with thick country gravy that would make him drool if he had any saliva left in him.

Any moisture left in him.

He felt like a biscuit.

Maybe wild animals didn't like human jerky.

Except.

Except they hadn't eaten him before he dried out either, when he was still a moist and nummy treat.

He could hear them, distant and close. Sometimes he felt a wet nose snuffle at him, at his belly, at his throat.

While he could still hear and feel real things that were real and not the sun rising and the sun setting, while he could tell the difference.

Nothing took a bite.

Not even the demons took a bite and hey maybe he'd finally stopped being demon nip.

Great.

Xander was pretty sure his eye was closed and the oven of the world kept cycling. Red and black, red and black, like flying low face first over a gigantic checkers board.

Red was hot and that made perfect sense while he could still make sense - while he still wanted to - and black was cold-cold, shivering until he was shivering all the time and before he couldn't shiver anymore.

He lost count of how many reds and how many blacks.

It was a big checkerboard.

He wondered if he was done baking yet.

He wanted to be done. That was the point. That was the reason.

Black and footsteps.

There were often footsteps - pawsteps.

The hyenas were wearing boots now.

It was funny.

Xander tried to giggle but didn't have any left.

Too bad.

Black melted into silver and the moon was pretty - fuzzy.

Xander stared into it until black swallowed the moon too and he closed his eye because what was the point of making the effort to keep his eye open if the moon was going to taunt him by getting itself eaten. When he couldn't.

Rude fucking bastard moon.

"Oi! None of that now, Harris."

Spike?

Xander had heard Spike before now. Spike in his head. Spike was sounding ragged around the edges these days. Sounded like he was crying - couldn't be crying. Even Xander's imagination didn't have enough moisture left for tears.

But there it was, splashing onto his face - too wet to come from him.

Kinda…

Kinda hurt.

And itched.

If Xander was going to dream moisture, it sure as hell wouldn't itch and burn like that.

Fucking Spike showing up and fucking crying on him.

Which he would never do in anything Xander's brain could cook up.

Hah. Cook.

Go away, Spike. I'm baking.

It had to be real then.

"Hey Spike." Xander shaped the words but didn't know if they came out - smiled or grimaced, one of those two and squinted up at him in the moonlight. "I'm dying."