Title: The Closest Thing To Sunrise
Summary: It's life, and it's death; it's birth.
AN: Ignore the flash backs to Spike's turning and you'll be good.
There wasn't much Spike remembered from his turning. Oh, he remembered the years after, remembered the blood and the laughter and the moon that seemed to burn as bright as a supernova to his new eyes. But he didn't remember the birth from man to demon, for birth it was.
He watched the man lying on familiar old carpet, dead heart crying along with him. The house was still now, the only noise was the never-ending scream that poured out of now dead lips. Soon even that stopped and Spike shuddered in the silence.
Gathering up his hope along with the now tarnished White Knight he didn't look back.
Bathing the dead had been a tradition that had existed long before him and, though the body in his arms would open its eyes again, it didn't stop him from making every movement precise, making sure to wash away the world from now pale skin.
Brushing gentle fingers through blood-matted hair he hummed a forgotten lullaby and prayed.
Xander existed in a timeless space. He tried to remember why and when and what but it all seemed to slide away as soon as he thought it. He knew who he was, but not who he had been, knew that there was a difference between good and evil but he was stuck in the grey space; choking on the in-between.
Then he saw it-heard it-felt it; formless like he was, but the most substantial thing he knew. And it cried; a mournful sound he felt in non-existent bones.
It was instinct; curling around it to comfort, to croon without a mouth words like safe and home and belonging - not for the knowledge of everything they weren't, but for the ideal; what they should've been and so were, when it was just the two of them in nothingspace.
Waking was pain. The hiss-sigh of something that sounded like a freight train between his ears and a piercing wail that reverberated through him until it felt like it was trying to punch through his eyes.
Then a softer sound, haunting and so close to his ear that he forgot about everything when the Other told him this was safehomebelonging; alpha and omega; all.
Eyes still closed he listened to the crooning sound, and the Other whispered words like family snarling when he remembered who he had been, what family had meant. He started at the growlsnaprumble he felt in his bones, but quieted again when the sound that meant home got slightly louder, drowning it out.
There was another sound, just below the murmur, a boomboomswish that made the Other keen and ache. Then it was there; shaping into a body and gazing into eyes he didn't remember opening.
The sound that meant family stopped, was replaced by a rumbling growl that the Other echoed. Then it faded, but the ache stayed, the keen a barely there feeling that resonated through him nevertheless. The growl tapered off, and the Other whimpered when no sound replaced it.
The softest of sounds and then words, "Pet, who am I?"
The Other surged up, running thought after thought over him; father, mother, brother, sister; blood and bone and breath and life and "Sire."