At the End of All Things
Apr. 22nd, 2025 12:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
madimpossibledreamerMain Points:
Buffy/Blake's 7 (Place in the Universe)
Chapter Summary: Jesse has become Xander's keeper, and some days that's a thankless job. Not today.
Word Count: 835
Rating: Teen
Jesse wakes to find his arms and the other side of the bed empty. That’s become more common than not, these days, between the new eyepatch that he knows has to be reminding Xander uncomfortably of Travis and Faith’s presence (she merely remains breathing at Jesse’s sufferance), but it feels like Xander’s drifting away and if he lets go even for an instant, the man he loves will be gone. It doesn’t help that the path he’s going down is one he’s already familiar with, as Blake.
With a growl, he braves the cold lurking outside the covers. A light betrays Xander’s location with very little effort required on Jesse’s part, and he walks in to find Xander bent over the bathtub trying to clean gunk out of the drain, holding himself a little gingerly.
“What are you doing?” he hisses.
Xander turns with a smile. Blake’s smile, the one that says he’s just amused and above it all, hardly with any stake in any of this. “I thought you were a smart man, Jesse. What does it look like?”
“We could die tomorrow!” His voice rises louder than he intends, probably waking up some grumpy would-be Slayers, but he can’t help it. Never could, not when Xander and Blake both drive him to distraction and complete and utter madness. “And you’re just…” He hadn’t complained, hadn’t cried, hadn’t shown a single sign of fear. He hadn’t blamed Buffy for the lost eye—had argued rather passionately against it, in fact. Like it was just an appointment long-delayed. “Do you care at all? Or haven’t I managed to drag you back from your death wish yet?” Like he’s not enough, never has been.
Xander’s expression...breaks. It’s mostly just sad. A pinch about his eyes suggests that he’s been fighting pain or a headache or both, on his own. “Of course I care.” The passion in his voice has returned, for the first time in a good long while, when they’ve been alone. “I don’t want to die. I don’t want you to die, nor any of my friends, but my wanting doesn’t seem to be very effective, does it? It never has been.” His hands as he returns back to work are shaking, rather than their perfectly steady state not a minute ago. “I’ve never been properly able to realize that of all this, I’m still just a man, and in the state of this war I’m little more than a footnote. The hotshot pilot shoved into the script because the network wanted it.” And, of course, he still manages to reference Babylon 5 simply to try to deny that he’s Sheridan—well, in Jesse’s eyes, at least, which is the only place that really matters. “I can’t turn the tide, not on my own.”
He bites his lip, and Jesse longs to kiss it better.
“So I’m doing what I can, which at the moment is cleaning the shower. If we are to die tomorrow, I would very much like to take a shower without a rising swamp at my feet.” That is...beautiful and heartbreaking all in one, and Jesse immediately renews a number of mental vows about following Xander to the end, whatever that might be.
“Do you suppose you might need a handsome assistant handing you things?” he asks, tone abrupt and presumptuous.
That manages to get Xander’s attention again, and the warm comfort in his eye is all the answer Jesse needs. He is redundant enough to say the answer out loud, however. “I would estimate that would improve matters considerably, yes. I might even reward the assistant, or myself, depending on my mood with a shared shower.” (As if it didn’t work out to the same thing in the end—obviously, he knew it did and just felt the urge to indulge in a touch of whimsy.)
Jesse smiles, the cat that got the cream (or would, shortly) and gets to work, starting by fetching Xander’s painkillers, which he takes with a roll of the eyes and a fond if slightly irritated smile. Mostly, that involves holding a torch or handing over paper towel after paper towel, paired with the occasional massage when it’s clear Xander’s pushing himself further than he should, and the stench is less than pleasant, but the reward at the end, he trusts, will be well worth it. As was this whole enterprise. If you had asked before, he would have said he had no regrets, and at the time, he hadn’t known that to be a lie. He does now. It’s a small thing, practically nothing in the grand scheme of things, but a shower, warm for once, with a man who loves him and he loves to the point of irrationality, who is finally back here with him after too long spent drifting here in his own head—it’s the small kind of pleasure that assures him nothing before was wasted, because it led precisely here. No matter how tomorrow goes, he has this.
Buffy/Blake's 7 (Place in the Universe)
Chapter Summary: Jesse has become Xander's keeper, and some days that's a thankless job. Not today.
Word Count: 835
Rating: Teen
Jesse wakes to find his arms and the other side of the bed empty. That’s become more common than not, these days, between the new eyepatch that he knows has to be reminding Xander uncomfortably of Travis and Faith’s presence (she merely remains breathing at Jesse’s sufferance), but it feels like Xander’s drifting away and if he lets go even for an instant, the man he loves will be gone. It doesn’t help that the path he’s going down is one he’s already familiar with, as Blake.
With a growl, he braves the cold lurking outside the covers. A light betrays Xander’s location with very little effort required on Jesse’s part, and he walks in to find Xander bent over the bathtub trying to clean gunk out of the drain, holding himself a little gingerly.
“What are you doing?” he hisses.
Xander turns with a smile. Blake’s smile, the one that says he’s just amused and above it all, hardly with any stake in any of this. “I thought you were a smart man, Jesse. What does it look like?”
“We could die tomorrow!” His voice rises louder than he intends, probably waking up some grumpy would-be Slayers, but he can’t help it. Never could, not when Xander and Blake both drive him to distraction and complete and utter madness. “And you’re just…” He hadn’t complained, hadn’t cried, hadn’t shown a single sign of fear. He hadn’t blamed Buffy for the lost eye—had argued rather passionately against it, in fact. Like it was just an appointment long-delayed. “Do you care at all? Or haven’t I managed to drag you back from your death wish yet?” Like he’s not enough, never has been.
Xander’s expression...breaks. It’s mostly just sad. A pinch about his eyes suggests that he’s been fighting pain or a headache or both, on his own. “Of course I care.” The passion in his voice has returned, for the first time in a good long while, when they’ve been alone. “I don’t want to die. I don’t want you to die, nor any of my friends, but my wanting doesn’t seem to be very effective, does it? It never has been.” His hands as he returns back to work are shaking, rather than their perfectly steady state not a minute ago. “I’ve never been properly able to realize that of all this, I’m still just a man, and in the state of this war I’m little more than a footnote. The hotshot pilot shoved into the script because the network wanted it.” And, of course, he still manages to reference Babylon 5 simply to try to deny that he’s Sheridan—well, in Jesse’s eyes, at least, which is the only place that really matters. “I can’t turn the tide, not on my own.”
He bites his lip, and Jesse longs to kiss it better.
“So I’m doing what I can, which at the moment is cleaning the shower. If we are to die tomorrow, I would very much like to take a shower without a rising swamp at my feet.” That is...beautiful and heartbreaking all in one, and Jesse immediately renews a number of mental vows about following Xander to the end, whatever that might be.
“Do you suppose you might need a handsome assistant handing you things?” he asks, tone abrupt and presumptuous.
That manages to get Xander’s attention again, and the warm comfort in his eye is all the answer Jesse needs. He is redundant enough to say the answer out loud, however. “I would estimate that would improve matters considerably, yes. I might even reward the assistant, or myself, depending on my mood with a shared shower.” (As if it didn’t work out to the same thing in the end—obviously, he knew it did and just felt the urge to indulge in a touch of whimsy.)
Jesse smiles, the cat that got the cream (or would, shortly) and gets to work, starting by fetching Xander’s painkillers, which he takes with a roll of the eyes and a fond if slightly irritated smile. Mostly, that involves holding a torch or handing over paper towel after paper towel, paired with the occasional massage when it’s clear Xander’s pushing himself further than he should, and the stench is less than pleasant, but the reward at the end, he trusts, will be well worth it. As was this whole enterprise. If you had asked before, he would have said he had no regrets, and at the time, he hadn’t known that to be a lie. He does now. It’s a small thing, practically nothing in the grand scheme of things, but a shower, warm for once, with a man who loves him and he loves to the point of irrationality, who is finally back here with him after too long spent drifting here in his own head—it’s the small kind of pleasure that assures him nothing before was wasted, because it led precisely here. No matter how tomorrow goes, he has this.
