It's all new. He's never done this before. A hundred and thirty years and countless bodies drained, yet he's never seen fit to share the borrowed blood that animates him to build a new machine. He'd considered it - yes, many times. He's easily attracted, like a magpie he follows the shiny, wants what glitters. He thought for a moment about turning Buffy. What a fearsome creature she'd be, freed of her earthly bonds and mortal restraints. But something held him back. There are some lines that shouldn't be crossed, and that was one of them.
The others had potential, but the girls...no. Sweet and soft and loving - the demon would take them and make them something wrong. The Watcher, maybe. Wouldn't that have been a slap to the Council? And the dark stain of chaos on that mixed up soul, part librarian, part mage, part rebel without a clue - he would be beautiful and malevolent, but Spike doesn't want a creation to fear.
At his center, Spike wants a companion. Not a mistress like Dru, who ruled him with iron fist and razor talons and sharper tongue and fevered insanity and the cage of love and need and dependence. He wants...as stupid, as human as it sounds, he wants his other half.
Choosing the boy was easy, once he learned how to look. Big and dark, the perfect compliment to his slight paleness. Innocence and bravery and loyalty - keeping two out of three ain't bad. So much beauty and pain, ready to be remade into something magnificent and brutal. But here, in his bed, it's anything but. The lights are low and they lie mouth to mouth, hands at rest. Their kisses are soft and gentle, their tongues clever and knowing, sharing breath and unspoken words until it's time.
Death comes sweetly to Xander Harris - more than any child of the Hellmouth could ask for; all that he could want. His blood flows like a sluggish river, and Spike makes it last, savoring the taste, the feel, the heady emotions of love and want and trust that slide over his tongue to bind them and pull them down, swaddling them in a single skin and making them the same. Xander's strong heart slows, and it's music; the overture before the symphony, the solemn beat of a sentinel drum. It slows and slows and, just before it fades away, Spike opens his own jugular and pulls Xander's head down to complete the circuit that makes them real.
They lie connected, because Spike won't have it any other way. He won't leave his dark creation, won't consign him to the unknown, even for a second. Mouth to neck and legs entangled, Spike holds and waits - waits to see what he has wrought.
He listens and waits. He marks the passage of time, the rising and setting of the sun they'll never see. Then, light as the wings of dragonflies, he feels it. He feels the connection between them open, and he feels the full spectrum of Xander's want and love and need, reflected through the prism of his own, magnified and shared. He feels the prick of needles at his throat and whispers, "yes" before bending his head to taste, to drink, to know.