17Disclaimer: Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc., still not me.
Number: 2/6 (probably)
A/N: Hmm… possible Xander OOC-warning? Personally I don't think so, particularly given his portrayal for this fic/series, but you might see it that way. Oh, and finally added the character tags that somehow didn't when I initially posted.
Feedback: Again, much appreciated, and hopefully useful.
Defaced, Derailed and Divergent
Chapter 2: Meh? (or, Demons Can Be Idiots)
—ox-oxo-xo—
"…Well. Look at you, boy. Here you are, all alone. Good for me, huh?"
Xander opened one eye… meeting the baleful gaze of William the Bloody. 'Yep. Figures.'
And that was pretty much it.
It was strange. Here he was, washed out and hung up to dry, and faced with the guy who'd taken down two Slayers – no doubt he should be terrified. But nope – there was a little inner voice gibbering 'ohshitohshitohshit', it was just buried and left suffocating under a vast grey fog of 'meh'.
Maybe it was the drugs? 'cause he was pretty sure this was a hospital…? Nah, otherwise he'd have been freaking out over being snacked on by Drusilla earlier. He'd felt like this back then, too – just too 'meh' to care much what was happening. Which probably explained Spike, come to think of it.
Spike glared down at him, hunched over Xander like he was the vampire villain in some cheesy horror B-flick. Ironic. Then again, he'd just dusted his girl earlier, so he supposed there was a thing.
"Y'know, boy… I can't say much for how your parents tasted. It's the booze, yeah – makes 'em taste sour. 'Specially when they drink the kind o' cheap hooch your folks did…"
Xander's other eye opened, both snapping wide.
"Ohh, that get your attention boy?" Spike grinned down at him, hard and mad and with a hint of liquid amnesia on his own frivolous breath. "'Bout damn time. Heh, good thing about bein' in a wheelchair? People think yer harmless."
Xander cast his eye farther right and down. Heh, yeah – there was a wheelchair behind him. No wonder he'd got in so easy.
So that meant there was a good chance his parents were dead.
"Hey, would you believe they thought I was yer employer? Figured you were out all hours, so you 'ad a job? Boy were they pissed…"
Yep, probably dead. Which was a problem. A very large problem.
Xander was well aware that he wasn't exactly in his right mind at the moment, and had been even less in his right mind when he'd first been brought in. But he was pretty sure Buffy and Willow and Giles were there at some point. He vaguely remembered Oz, and…hah, like Cordy would come. Probably Ms. Calender, which was unlikely but still more likely than Cordelia Chase coming to visit his hospital bed. Sure, they weren't here now. Sure, he couldn't recall much beyond most of them yelling about something or other at him, and 'probably-Ms. Calender' putting something in his hand at some point. But they'd been there.
That, as unbelievable as large, pessimistic parts of him had painstakingly pointed out over the dreary hours between then and now, could conceivably be counted as Progress. It had seemed, in his dreams, like maybe there was a tiny bit of hope – hope that they'd be stupid and/or trusting enough to forgive him. Eventually. Someday.
"Yup, they were screamin' fit to burst." Spike chuckled. "Course, after my boys an' I got my hands on 'em, they were just screamin'…" The crazy grin fell, becoming something more calculating but just as mad. "By that point, I was wonderin' whether it was even worth it – pair o' soddin' bums. An' it's becoming increasingly obvious here that you don't give a toss."
Spike was wrong. He did care. Because his parents were dead.
"But no, I did 'em right 'n proper. Railroad spikes an' all." Spike smirked down at him. "It's the thing to do, y'know, when some little twerp like you," the blond vampire snarled with sudden, crystal-clear rage, "does in my Dru."
Because his parents were dead… and, and this was something he was far more clear on with how he should feel about it, there was not a hope in hell that Rory Harris would be left with custody. Any judge with two brain cells to rub together would take one look at his criminal record and break out the big ol' gavel of rejection.
Xander had over a year left before he graduated high school, and more than six months before he turned eighteen. And he had no employment skills that said judge would recognise.
That, quite likely, meant another relative, or a foster home. Which, given the few other people he knew who could've put him up had moved away (the McNallys), or were practically absentee parents already (the Rosenbergs), or were British citizens (Giles), or had a daughter who wasn't talking to him and would definitely be justifiably iffy about offering a temporary home to the boy who she first tried to seduce and then chased with a fire axe just last week (Mrs. Summers…and the Rosenbergs for that matter, at least the first part)… meant that the overwhelming odds were on Xander Harris moving away from Sunnydale. After all, he'd quietly checked several times, mainly to keep somewhere in the depths of his mind the consequences of snapping and killing his parents himself even if he got away with it.
And so, as all this dawned on him, the little voice that had been trying to get him to at least put a Face back on fell sheepishly silent.
'See?' he told it morbidly. 'That kinda luck's reserved for people who aren't Harrises.'
"Y'know, boy… you've been pretty quiet there."
Xander blinked, having almost forgotten about the vicious vampire looming over him. It was at that point a number of things occurred to the bedridden, detached youth.
There was something in his hand, something covered loosely by his bedsheet. Something that felt like squared-off, polished wood. Something that, if he knew his previous visitors at all, was probably a crucifix.
His current visitor had entered in a wheelchair. And was looming over him. And was holding the bed's railing with both hands with a white-knuckled grip. And was shifting to his left, as if to lean on his left arm.
"…Your point?" Xander croaked in deadpan.
He was probably going to die at Spike's hand. Slowly. Painfully. Without being turned, which was no doubt a plus – if it had been Angelus here instead of Spike, Xander would have been irretrievably boned, and probably skinned and filleted too.
And…
"Well – probably 'bout time I do somethin' about that." And Spike's right hand came blurring over to form a grip on his throat. A grip that half-buried, hazy memories of C.Q.C. training told him was bad news, right over the carotid artery and its passage of blood to the brain. One squeeze held for a handful of seconds, and it'd be lights out and who'd know when or where he next woke up.
…perhaps most importantly, what with the 'meh' and the fact he'd just woken up and been confronted with Spike, he hadn't yet put a Face on.
Faces were important things. A few years back, Willow had been excitedly telling him about something she'd found in one of her parents' old textbooks, as often happened (both the esoteric knowledge and the excitement over it). A lot of that kind of thing went straight over his head, but this was something that he'd actually realised back when he was six. It was the reason why 'put on a happy face' was a real saying and not just a song – because when it came to faces, they worked both ways. You smiled if you were happy – but, if you pasted a smile on and wore it for long enough, you could convince your brain that it was happy and that was why you were smiling. So, you smiled because you were happy, but you could also smile to make yourself happy.
His Xander-Face was only the one he used most often, though. He did have other Faces – Faces that only came out when the need was there for them, Faces which didn't see the light of day, Faces which saw nothing more than maybe a mirror.
And then there was his not-face, the one that showed nothing extra because there was nothing he was trying to make it show. It varied in effect, from what he could tell most mornings in the handful of moments before a Face slid into position – if he was happy, it smiled a little; if he was sad, it slacked out like it had over the past week. But when he was feeling little more than fatalism and a pervasive sense of 'meh', it showed nothing.
So when Xander's right hand snaked out from under the bedsheet and slammed the spiked end of a crucifix into Spike's chest, his not-face gave his attacker not the least hint of warning.
The resulting moment of shock on Spike's part, as he gaped down at the blessed shaft of wood sizzling in his chest and puncturing his heart, saved Xander's life. Because by the time he had time to snarl and attempt to tear his throat out with the one hand already in place to do it, his grip could do nothing more than pinch the carotid closed for a second longer before the hand crumbled to dust, with its owner following instantly thereafter.
…
The on-duty nurse entered forty minutes later, to find Alexander L. Harris unconscious and covered in dust, (more) bruises around his neck, and a wooden crucifix with a long, rotted shaft lying on the ground next to his bed before a discarded wheelchair that didn't look hospital-issued.
He sighed, put the crucifix on the cabinet in the corner, checked over the patient and updated his charts, shook out the bedding, and delegated a passing orderly to toss out the wheelchair. Some mysteries in this place, he had very quickly learned, were simply not worth solving.
—ox-oxo-xo—
…And if the first time hadn't been bad enough, he'd been attacked again right here in the hospital.
Which apparently wasn't that uncommon an occurrence. She also remembered Angel mentioning how he'd tried popping into Buffy's hospital room when she had that terrible flu, and how only Mr. Giles' presence and the threat of widespread attention from passers-by had stopped him – not to mention something about an invisible monster she'd had to…slay (she repressed another wince) while she was feverish. Yet another thing she was unhappy about… though a quick rummage through her daughter's room had found some of the pictures the children had drawn that Buffy had kept, which was quite touching and made her feel a little better about that particular episode.
"Oh. So… Angel mentioned something about that. He thought you'd…killed him?"
"Huh… Well yeah, 'cause I did. Wonder how 'e heard, though?" Xander blinked sleepily.
—ox-oxo-xo—
It started with one of Spike's original minions. Not the minion who had been discreetly tailing Drusilla – that one (who had been debating going over to finish off the Slayer's friend, but thought better of it when said Slayer came running over) had made the stupid mistake of telling Spike what had happened. No, this was one of the ones who had watched on as Spike sprang out of his wheelchair and twisted said minion's head right off.
This particular minion had subsequently lucked out and been given the assignment of checking Willy's for info on just what had happened to the mad seeress. Not that he'd believed anyone but the Slayer could've pulled that one off, and his hapless ex-comrade had mentioned something about 'the Slayer' right before he got decapitated.
So began the first rumour: that the Slayer had killed Drusilla the Mad. Along with the second, which had been roused by a rather luckier minion who'd been sent to a different bar: that Xander Harris, a random human who was rumoured to have had the distinction of twinning the Slayer line, had killed Drusilla the Mad. (How a mere human could do this, was the result of a certain amount of idle conjecture. Not much though – on the one hand, who knew what other ridiculous nonsense that cursed boy could pull out of his ass when the chips were down? and on the other hand, Spike was probably going to torture an answer to that question out of him later that night.)
Then, as Xander booked himself out late the next morning A.M.A. and headed home to find out what had happened to his parents, came the third rumour: that a wheelchair smelling of Spike had been dumped out the back of the hospital. And given that the quarter-Brachen demon who found that out was not only one of the orderlies but also an occasional supplier of drugs to the demonic black market, and as such was a guy who had met Spike on a few occasions, this rumour was given a great deal of credence.
This rumour, on top of the previous two, led to a great deal of interest in that orderly. Smelling money this time, he moseyed on back to his department's rec room and, over strong coffee instead of the vodka he favoured, casually asked the other orderlies about that wheelchair and where it had been found. One quick check of the paperwork later, and it was further clarified for the benefit of his other audience (and him, let's not forget the monetary benefit to him) that it had been found in the room of one Xander Harris.
Of course, what it obviously looked like was a little harder to swallow. Thus birthing the fourth rumour: that Harris had been attacked by first Drusilla the Mad and injured before the Slayer killed her, and then by William the Bloody while recovering in hospital before the Slayer came along again and killed him too.
This in turn was of great interest to another vampiric minion, this one a member of Angelus's new gang. And so he carried the news back to his Master.
Needless to say, Angelus was Not Amused – and once again, it was demonstrated that killing the messenger as violently and/or messily as possible was a time-honoured practice among the rapidly dwindling Scourge of Europe.
And so, the fourth rumour was tentatively accepted as truth…
…until later that afternoon after high school got out, when Buffy Summers blasted into Willy's Alibi Bar and started beating the ever-living crap out of all and sundry – and more importantly, asking questions like 'who tried to kill my friend?' and 'who sent them?'.
As it turned out, "But you killed them already!" was not a sufficient response. Nor did attempting to blindside the Slayer (who, to be completely fair, was gaping disbelievingly at the fantastic prospect of Xander 'Normal Guy' Harris offing half the Scourge of Europe) transpire to be a fruitful exercise in survival.
Of course, Angelus heard about this as well. After killing that messenger too, and trying unsuccessfully to imagine Xander Harris offing both Drusilla and Spike, he had to conclude that it was…technically possible. Pretty damn unlikely, but technically possible – while he'd have put his money on Ripper Giles being the one to actually do it, Drusilla had been a little funny in the head over the boy since that Valentine's spell, and Spike was practically a paraplegic until he healed up. Not to mention, he'd probably lost his temper – Willy always had been a bit hot-headed.
So Angelus ordered a few of his new minions (Drusilla's then, his now) to head over to the Harris home and keep an eye on the boy. Then one of them mentioned the fact that ol' William had already paid a visit there and did his thing last night, so Harris wouldn't be there. Angelus tempered the impulse to rip that minion's head off too and sent a few more out instead to check the motels and his friends' neighbourhoods, taking vicious satisfaction in ordering the idiot minion to spy on the Summers house.
And as luck would have it, said minion never came back. Too bad, so sad…
Not that the other incompetents found Harris either. Or that all that many came back to tell the tale at all, for that matter. Hurricane Fluffy was in high swing, and tearing through a fair-sized portion of the town…
—ox-oxo-xo—
"Where were you, anyway? The others tried to find you, and heard nothing." She shifted. "Well… other than…"
Xander sighed. "Lemme guess… the obits?"
"Yes," she whispered. "You heard, then…"
"Yeah, Spike told me," he replied. "Had to know, though. So I went home."
Xander fell silent. Joyce stared at him, barely restraining herself from exploding. Or fainting.
Eventually he sighed again. "…Yeah. Police suck at clean-up. Someone had to fix up the place." Xander shrugged listlessly. "Not like I had th' cash to stay anywhere else anyway. Spike robbed 'em on his way out."
Joyce slumped into her chair. "Oh my God…"
Of course they hadn't found him – they'd been looking in motels and checking with relatives. They'd expected him to do the rational thing – as opposed to, say, hanging around the house cleaning up the mess (she swallowed as her stomach tried climbing out by her throat) left behind by his brutally murdered parents…
But then, the problem was manifestly easy to spot in hindsight: he wasn't rational. He wasn't even close.
—ox-oxo-xo—
Xander was beginning to understand his mother's sometime-fascination with attempting housework while she was three sheets to the wind. And also, doing it with less embarrassing results when she couldn't afford to be anything but sober. If nothing else, it kept the hands busy and the mind ticking over on insignificant things.
The cops had at least carted away the bodies. But he still needed to tear up the carpet…scrub the walls…wipe down the TV…throw out the living room furniture…patch up the holes… Yep. Much easier to just go ahead and do it without thinking about why he was doing it.
He worked through the day and well into the night, carting wrecked and worn belongings to the kerb, almost daring the next vampire to try something. But there was nothing in the way of fangy interruptions. Maybe Angelus was out of the loop or something, who knew?
…
Meanwhile, Buffy came home late that night. Joyce didn't say anything, assuming that she'd stayed at the hospital; instead she asked how Xander was.
Buffy walked straight over to the phone, radiating fury. A call to Willow's house followed… a call which had her going pale and dashing over to look at the day's newspaper.
She dashed back to the phone. "I'm coming over, Will," had been the only further words she'd spoken before Buffy hung up and ran right back out the door.
Sudden worry about Xander warring with her annoyance at being completely ignored by her daughter, Joyce walked over to check the paper herself. Surely if she was at the hospital, it couldn't be Xander…
"Oh dear God in heaven…"
…it wasn't Xander. But it was Anthony and Jessica Harris, in three lines on the city obituary pages that Buffy had left open on the kitchen table. Murdered by gangs in a home invasion last night. P.C.P. suspected as a factor. Survived by one son.
First Xander, then his parents. Targeted by gangs on P.C.P..
Her heart went out to the boy, it really did. But…her daughter was friends with him?
—ox-oxo-xo—
Funerals were held quickly as a general rule in Sunnydale, unless for whatever reason those responsible for the arrangements wanted to hold off. So, as Xander slept the morning away, the clued-in lawyer that handled a fair number of these and similar cases each day checked for and found a life insurance policy – which, while 'gang-related death' wasn't listed as an eligible cause for the full payout, did at least guarantee funeral costs. So the number-crunchers ticked off the deceased couple's costs against the city fund which had quietly been set aside for such instances many decades past, with the implicit understanding that the City would recoup the loss from the upcoming (reduced but still easily sufficient) insurance payout.
Calls went out to the listed contacts, and apologetic non-explanations given to non-local relatives as to the haste of the burial arrangements ('City ordinance, C.D.C., so sorry'). Meanwhile, two cheap caskets (wood-veneer over plastic-lined chipboard, pretty much the cheapest option – real coffins were expensive and took appreciable chunks of time to assemble) were procured from flat-packed storage and the two victims of two nights ago sealed under a pine lid (also veneered) with a few squirts of superglue.
(Once someone had quietly asked the Mayor why wood was supplied for the lid, even with the chipboard sides. His answer had been along the lines of 'tradition'. Nobody asked again.)
Rory Harris was not the greatest of thinkers, or the most sensitive of men. So it was that at 2:30pm, without even really thinking about all the things wrong with this picture, he banged on the Harris home's front door.
Xander blinked at his uncle, obviously just awoken. "Yeah?"
"The funeral's in an hour, Alex."
Xander blinked some more. "Right. I'll get changed."
3:30pm that day found Xander and Rory Harris at a moderately attended funeral, its mourners clad in their Suits (the title given to that black suit or dress which was habitually broken out for such occasions). It mainly consisted of the other workers on the construction site Tony had been hired onto for the last month, there on their latest 'Suit break' (which tended to happen at least once every couple months, construction crews having a fairly high 'turnover rate' in Sunnydale due to the early starts). The manager of the clothing store Jessica worked at also attended, along with a few of Tony and Rory's drinking buddies. Rory and Xander were the only family present, most being from out-of-town and unable to get away that quickly.
Fifteen minutes later, they were in the ground. Fifteen more minutes, condolences delivered to Rory and Xander, and everyone else had gone off back to work, or off with Rory to Tony's favourite bar.
Xander walked back home, just missing Buffy and Willow as they tried to catch up with him after the funeral, having been unable to get out of attending school that day. There was still more of his parents' stuff to go through and sort.
—ox-oxo-xo—
"…The house is packed up now," Xander said. "Rory came for a key next day, said it'd all do over at his house till people could pick it up or pay to have it sent off to 'em." Almost casually, like it was something that happened a while ago, to someone else. "Found the paperwork while I was cleanin'. Bank's gonna foreclose the house at the end of March."
—ox-oxo-xo—
Snyder might have been a troll masquerading as a high school principal…poorly, but even he knew that there were times when restraint needed to be exercised with his students. As such, the afternoon meeting in his office one day after the Harris funeral was uncomfortable and highly awkward for him.
Less so for Xander, who told him that he'd be busy for the rest of that week and the next.
Snyder tried to bluster. Xander stared at him. Snyder conceded the issue with ill grace, but he conceded nonetheless. He could allow it – or he could ban it, be utterly ignored, expel him for that, and then be sniped at by the Mayor's office for insensitivity. And while it might be worth it to get rid of Summers, for Harris it just wasn't worth the hassle.
—ox-oxo-xo—
The rest of that week ground on, for all concerned. And there was plenty of concern to be spread around.
The least concern was shown by Cordelia, whose reaction to hearing about the 'gang murder' of Xander's parents was to snort and mutter "Good riddance to bad rubbish," and say nothing more on it. But she did stop glaring whenever someone mentioned the Harris name. And she did also finally accept her followers' apologies. The point had been made; no need to beat it into the ground.
("My Vessel's destiny remains largely unchanged… and, enough of the Souled Vampire's destiny remains for my purposes. Very well, I will allow it."
"…"
"Such insolence… No matter. My Birth will not be stopped.")
Oz was only slightly more concerned to all appearances, not being one for outward displays of emotion at the best of times. In fact, he only showed as much as he did in solidarity with Willow – which he shamelessly capitalised on to calm her down and get her to eat. And sleep. And…well, pretty much anything that didn't involve looking for Xander – or working with Ms. Calender, who was using their shared 'research project' as its own distraction from her dead clan members and Willow's missing best friend. For his part, were he asked, he would remind the others that nothing had even been mentioned about Xander actually being missing.
This was true – a daily inquiry with the head office had uncovered Xander's brief presence while everyone was in class, along with his ongoing (now official) absence. But the motels held no Xander, and his Uncle Rory wasn't answering his phone. (He'd headed interstate later that same afternoon after collecting the key, off to commiserate – read: get drunk – with various family members; Rory had promised to return to Sunnydale before the month was out. Not that Willow knew that.) And nothing Buffy had turned up mentioned even a peep out of the absent Xander's current whereabouts, no matter who she beat up.
And there was a lot of 'beating up'. Especially of that one tipsy demon who said something unwise about Xander probably going 'death-seeker' for whatever reason. Or said demon's drunk buddy, who even more unwisely explained what he thought a death-seeker was (being so out of his head that he completely failed to appreciate the irony of that explanation – being decapitated shortly afterwards didn't help with this either). Or that one other demon guy, who said something about Xander being the one to drag Angelus into the Master's Cave, of all things – and even if it was true, what did that have to do with anything? Oh, and let's not forget Willy, who had the cheek to tell her she wasn't looking so well and did she have that flu that was going round, because he really didn't want to lose business if he got sick…
…As it turned out, it was the flu. And so Rupert Giles watched on, his every effort seemingly steeped in futility as his Slayer ran herself ragged to find Xander. If nothing else, Giles advised wearily – the only thing that seemed to work, at least for a brief while – Angelus was still looking as well. And if the curse succeeded, Angel could be drafted to keep looking for him, this time for the right reasons.
And Joyce watched on, each day more seriously considering renewed professional counselling for her daughter, as she slowly fell to pieces.
—ox-oxo-xo—
Joyce regathered herself, with a great deal of effort. Even now, the story wasn't done.
"So," she drew another calming, steadying breath, "I hear you saved my daughter again on the weekend."
Xander froze, just for an instant.
—ox-oxo-xo—
She should be saying something. Anything! Even yelling at him would be better than this! But of all the times to be stuck with absolutely nothing coming out of her mouth, it had to be this time.
Xander wasn't saying anything either. Just carrying Buffy on piggyback like he was her white horse in shining Hawaiian-print armour, walking along towards the hospital with his Serious-Face on as if Angel hadn't just clipped him upside the head. Buffy might've been saying something, but if she was it was because she was dream-talking. That meant she had a fever, and that was very, very bad—
"Breathe, Will."
She did. Now was NOT the time for a panic attack. Now was the time for questions and explanations and why was nothing coming out of her mouth!
"Keep breathing."
Well, she could do that at least. And when they got to the hospital, Willow found she could also tell the receptionist that Buffy Summers was really ill and feverish, and it was probably the flu that was going around and she needed help and her mom needed to know and—
"Willow."
She gulped another breath and turned around. Xander had offloaded his passenger on a pair of orderlies, who were putting her on a stretcher as a woman in a nurse's uniform bustled over.
"Keep an eye on her? And call in Giles – I don't think Angelus is done with tonight yet."
Faced with those eyes in that Serious-Face, all flatness and resignation and tired, she found once again that she could do nothing but nod.
He nodded back and walked away without another word.
…
It was like another epiphany.
A little voice somewhere in the back of his head, one of the many that had been poking at him, pointed out that he should be worried. After all, words like 'epiphany' surely had no relevant place in the vocabulary of Xander Harris. And probably neither did words like 'relevant'. Or 'concussion', one which he was pretty certain he had a light version of.
He ignored it, just like all the other voices. With the Serious-Face on, he found it even easier than usual. And the situation fit, so he kept it up all the way home… after a brief detour back to the graveyard where he'd encountered Willow, Buffy and Angelus, to reclaim the take-out he'd originally stepped out to pick up.
He wasn't too worried about Buffy. Buffy was the Slayer, with Slayer healing included – he was sure it was going to kick in the moment she was forced to rest for long enough. And Willow would get Giles and, he guessed Ms. Calender too if his foggy memories of the last time in hospital were right, and they'd keep watch over her in case Angelus tried anything else with her before she got better.
Of course, there was the possibility Angelus might try something with him. In which case, Xander would be happy to see him. Or at least, the grenade he'd started carrying in his pocket would be happy to see him.
(Yes, he'd had time to work through his last epiphany. That didn't stop the short version from counting.)
But he was hard-put to keep his attention on his surroundings, only his Soldier-Guy memories and the way they flowed into his Serious-Face (which unlike his Xander-Face, still worked, though maybe the concussion was helping with that) keeping him safe from ambush.
Normally – heh, not even an hour ago, he didn't think he could've brought himself to care either way. But now things were different. Now he'd come to an important realisation that had managed to elude him for the past week:
He had killed half of the Scourge of Europe.
Not with any fancy powers. Not even with any run-of-the-mill Joe Schlub powers. No. He'd won because he had nothing left to lose. He'd lost his friends, he'd lost his girlfriend, he'd lost his family, he never had a future to start with. He'd even lost his Purpose…
…or so he'd thought.
He was going to lose his Purpose, and that would be the end of any part of him worth calling Xander. He just knew it, the 'meh' spoke of it as inevitable. But, he hadn't lost it yet.
More: he'd just held off the rest of the Scourge of Europe. Punched him in the head and kicked him in the nuts, and only a blind swing on Angelus's part had put him off for long enough to swear vengeance and get away.
He could still help. Not for long, because he was alone now and soon his Harris luck would strike true one last time and that would be the end of him – but if his end was coming anyway…?
Only, Ms. Calender changed everything. Because if she was back in, then that meant they were working on the soul curse. And that meant they wanted to bring Angel back. And that meant that he only had a little more time to kill him…
Until the second half of the epiphany caught up with his mental lag, and he walked on only by automatic as exhausted neurons sparked like fireworks and danced a staccato on his retinas.
…Or capture him.
It was a long shot, not even worth calling a Hail Mary. It was more like a swansong, like going out with a bang instead of a whimper. Hell, if things went wrong – and they probably would, with his luck – he'd be going out with a literal bang.
And if he somehow pulled it off? Well… maybe Willow and Buffy and Giles and the others might spare him a fond thought or something, wherever he ended up. (Probably hell, probably one of the special hells with his luck, the pessimistic voice warned.) (Maybe he'd even be forgiven, another voice whispered hopefully.)
Xander tuned out the voices again, and decided it was worth trying however it turned out. There were some military supplies he'd stashed away after the Judge; they might be useful now. He'd need some tranqs though… But Giles had some, and he was fairly sure the librarian hadn't stopped hiding his spare keys in the same place since he'd been around. Yeah, maybe grab the air-rifle too. Hadn't he bought an air-pistol after the last full-moon?
Oh, and he'd need to try for some sleep while he was at it. Unless Angelus got impatient and decided to firebomb his house. In which case…
"Meh." Spoken with satisfaction, for once. His course was set, and all he had left to lose was nothing worth having.
—ox-oxo-xo—
"She had the flu or something, right? Is she feeling better now?"
"Yes, she's fine now. Would've been better sooner if…" Joyce ground to a halt, clenching her jaw shut.
"Angelus. I know—"
Her control snapped. "YOU, you…you bullheaded young man! Buffy was fretting herself to death, worrying about you! Your parents were killed and you disappeared for a week! Did you think she wouldn't care? Do you really think so little of her?"
Joyce stopped, panting and trying to reel herself back under control. This was not the time, and definitely not the person she wanted to be yelling at. She closed her eyes, took more deep breaths… and, when she opened them, found herself looking directly into Xander's eyes for the first time in her entire visit.
Seeing the haze and the numbness slowly fading into confusion.
And then into utter shock.
"But…why?" His voice shook. All this time it had been cracking, rasping and slurring. But it hadn't shook. "Why would she…" He sounded so lost, so small, so… "After all I…what?"
And then she watched his face crumple.
Her simmering fury with Mr. Giles, her confusion and need to find answers and hear the rest of Xander's story, her distrust of Angel, her exasperation with Buffy's dysfunctionally…teenage friends, her lingering embarrassment and guilt over her behaviour and attitude concerning Xander both less than two weeks ago and just a few days ago, even her desperate worry over her daughter… Just for a few minutes, it all ceased to matter. Because Joyce Summers dared any mother who was worth the title to stand in the face of…of this anguish, on the face of one of her child's best friends, and do anything other than what she did at that moment: She got up, went over and held him while the distraught young man weeped all over her, choking out his loss and remorse and uncomprehending cries of why-won't-it-stop! to an uncaring universe.
That said, it was probably a good thing she'd accidentally knocked some of the sensors loose. If nothing else, the medical staff were better trained to deal with calming the increasingly hysterical young man down than she was.
Ending A/N: …I'm trying to remember – has Xander actually broken down crying anywhere in canon? If you're wondering why Xander got emotional at the end, the reason is that the 'meh' got drowned out for a bit under his realisation of the magnitude of his error - again. I plan to go into this in more detail later, but it's useful to know this much for now.
Anyway… Next instalment will deal with the Angelus takedown, and will be up in the next few days. Hope you enjoyed this one, notwithstanding the gratuitous angst! Until then…