A/N: This is such an overdone idea, I don't even know why I'm going on with this! But as I already have 21 chapters, written and am actually still pleased with the idea, I figure why the heck not?

This is a human AU. Everyone is human in this story, because I have a fascination with making normal people into super humans and super humans into normal people. I've yet to truly understand why, but I usually don't argue with the voices in my head.

SO! Like I said, human AU, will have slash of the Spander variety. All other's are kind of up in the air at this point in time, although it's just a question as to how far I explore their relationships, not really if they'll have one or who they'll have one with. But Spander is my point of focus, so that's the only one I'll mention as of now. This will also have the Scoobies be underage, as well as having hints and sometimes not so hinty underage drinking and intercourse. This story will allude to a plethora of things, including gay-bashing, child-abuse of the mental and physical kind, crude terminology, and other somewhat uncomfortable situations.

I'm posting the first five chapters today, but as I am a full time student and employee, I will only be posting one chapter every two weeks. It could be as much as one per week, but we'll have to see how it goes as my semester goes on.

Standard disclaimer (which I will only be posting in this chapter, but will go for all chapters henceforth): I do not own any of the recognizable characters. They belong to whole bunches of people who have more entertaining jobs and daily lives that I, myself, do. Don't sue. I have no money!

x.x.x

The highway was not a place for the Citroen. Giles' poor little old car could do seventy for about ten seconds before it began emitting a high pitched squealing sound and the air conditioner started pouring in the smell of skunk entrails, as it had so delicately been put by a certain young man. It would do fine at sixty, but after a while all of Giles' gauges would begin to kind of go haywire and the needles would begin floating around from F to E or C to H without any compunction. Fifty-five was usually a nice speed for the old girl, be when the speed limit was sixty-five it tended to gather quite a few American signings that were not necessarily appropriate.

However the highway, no matter what speed one chose, was the fastest way to Los Angeles, which was currently the destination of one librarian, his ward, and his most frequent visitor. So signing aside, Giles puttered along quite comfortably, although the music left much to be desired. It had been set on some horrendous country station, and for the last two hours he had submitted his ears to the torture of listening about tractors, hunting, and—he shuddered at the thought—fishing.

The children had been quiet for the last hour, if one ignored the snuffling coming from the back seat, or the slurps of his passenger drinking down her fourth highly caffeinated, highly sugared beverage out of a ghastly green can. She looked, to be completely candid, like an addict as she upended the aluminum to get the very last drop. She then began fiddling with the can itself twirling it in her little fingers anxiously, twisting the tab before yanking it off to drop it into the bottom of the can, thusly creating a maraca of sorts to add a tinny, arrhythmic flow to join the chorus about 'fishing in the dark.'

That, blissfully, was discarded after a small snort from the backseat. She put the can in their makeshift garbage bag to join its other fallen comrades. Of course, her musical aspirations were traded for finger twisting.

"Thanks for letting me come with you, Giles. Are you sure it's not a problem?" Willow asked, her wide green eyes staring worriedly at him as he continued at his sedate place.

With a slight smile, he told her, "It's hardly a problem, Willow, and even if it were, now would most definitely be an inappropriate time to bring it up. We're over halfway to Los Angeles."

"Oh. Oh yeah. That makes sense. It's not like you could turn around and drop me off at home. Well, I mean, you could, but that would waste gas and time and soda, not that you drink soda…" The finger twisted morphed into hand wringing and she looked at the road, the mile markers, the written directions on a small little paper in her lap.

"Is something wrong?" he asked after a few moments of watching her fidget. She was usually restless, constant movement, constant thinking, constant energy, but it didn't usually hold this air, this anxiety.

"I'm nervous," she stated obviously, her wide green eyes on him again and her lips rubbing together and hands wringing, wringing, wringing.

He turned that over in his head, trying to deduce which of the several things she could be nervous about. There were so many these days. Life was so much different now. In March everything had been simple. For him, he would get up, have a cup of Earl Grey, go to the library, go home. Life, decidedly, wasn't so simple anymore to put it briefly, and he held no assumptions that her life hadn't been affected by the situation. He decided that make perhaps the easiest conclusion."To see Buffy?"

"Sort of. More of Buffy seeing us." She grimaced at her own words, before expounding on her last statement. "We haven't seen each other since March and so much has happened since then…"

She looked in the backseat and Giles followed her gaze through the rearview mirror. In the backseat, curled and looking remarkably comfortable for being a gangly, 5'10" young man stuffed in such a tiny space, was Xander, sleeping. He looked surprisingly peaceful for a child who less than two months ago had suffered four fractured ribs, a spiral fracture to his left arm, a concussion, as well as a multitude of scrapes and bruises. All from the hands of his repulsive father. All over a small matter of sexuality.

Memories washed over Giles as he peeled his eyes away from the young man resting—actually resting—in the back. He didn't like to think about it, didn't like the memories of Xander as he fell trying to grab onto a statue for stability, nor did he like to remember the cry of pain not because he landed on his mangled, swollen arm but because he broke the statue, or even worse than both of those the sight of him in the hospital bed, looking small and sad as Giles had to coax the events of the previous night so that the police could properly handle the case.

The fact that he still had a cast on his left arm, unsigned by anyone at Xander's request, still caused a twinge in his chest.

"I can't say that I don't share some of your apprehension," he murmured to her. "However, I don't believe it will be as bad as either of us imagines." He watched the road, saw a sign proclaiming Los Angeles to be only ten miles closer than it was the last time. It would be about two hours more, perhaps a little longer, since the Citroen wouldn't do anything above fifty-five.

The song on the radio switched, proclaiming cherishment in a crowing Midwestern accent.

Willow cracked open another can of soda, taking large pulls from it as if to calm her nerves rather than further excite them. Giles calculated he would have to pull over to a rest area within the next thirty minutes so she could relieve herself.

In the back, Xander twitched, his fingers wiggling beneath the blank cast that ran from knuckles to elbow. Perhaps another night terror in the making. Perhaps nothing more than his hair flopping against his forehead. Giles never really knew.

The librarian repressed the urge to sigh, definitely repressed the growing urge to polish his lenses. It would be quite a summer this one, world changing and life altering.