Contact Comfort
He figured they were even. Sort of. Sure, she had averted six apocalypses to his one, but he figured he had helped her with all of them, so they were equal. This last one was special though, and Xander would have given anything to know what she was thinking when facing the crater that was their home for so long.
Most of all, he wondered if she missed Spike.
He mourned Anya quietly, in the privacy of a shower stall in the hotel du jour. There would be days where he would not think of her, and immediately feel guilty when it was realized. Then he'd retire to an out of the way corner of the room Xander, Buffy, and Willow shared and let out the pain.
From his perch on the bar stool, he supervised a group of Potentials- Slayers now, he chided himself – playing pool in the bar area of the Embassy Suites hotel in Crystal City. The G-man was in a meeting with the government officials who were Hellmouth-savvy. Willow had taken a group of girls on a Duck Tour, the logistics of which were lost once she uttered the words refurbished army vehicle. Not a Xander compatible word, despite the Halloween incident. Faith was supervising the remaining Slayers in the pool, leading them through water aerobics. The large amount of estrogen lately was beginning to take a toll on him. Sitting there with a beer and half-watching the Redskins – Giants game made him feel the teeniest bit more masculine. But not much.
"Mr. Harris?" A somewhat squeaky voice cut through his self-deprecation and he turned his head to see a thin, wispy figure addressing him. One of the new Slayers, Rachel, was waving in his direction. "Mr. Harris, can we go up to the room and watch movies? Andrew just came back from Blockbuster." Xander managed a smile and nodded.
Going back to the room did not seem like a horrible idea, now that he thought about it. Once the girls and Andrew were situated, he walked down the hallway to his hotel room. The card went in easily, green light blinking indicating he had access.
The sparsely decorated suite looked anything but homey, his pull out couch of a bed lumpy. Even the basement felt more comforting. His basement was now at the bottom of a crater, however, so he had to make do. His eyes ached with tears not shed. The headache was soon remedied with an Advil, swallowed with water from their tiny kitchenette. Turning his head, he looked through the open door into Willow and Buffy's part of the room.
A figure lay curled up on the bed, trying for all the world to disappear into nothingness. The blonde hair was a dead giveaway. Instead of sleeping soundly, snores were sobs. She looked like he felt. And all he wanted to do at that moment was hold her.
Her arms curled around him as he lay next to her, and their legs entwined. Xander knew that he wasn't the one she wanted to be holding, but for now, it was fine. His psychology teacher called it contact comfort. What surprised him most was that he remembered that. But suddenly the term that he got wrong over and over on his tests was clearly, painfully defined in a way that he knew that until the day he died he would never forget it again.
She slept now, tear trails drying, leaving no evidence they were there. Xander knew. And he knew his face mirrored hers, as their grief mirrored each others. For the first time since Sunnydale collapsed, Buffy Summers slept soundly. He felt a strange sense of pride, knowing that for all the times Willow tried to comfort Buffy, he was the one who succeeded.
He loved watching her breathe. The afternoon sun had given way to twilight, and Xander had lost count of how many times her chest rose and fell. It was the small things that he noticed now. The raised scar, barely noticeable to the naked eye, which Angel had left as a parting gift four years ago. The way her hair fell in her face just so when she cuddled his chest. The slight frame that in no way hinted at the strength inside.
And it was in that moment he realized he still loved her.