Chapter 6 – The Magic Was Stronger

Pulling Xander closer as if to protect the man from his words, Angel started. "Your parents aren't who you think they are."

The dazed, frightened look in Xander's eye receded a little as he smiled bitterly. "That's the best news I've gotten since I woke up in this place." He searched Angel's expression, his smile fading quickly. "But I'm guessing not really, because you don't have 'good news' face on. That's a 'bad news' face if ever I've seen one."

"Yeah." Not for the first time, Angel wished he had Albus's way with words, the old wizard's ability to transform life, messy and painful, into charming stories with beginnings and ends and a moral saying precisely what Albus wished his audience to hear. "Your parents… your biological parents were a witch and a wizard. They were both married to other people, so they sent you away."

"They sent me to die," Xander corrected flatly. "Right? They left me on the Hellmouth because they wanted me to die." Angel couldn't respond. Xander nodded. "Ward and June Cleaver, they ain't."

Angel sighed. Xander had no idea. "You remember when I told you about Grindelwald?"

"You mean, yesterday?" Xander asked sarcastically.

Ignoring the sarcasm, Angel nodded. "Right. Well, about thirty years after Grindelwald came Voldemort. Your parents, uh… they followed him."

Xander's jaw clenched, and he looked away, staring at the wall. "And this Voldemort, he's like Grindelwald was? Evil?" His voice was strained.

"Worse," Angel said bluntly, remembering the books he'd read earlier that morning. "He was… he was much worse."

"Of course," Xander muttered, still staring at the wall. "And his followers? They were…worse, too?" It was clear he knew the answer. "Are they—" He paused, biting his lip. "What happened to them, to him?"

"Voldemort was killed two years ago," Angel answered quietly. He shifted his weight and awkwardly patted Xander's arm. "Your, uh, mother died in the same battle. Your father…" How was he going to explain this?

His hesitation was enough to pull Xander's gaze back, and as Angel met his eye, he thought that Xander had never looked more exhausted. "What about my father?" he asked, his voice flat and emotionless. "He's still alive? Let me guess, he's looking to take over for his old boss?"

He must have read the answer in Angel's face (and who knew Angel would miss the days when Xander thought he had only one expression and couldn't read him at all?), because Xander suddenly laughed, a bitter, humorless sound that made Angel cringe. "'Course he is. And he wants me for some reason, probably some sort of sacrifice or something, right? They always do."

Angel blinked rapidly, trying to figure out when he'd lost control of the conversation, if he ever had it. He should've waited, he decided with the clarity of hindsight—Xander was already upset, why had he thought it was a good idea to tell him everything now?

Right, he hadn't thought at all. He'd seen Xander upset and scared, asking for his help, and he'd jumped into the breach like the bleeding-heart poof Spike always said he was.

He jumped, startled, when Xander snorted at his expression. "At least Tony never actually tried to have me killed, or killed anybody else. The worst he ever did was throw back a few too many and smack me around." More disturbing than his words was the way Xander was speaking: quiet and conversational, as if they were discussing nothing more personal or important than the weather.

"Xander—" Angel said, but Xander cut him off.

"I guess I've spent all these years worrying about the wrong things, huh? All those times I turned down a second beer, hating myself because I wanted to hit someone, God, leaving Anya at the altar—all those times I thought I was becoming like my old man…" Xander trailed off, shaking his head helplessly. "And it turns out I didn't know anything. I have huge, unexplored depths of assholeishness waiting for me. I was scared of becoming like Tony, and I could be someone so much worse."

"Xander," Angel said firmly, forcibly turning the man to face him. "Look at me." For a moment, Xander fought him, twisting in Angel's grip as if to break free, but when their eyes met Xander froze, giving Angel an opportunity to speak.

Angel bit his lip, again wishing he were Dumbledore, wishing he were someone with a talent for words or people. Someone who could make this better.

In the end, all Angel had on his side was the truth.

"You loved Willow enough to die for her, even when she tried to kill you. You've helped to save the world, literally." Seeing Xander open his mouth to speak, Angel hurried on. "Yes, your father is a bad person. Both of them are. That doesn't have anything to do with who you are. You may be built like your father and look just like your mother, but what's inside…" He placed a hand on Xander's chest. "What's inside, that's yours. Your choices, your actions—that's what you own. That's what makes you who you are. No one forced you to fight. It would have been simpler to ignore the darkness. Isn't that what everyone in Sunnydale did? But you couldn't do that. You had to do the right thing; that's who you are. You are nothing like your parents."

Seconds stretched into minutes, while Xander stared at Angel, searching for something Angel didn't understand. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat and bitter. "If that's true, then what's wrong with me? There's something inside me, Angel, that wants…" Seemingly at a loss for words, he shook his head. "I get angry, I feel scared, and I feel like I'm about to turn green and tear things apart." Angel stared, bewildered, which only seemed to agitate him further. "It's like I've got a fucking demon inside me, alright? And it's dark, and it's angry, and it wants out. It wants to, to destroy. It wants to kill." He whispered the last, barely able to meet Angel's eyes. "What happens then? What does that make me, huh?"

Angel's eyes narrowed, and he tried not to show his concern. It took years of practicing the darkest arts to taint a wizard's power… or it should. A lifetime bound by a dark spell and living on a Hellmouth, though, might be enough to predispose Xander toward dark and destructive magic, especially accidental magic. It would explain the gruesome results of the attack.

He had told himself to save the rest of the explanations for when Xander was calmer, but how could he calm himself when he was convinced he had some sort of demon time-bomb inside him? "It's magic, just magic," Angel told him, studying him worriedly. "No demon, no, uh, turning green. You're a wizard, Xander. Like Albus, like your parents." Angel winced internally; connecting Xander's magic with his parents was the last thing he wanted to do. He hurried on. "Your power was bound, but the binding was broken."

"No," Xander said unconvincingly. His eye was wide and his expression wounded, as if Angel had struck him. "I'm not a wizard." He trailed off at the end, as if even he didn't believe his words.

Suddenly, Xander straightened, resolved. "Well, then, you've just got to bind it back! Put it the way it was; get rid of it. I've lived this long without any special powers, and hey, I did just fine without them." He looked expectantly at Angel.

Slowly, Angel shook his head, holding Xander's gaze. "We can't," he said softly. "That spell was dark, and dangerous. All permanent bindings are."

"Permanent," Xander scoffed, the slightest hint of hysteria creeping into his tone. "For a permanent binding, it was pretty damn temporary."

"Only in your case," Angel answered tightly. "The circumstances required… you could have just as easily died." The truth of his statement sat, heavy and cold, in his gut, because although Angel had no magical power of his own, he had an instinctive understanding of wizarding magic that had shocked Albus the first time they met. Angel understood magic, light and dark and everything in between, and still he could not explain how Xander emerged alive and whole, with his magic intact.

Xander frowned, giving Angel an odd look, and Angel realized the show of emotion had thrown him. "You could have died," Angel repeated helplessly, unable to find any other words to explain his reaction. "The magic should have killed you."

That, apparently, was the wrong thing to say. "Yeah, well, maybe it should've," Xander agreed, pulling away from Angel.

"Maybe it should've?" Angel repeated incredulously, staring at Xander and wondering where the hell this had come from. His Irish accent so thick it was nearly incomprehensible, he snapped, "What are you thinking, saying such things!" He seized Xander's shoulders, intending to shake some sense into the man, but with a savage twist of his torso, Xander jerked himself out of Angel's grip. For just a second too long, Angel hesitated, and he wasn't quite fast enough to catch Xander before he toppled off the bed, landing in a crouch on the floor out of the vampire's reach.

And the moment Xander slipped from his hands, that beautiful, terrifying connection was gone, the emotions—the humanity—stripped from his mind so brutally Angel spent long moments gasping in pain. It hurt, a soul-deep laceration, and he was so preoccupied with the task of existing he was slow to think of Xander.

Too slow.

The moment Xander left Angel's grasp, his feelings attacked, swarming him, choking him.

Too much, it was too much—he didn't know what he was feeling, what he was thinking, and he could feel his magic, that fucking stupid magic, bubbling in his veins and sparking through the air. And this was what he meant, this was what he was talking about when he'd said that maybe the magic should've killed him, because he somehow knew that the power running through his veins was so much darker than anything Willow ever touched, and if his sweet, gentle Willow could be pulled into darkness what chance did Xander, with his newfound legacy of murder, have?

He doubted he could end the world, but individual lives, that was nothing more than snuffing out a candle.

He was scared and he was confused, and then everything merged into anger, a fury that overwhelmed his mind and smothered all those thoughts that were stabbing at his psyche. He didn't need to hurt, didn't need to worry, the magic whispered—not when he could make others hurt instead.

Xander stood slowly, reveling in his strength after several days of weakness. It wasn't until Angel stood and held out a hand that Xander remembered he wasn't alone in the room.

"Xander," Angel murmured before falling silent, clearly at a loss for words, and wasn't that typical? He was good at that, the original Cryptic Guy, dropping bad news in their laps and then vanishing before anyone expected him to say something useful.

The vampire cringed, and damn, Xander wished he knew what expression was on his face because if it got that reaction he needed to use it more often. Even with Angel's hesitation, the outstretched hand never faltered, and when he made to move closer Xander's fury built into a roar that couldn't quite hide the small voices screaming underneath.

A part of him wanted Angel nearby, shouting that the vampire was the only way to stop the coming hurricane. Angel could end this. He could calm the anger before it boiled over, and Xander knew it. The real, normal parts of him wanted that.

But the magic didn't, and the magic was stronger.

The magic wanted out; it wanted to play, and Angel would stop that from happening. So the magic fed the anger, and, as if watching from a great distance, Xander saw himself lazily wave his hand, leaving Angel immobilized and soundless. The angry magic cushioned him, pushing him so deep inside himself he wasn't certain he was really there anymore.

"You're so predictable," Xander snorted, glaring at Angel. "'Don't worry, Xander, we'll figure this out. Everything will be okay.' That's what you were going to say, right? Just some magic, after all, and hey! Not like it's yours."

He spun away, pacing toward the far end of the hospital wing, and the part of him hiding inside burrowed a bit deeper as the beds began to shake, rattling noisily against the floor. "It's always so easy for you, isn't it, Deadboy? Drop in, give a couple hints, mess up someone's life, and then hasta la vista, you're off to let us humans deal with the wreckage.

"You come in all buff and mysterious and ready to save the day, and it's like you care, but you don't, really. Not about people; at least, not about people who aren't Buffy." Xander folded his arms tightly, more defensive than the aggressive motion he had intended. "Your wizard buddies asked you to stop by and help calm down the kid with the freaky mojo, and what the fuck is their problem?" His train of thought jumped tracks without warning, but that was okay—there was plenty of anger to go around.

"They send you in here with stories about magic and families and—and did anybody even ask me if I wanted this? Because, actually, I pretty much had my hands full with one set of parents that hate me." Xander shook his head, and somewhere a chair tipped forward as one of its legs literally exploded into a shower of sawdust.

"They left me," he spat, so angry he could barely breathe. The pitcher on the table beside his hospital bed shattered, and his magic liked that, wanted more—and that scared him, which only made him more angry, which made his magic want more destruction… The windows began to rattle in their frames. "These… wizards, with their wands and their stupid dresses and their weirdo world, they all left me on a fucking Hellmouth without even checking every so often to see if I'd been chomped by a demon. They didn't care until my big bad dad decided I'd make a great sacrifice—which, hey, I've heard before—and even then, they didn't warn me or talk to me! They just watched, damnit! They watched while I got attacked, and God, what if some of the girls had been with me?"

Xander's voice rose at the thought of a threat to those he cared about, and all the windows, all the glass in the room shattered. The destruction appeased his rage, allowing terror—and a sense of self—to surface. "Angel," he whimpered, and before he even finished speaking Angel was there, arms around him.

And everything melted away.

Anger, fear, the magic boiling in his bones… it all vanished like waking from a dream. Xander sagged against Angel, trusting the vampire to support him while he gasped for breath and searched for sanity.

"What's wrong with me?" he whispered, clinging to Angel, terrified he might let go and the magic would once more overtake him.

"It'll be okay," Angel murmured, rubbing his back. "We'll figure it out."

It was probably the dumbest thing Angel had ever said, but as unconsciousness pulled him into its welcoming embrace, Xander was content to believe the lie.

A/N: The next chapter is largely Faith-based (heh, sorry, I couldn't help it). Anybody with a good grasp on her character who wants to help me out, let me know, because I'm not sure I've got her down.