THIRTY-TWO
* * *
He wondered why, after nearly six years of fighting demons, this place should make him so uneasy. Maybe it was the uncanny normalcy of the place, the knowledge that the people here, the lost, injured people here, were not so different from him, not so different at all.
We are injured too, he thought. Always injured. Life does that.
So why live?
The people here, some of them at least, had tried to answer that question. A bottle of pills, a razor blade, a jump off a high building or a bridge; all ways of answering.
Maybe they're the sane ones.
Her room was the same as last time. Just a bed, the tightly shuttered window. He knocked gently, hoping to hear her voice, then let himself in when there was no answer.
She was on the bed, sitting cross-legged in the gray hospital pajamas, staring out into nothingness. What do you see? he wondered, when you stare like that? Are you looking for her?
Her.
My best friend. I should be the one in here. God, why? Why, like that?
For he had seen. He had seen it all, had heard the screams that not even a bottle of gin every night could now quiet. Six years of fighting hell, and nothing, ever, could compare with what he had seen happen in that glade.
He went to her bed, sat down in the chair beside it. She didn't move, didn't stir.
"Hi, Buffy," he said.
Nothing. Nothing he hadn't come to expect.
"It's me. Xander."
She blinked, once. Nothing more.
"We miss you," he said then. "You don't have to worry about Dawn; Tara is taking care of her. Giles is helping. Spike is doing the best he can." He shrugged. "I've even got Anya trying to take care of me."
His voice broke. He wanted to tell her more, tell her what he had seen, that there was no more Warren to worry about, or Andrew, because whatever it was that they had summoned, it had gotten the both of them. He had seen it. And Jonathan, too, he was sure, last seen unmoving as the thing closed in on him, and it was all he and Spike and Tara could do to get away from it, just like it had been all she could do.
Not even the Slayer could match it, whatever it was.
Gone now. Everything there gone with it. The trees, the black van, everything. Just gone.
Willow.
Oh, God, Will, I'm so sorry.
How do I tell her folks? It's like Jesse again. All my friends ....
He looked back at Buffy. You're still my friend, aren't you?
Please come back to me, my friend.
* * *
He wondered why, after nearly six years of fighting demons, this place should make him so uneasy. Maybe it was the uncanny normalcy of the place, the knowledge that the people here, the lost, injured people here, were not so different from him, not so different at all.
We are injured too, he thought. Always injured. Life does that.
So why live?
The people here, some of them at least, had tried to answer that question. A bottle of pills, a razor blade, a jump off a high building or a bridge; all ways of answering.
Maybe they're the sane ones.
Her room was the same as last time. Just a bed, the tightly shuttered window. He knocked gently, hoping to hear her voice, then let himself in when there was no answer.
She was on the bed, sitting cross-legged in the gray hospital pajamas, staring out into nothingness. What do you see? he wondered, when you stare like that? Are you looking for her?
Her.
My best friend. I should be the one in here. God, why? Why, like that?
For he had seen. He had seen it all, had heard the screams that not even a bottle of gin every night could now quiet. Six years of fighting hell, and nothing, ever, could compare with what he had seen happen in that glade.
He went to her bed, sat down in the chair beside it. She didn't move, didn't stir.
"Hi, Buffy," he said.
Nothing. Nothing he hadn't come to expect.
"It's me. Xander."
She blinked, once. Nothing more.
"We miss you," he said then. "You don't have to worry about Dawn; Tara is taking care of her. Giles is helping. Spike is doing the best he can." He shrugged. "I've even got Anya trying to take care of me."
His voice broke. He wanted to tell her more, tell her what he had seen, that there was no more Warren to worry about, or Andrew, because whatever it was that they had summoned, it had gotten the both of them. He had seen it. And Jonathan, too, he was sure, last seen unmoving as the thing closed in on him, and it was all he and Spike and Tara could do to get away from it, just like it had been all she could do.
Not even the Slayer could match it, whatever it was.
Gone now. Everything there gone with it. The trees, the black van, everything. Just gone.
Willow.
Oh, God, Will, I'm so sorry.
How do I tell her folks? It's like Jesse again. All my friends ....
He looked back at Buffy. You're still my friend, aren't you?
Please come back to me, my friend.
