It's a miracle, he decides, that something like this hasn't happened before now. Sprains and concussions and broken bones aren't such a big deal, because they can be fixed, but seven years without such a serious, debilitating injury? That's pushing your luck.
Still, it doesn't seem entirely fair. After all, Xander was the only one among them without a modicum of actual training.
Stupid, stupid! Why has it never occurred to him before now to invest in some serious self-defence skills? Everyone just assumes that his one night as army-guy has equipped him with all he needs to know. He could have observed Buffy's training with Giles, or joined the potentials in their sessions in the back yard. Hell, he could have just signed up for karate lessons at the Y. Anything to give him a better chance of staying safe.
He's had an opportunity to do some serious thinking lately, and he's realised that there are a ton of things he should have done before now. Like telling Will just how proud he is of her and the way she's handling herself now, and how sorry he still is about Tara because he doesn't remember actually stopping to mourn for her either. Or telling Dawn just what an amazing young woman she's turning out to be. Or hugging Giles more often, because sometimes it scares Xander to think about how things might have turned out, how he might have turned out, if Giles hadn't been around, and also because his reaction when one of them throws themselves unashamedly into his arms is just priceless.
He wants to tell Anya that sex in Spike's bed was probably the worst possible way to seek closure, because all it did was reawaken his memories of her perfume and the feel of her skin and her breathy little moans, and remind him just how empty his own bed feels now.
He wants Buffy to stop for just a second and admit how scared she is before she collapses under the weight of the world.
He wants to know why Tom didn't just give up on Jerry and find another mouse with a lower IQ, but he puts that train of thought down to his medication.
Hw wants to know why making Andrew smile sets off a fizzing in his stomach.
He wants to know why the one thing he had going for him, hero-wise, has been taken away.
So many things he wants to know and do, but there's an unshakeable feeling that there just isn't enough time.
Which is kind of ridiculous, because today he's had nothing but time. They've propped him up on Buffy's couch like an invalid, brought him juice and magazines and painkillers and ice-water. Buffy's thrown herself back into training, which Xander decides is for the best because stuff like this happening to people she knows still throws Buffy off her game. Willow's rooted herself in her usual sunny denial, disappearing now and then to cry in private and eventually volunteering to stay with the overflow of potentials in Xander's apartment.
Dawn sat and talked with him earlier, eventually breaking down and sobbing in his arms for a while, and despite his discomfort Xander found it oddly soothing to hold her and tell her he was going to be okay. He's not used to being the one who's looked after: it feels like having something taken away from him.
On one of his stumbling walks into the kitchen to find something to eat, he'd bumped into Faith, who'd given him an apologetic smile and told him how much "it" sucked. Or something along those lines, because he remembers her sentiment more than her words. Her honesty. Why can't they all be that honest, he wonders. Why do they have this need to skirt around it or pretend it didn't happen?
The potentials still staying in the house have temporarily relocated to the bedrooms, leaving him alone on the couch. But whereas last week he would have revelled in the calm - well, revelled quietly at least - now the quiet is painful, and he half wishes he could be a part of the chatter that's still going on upstairs.
He notices the kitchen light click on, and listens for a while to the sounds of someone rummaging in the fridge. If it weren't for the fact that he's still kind of woozy and can't quite judge the distance of the floor from his feet, he'd get up and go see who it was, just for the possibility of a conversation. Instead he waits impatiently until the light switches off again.
Andrew hovers at the edge of the living room, not quite meeting Xander's gaze. It's almost painful to watch him hesitate on the threshold, like he's just waiting for Xander to tell him to go away.
"Hey," Xander greets him in something just above a whisper, as though he doesn't want to scare him with anything too loud. Andrew looks up finally from under his lashes and after a second, murmurs a "hi" of his own.
When he still refuses to move, Xander rolls his…eye, which is the weirdest sensation, and tells Andrew to sit down. He pads across the room obediently, perching on the edge of the couch next to Xander. Xander's half tempted to throttle him.
He watches Andrew blinking rapidly, fidgety fingers laced together in his lap.
"So. You and Spike? Reconnaissance mission?" Xander tilts his head inquisitively, immensely grateful when Andrew relaxes into a bashful smile. "How was it?"
"Creepy," Andrew answers with a shaky laugh. "Spike's motorcycle was cool, and I got to interrogate a guy, but I wasn't as good as it as Anya is, and there was this old monastery where we had to spend the night…" He trails off, obviously aware that he's babbling, but somehow Xander finds it comforting. It's something familiar and normal.
"I guess," Xander begins with just the slightest hesitation, "that this makes you an actual good guy now." Something begins to sparkle inside Xander in response to Andrew's grin. 'I put that smile there,' he thinks. 'He's smiling for me'.
What bothers him the most is that this doesn't bother him.
Andrew appears to contemplate this for a few moments, his gaze drifting off somewhere else. "I guess it does."
His eyes flick back to Xander's face, suddenly fixed solidly on the patch over Xander's empty eye-socket. His smile falters and crumbles, and Xander can see the hurt in his face. Andrew's breath hisses in his nostrils as he tries to steady himself, his jaw jutting forward and his eyes sliding almost closed.
"It's not fair," he announces, and when his voice catches on the last word, Xander feels something inside him break. "Not you. It shouldn't have been you."
"Who then?"
Andrew swallows, his eyes scrunching shut momentarily.
"No one," he assures Xander with a shake of his head, "but definitely not you."
Xander feels uncomfortably warm and scratchy. He shifts in his seat, looks down, and realises some of the warmth comes from Andrew's hand, which is resting on his own. Now it's Xander's turn to swallow, and suddenly there's a lump in his throat, thorny and stubborn. He feels wobbly as he glances back up at Andrew, who looks at his hand as if he has no idea how it got there. After a moment that seems to stretch out beyond actual time, he starts to slide his hand away, almost breaking their contact, until Xander turns his wrist and grasps Andrew's thin fingers in his own.
Precisely three people have touched him since he awoke in the hospital. Willow, who held his hand without thinking while he lay in the hard hospital bed tucked tightly under cotton sheets; Dawn, who hugged him as though she hadn't seen him in years when he was brought home; and now Andrew, who looks at their entwined fingers as though Xander's just handed him the Holy Grail.
Suddenly Xander's aware that time is running quickly onwards while they sit like this, unmoving, and he realises he has to do something. When Andrew finally looks back up at him, Xander tugs gently on his arm and pulls Andrew into a tight hug, both arms snug around his back. Andrew's face is pressed against his shoulder, and though he knows that although maybe this isn't quite what Andrew might have hoped for, it's all he can give right now. His insides are knotting and twisting, and all he can think is just how good it feels to hold someone like this, to know that someone still wants to hold him.
But after a moment, the knots begin to unravel, and he realises that if anyone walks into the living room right now he's going to have a lot of explaining to do. He loosens his grip on Andrew, who slides reluctantly out of his embrace, eyes glued to the little patch of couch between them. Xander shifts again, clears his throat. Folds his hands in his lap.
There's silence, during which Xander realises he can still hear the distant buzz of voices from upstairs. Life apparently doesn't stop for moments like this.
Beside him, Andrew twists in his seat.
"You wanna watch TV?" he asks in what could almost pass for his usual lazy, lilting voice. Without thinking, Xander "uh-huh"s his approval. Andrew moves to switch on the set, and in seconds they both sit back to be bathed in the blue glow, as scripted dialogue washes over the random hum of voices from upstairs.
*****
Still, it doesn't seem entirely fair. After all, Xander was the only one among them without a modicum of actual training.
Stupid, stupid! Why has it never occurred to him before now to invest in some serious self-defence skills? Everyone just assumes that his one night as army-guy has equipped him with all he needs to know. He could have observed Buffy's training with Giles, or joined the potentials in their sessions in the back yard. Hell, he could have just signed up for karate lessons at the Y. Anything to give him a better chance of staying safe.
He's had an opportunity to do some serious thinking lately, and he's realised that there are a ton of things he should have done before now. Like telling Will just how proud he is of her and the way she's handling herself now, and how sorry he still is about Tara because he doesn't remember actually stopping to mourn for her either. Or telling Dawn just what an amazing young woman she's turning out to be. Or hugging Giles more often, because sometimes it scares Xander to think about how things might have turned out, how he might have turned out, if Giles hadn't been around, and also because his reaction when one of them throws themselves unashamedly into his arms is just priceless.
He wants to tell Anya that sex in Spike's bed was probably the worst possible way to seek closure, because all it did was reawaken his memories of her perfume and the feel of her skin and her breathy little moans, and remind him just how empty his own bed feels now.
He wants Buffy to stop for just a second and admit how scared she is before she collapses under the weight of the world.
He wants to know why Tom didn't just give up on Jerry and find another mouse with a lower IQ, but he puts that train of thought down to his medication.
Hw wants to know why making Andrew smile sets off a fizzing in his stomach.
He wants to know why the one thing he had going for him, hero-wise, has been taken away.
So many things he wants to know and do, but there's an unshakeable feeling that there just isn't enough time.
Which is kind of ridiculous, because today he's had nothing but time. They've propped him up on Buffy's couch like an invalid, brought him juice and magazines and painkillers and ice-water. Buffy's thrown herself back into training, which Xander decides is for the best because stuff like this happening to people she knows still throws Buffy off her game. Willow's rooted herself in her usual sunny denial, disappearing now and then to cry in private and eventually volunteering to stay with the overflow of potentials in Xander's apartment.
Dawn sat and talked with him earlier, eventually breaking down and sobbing in his arms for a while, and despite his discomfort Xander found it oddly soothing to hold her and tell her he was going to be okay. He's not used to being the one who's looked after: it feels like having something taken away from him.
On one of his stumbling walks into the kitchen to find something to eat, he'd bumped into Faith, who'd given him an apologetic smile and told him how much "it" sucked. Or something along those lines, because he remembers her sentiment more than her words. Her honesty. Why can't they all be that honest, he wonders. Why do they have this need to skirt around it or pretend it didn't happen?
The potentials still staying in the house have temporarily relocated to the bedrooms, leaving him alone on the couch. But whereas last week he would have revelled in the calm - well, revelled quietly at least - now the quiet is painful, and he half wishes he could be a part of the chatter that's still going on upstairs.
He notices the kitchen light click on, and listens for a while to the sounds of someone rummaging in the fridge. If it weren't for the fact that he's still kind of woozy and can't quite judge the distance of the floor from his feet, he'd get up and go see who it was, just for the possibility of a conversation. Instead he waits impatiently until the light switches off again.
Andrew hovers at the edge of the living room, not quite meeting Xander's gaze. It's almost painful to watch him hesitate on the threshold, like he's just waiting for Xander to tell him to go away.
"Hey," Xander greets him in something just above a whisper, as though he doesn't want to scare him with anything too loud. Andrew looks up finally from under his lashes and after a second, murmurs a "hi" of his own.
When he still refuses to move, Xander rolls his…eye, which is the weirdest sensation, and tells Andrew to sit down. He pads across the room obediently, perching on the edge of the couch next to Xander. Xander's half tempted to throttle him.
He watches Andrew blinking rapidly, fidgety fingers laced together in his lap.
"So. You and Spike? Reconnaissance mission?" Xander tilts his head inquisitively, immensely grateful when Andrew relaxes into a bashful smile. "How was it?"
"Creepy," Andrew answers with a shaky laugh. "Spike's motorcycle was cool, and I got to interrogate a guy, but I wasn't as good as it as Anya is, and there was this old monastery where we had to spend the night…" He trails off, obviously aware that he's babbling, but somehow Xander finds it comforting. It's something familiar and normal.
"I guess," Xander begins with just the slightest hesitation, "that this makes you an actual good guy now." Something begins to sparkle inside Xander in response to Andrew's grin. 'I put that smile there,' he thinks. 'He's smiling for me'.
What bothers him the most is that this doesn't bother him.
Andrew appears to contemplate this for a few moments, his gaze drifting off somewhere else. "I guess it does."
His eyes flick back to Xander's face, suddenly fixed solidly on the patch over Xander's empty eye-socket. His smile falters and crumbles, and Xander can see the hurt in his face. Andrew's breath hisses in his nostrils as he tries to steady himself, his jaw jutting forward and his eyes sliding almost closed.
"It's not fair," he announces, and when his voice catches on the last word, Xander feels something inside him break. "Not you. It shouldn't have been you."
"Who then?"
Andrew swallows, his eyes scrunching shut momentarily.
"No one," he assures Xander with a shake of his head, "but definitely not you."
Xander feels uncomfortably warm and scratchy. He shifts in his seat, looks down, and realises some of the warmth comes from Andrew's hand, which is resting on his own. Now it's Xander's turn to swallow, and suddenly there's a lump in his throat, thorny and stubborn. He feels wobbly as he glances back up at Andrew, who looks at his hand as if he has no idea how it got there. After a moment that seems to stretch out beyond actual time, he starts to slide his hand away, almost breaking their contact, until Xander turns his wrist and grasps Andrew's thin fingers in his own.
Precisely three people have touched him since he awoke in the hospital. Willow, who held his hand without thinking while he lay in the hard hospital bed tucked tightly under cotton sheets; Dawn, who hugged him as though she hadn't seen him in years when he was brought home; and now Andrew, who looks at their entwined fingers as though Xander's just handed him the Holy Grail.
Suddenly Xander's aware that time is running quickly onwards while they sit like this, unmoving, and he realises he has to do something. When Andrew finally looks back up at him, Xander tugs gently on his arm and pulls Andrew into a tight hug, both arms snug around his back. Andrew's face is pressed against his shoulder, and though he knows that although maybe this isn't quite what Andrew might have hoped for, it's all he can give right now. His insides are knotting and twisting, and all he can think is just how good it feels to hold someone like this, to know that someone still wants to hold him.
But after a moment, the knots begin to unravel, and he realises that if anyone walks into the living room right now he's going to have a lot of explaining to do. He loosens his grip on Andrew, who slides reluctantly out of his embrace, eyes glued to the little patch of couch between them. Xander shifts again, clears his throat. Folds his hands in his lap.
There's silence, during which Xander realises he can still hear the distant buzz of voices from upstairs. Life apparently doesn't stop for moments like this.
Beside him, Andrew twists in his seat.
"You wanna watch TV?" he asks in what could almost pass for his usual lazy, lilting voice. Without thinking, Xander "uh-huh"s his approval. Andrew moves to switch on the set, and in seconds they both sit back to be bathed in the blue glow, as scripted dialogue washes over the random hum of voices from upstairs.
*****