4.
Xander dreamed. But it was a dream of the past, not of the present, and it was more of a memory than a dream.
They were in his parents' basement again, but her hair was the wrong color; it fell in the amber-gold waves she'd had for most of the year Glory was stalking Dawn. They were curled up on his bed watching movies, and the Cheese Guy was eating all of the popcorn in the bowl, sitting cross-legged right in front of the TV.
"The movie *sucked.*" Anya was scowling at the screen as if she wanted to demand a refund. "That was not a love story. That was a lame disaster movie trying to be deep. And they didn't even mention that the iceberg was being steered by a c'Nith demon."
"It was a _tragic_ love story, An. Okay, so the ending wasn't happy, but they loved each other, so---"
"Oh, he loved her. He *died* for her. But her? Ha!" She snorted, crossing her arms and looking peeved. "I'd be embarrassed for women everywhere, except this movie was written by a man, so it's obviously wrong."
"Cheesecake topping?" the Cheese Guy said, offering them the bowl.
"No thanks, I recycle." Xander turned back to Anya as the Cheese Guy sadly shook his head, walking into the closet and taking the bowl with him. "She remembered him for the rest of her life and loved him the whole time--"
"How can you say that? She got *over* him. She moved on. Sure, she remembered him, but it didn't hurt her, except that she was obviously deranged when she threw that big diamond back in the ocean--"
"It's not about the hurt, it's about feelings, and knowing that you aren't forgotten. I think. Okay, now you've got me confused, and I'm not really sure what it's about. Aside from the ship sinking. Uh...."
"It's just like Hank and Joyce." Anya scrambled off the bed to pace around the room, gesturing wildly, getting more and more upset. "He promised to love, honor, and cherish, they had two daughters together, and did he even show up for her funeral? Ha! A very sarcastic ha, Xander Harris! He did not! He didn't even send a card!"
"Okay, I'm trying to figure out what you've figured out, and once again, I'm completely missing the answer here. Back up and start over, hon." He got to his feet, blocking her path on her second go-round of angry pacing. "What are you saying?"
"If it had been real love, Rose wouldn't have gotten over Jack. She would have been devastated forever and never known true happiness again. And if Hank had really loved Joyce, he never would've left, become a deadbeat father, and failed to attend her funeral. So what's the point?" She leaned her head against his chest, and he stroked her hair as she spoke to his shirt buttons. "I don't want to get over you. This is true love. But somebody has to die first, Xander, and I don't want you to die! I'd miss you! But I don't want to be safely dead, and I don't want your heart to go on, either!"
"Oh." He rested his chin on top of her bright head. It wasn't funny, it really wasn't. Well, maybe a little... "Hey, maybe we'll get lucky, and we'll be like those old people who have heart attacks during sex at ninety and go at the same time. Or maybe we'll both die in an airplane crash."
"Really?" She lifted her head from his chest, sniffling a little. "You think it could happen?"
"An, we're living in Sunnydale. I'd say the odds are *extremely* good we're gonna go together."
"That is so... sweet." She smiled at him through watery eyes. "But promise me that if I go first, you'll never recover."
"Easy. If you ever die, I'll never get over it."
"Good. And I promise that I'll never get over it if you die either. Of course, I might get married if someone who's very rich and good at sex offers, but it'll be just for the physical gratification."
He grinned at her, pulling her closer. "That's a relief. So. Want to play shipwreck survivor again?"
"Oo, yes. That's always exciting. Where's my whistle?"
When he opened his eye, there wasn't any transition from the dream. He didn't think *where's Anya?* or even *what happened to the basement?* He just knew.
Anya was dead.
They'd had that conversation already, a couple weeks after Joyce died. It had been in his new apartment, with no Cheese Guy eating the popcorn --
(Anya'd just moved in, she was still trying to figure out how much space they had for all her clothes)
-- but they'd had that exact conversation, after watching TITANTIC.
("Stupid movie. Stupid Billy Zane. *He's* the one that should've drowned. Who writes this stuff?")
Which had prompted him to go looking for a ring. Because there'd been one too many close calls with Glory, and if they were all going to die--
(Later, stuck in the motorhome under attack by crazy knights with Tara and Willow and Spike and Dawn, he'd thought, this is it, but at least we're together--)
--then it should say "Anya Harris" on her tombstone, the one right next to his....
Willow's fingers were brushing across his face, which was when he realized he was crying, and God, he didn't think he could stop. Why did he leave her, why hadn't he married her, why did he chicken out? Why couldn't he have done something to make her *happy*, why why why wasn't she here? They could still work it out, maybe, maybe not, if she wanted, it's not like he stopped loving her, she made him crazy. Maybe he couldn't marry her or love her forever, but if she were *here*, then at least they'd have a shot. Maybe he couldn't be the forever guy, but she should have that, she wanted it so much.... She wasn't supposed to die, she was going to get her shop on the Stock Exchange, she wanted to see Spain again without the Inquisition screwing things up, she was supposed to get a pet, she wanted a kitten, she wanted so many things and she didn't get them damnit it wasn't *fair*....
It was only when Willow pulled him closer, rocking him as he cried, that he heard the words coming out of his own mouth. "Why?" He asked. Choked. "Why?"
"I know it hurts..." Willow whispered, holding him tight, "but I don't know. No reason."
"Just because?"
"Just because."
No more words after that, just crying and shaking, and remembering. That he'd said the same thing to her last year, after Tara died.
What felt like a long time later, Willow helped him sit up, and forced him to drink the glass of water she'd had next to the bed. She'd said she just wanted to be with him tonight, Scoobies again, but he'd known. She was waiting for him to crack, and she'd been right. Wills always did know him better than he wanted to admit.
"Does it get better?" he asked, because he wanted to know, and Willow wouldn't lie. It wasn't a fair question, but he figured she'd forgive him for asking her for the cheat-sheet answers again. She was better now, she had Kennedy, so maybe he already knew the answer. But he didn't want to believe it. Not right now.
She stroked his face, her eyes solemn and thoughtful. Some things hadn't changed since she was fifteen-- she was still careful with him when it was important. "It gets better, and it gets worse."
He leaned his head against the headboard, closing his eye and just listening to Willow's voice. "It gets better than this. And then, you remember, later, and... it's bad all over again. Because you forgot for a little while." She held his hand in one of hers, like she had when he was in the hospital, so tight it hurt. "I'm not sure if it ever gets *all* better. It hasn't for me."
He opened his eye to look at her and saw the tears streaking across her face. For him, for Anya... for Tara, even after a year.
"The day you die is the day I can't do this anymore," he told her, keeping his voice soft.
Her eyebrows drew down in a frown, and she shook her head. "You don't mean that. If I died, and Buffy still needed you, or the Slayers, with Giles---"
"We've survived Buffy dying how many times, now? And Giles, well.... I love the guy, but he's old, Wills. If I feel this old at twenty-something, he can't last that much longer at forty-plus." She shook her head reprovingly at him, and he smirked a little. "But I could live through losing them. I could keep going, tell myself it's what they wanted. But if you weren't here--" He shook his head, felt her fingers tighten on his. "That would be it. I'd quit and go to Alaska for the daylight season and Tierra del Fuego for summer there, and watch the rest of my life go by. Game over."
"So, I'm not allowed to die?" Willow asked, drawing him closer into a hug. "Not until you decide to retire?"
"Pretty much." His voice was muffled against her shoulder.
"Okay. But same goes," she whispered, her voice choked. "If you hadn't been there last year...."
He held onto her, remembering black hair and rage, knowing now so much better what she'd been going through, than he had before.
Before. After. His whole life was like that, his world changing and spinning around with each event: before Buffy. After Jesse. Before Cordy. After Faith. Before he moved out. After he got his real job. Before Buffy died. After she came back. Before Anya. After he left her at the altar. After she became human again. After Anya.
He'd never wanted there to be any "after Anya."
The only thing in his life that wasn't a before-or-after was holding him right now. There had never been a before-Willow. And god, there better never be an after-Willow. He really couldn't take that.
(An? Do you miss me? Do you want me to suffer? I'm okay with that. I don't want my heart to go on either.)
They didn't speak any more. Willow held him, still rocking him, and he finally fell asleep around sunrise, back in numb denial-space and grateful for it, and beyond grateful for the arms holding him, keeping him safe.
***
Chris kikimariposa@prodigy.net
Xander dreamed. But it was a dream of the past, not of the present, and it was more of a memory than a dream.
They were in his parents' basement again, but her hair was the wrong color; it fell in the amber-gold waves she'd had for most of the year Glory was stalking Dawn. They were curled up on his bed watching movies, and the Cheese Guy was eating all of the popcorn in the bowl, sitting cross-legged right in front of the TV.
"The movie *sucked.*" Anya was scowling at the screen as if she wanted to demand a refund. "That was not a love story. That was a lame disaster movie trying to be deep. And they didn't even mention that the iceberg was being steered by a c'Nith demon."
"It was a _tragic_ love story, An. Okay, so the ending wasn't happy, but they loved each other, so---"
"Oh, he loved her. He *died* for her. But her? Ha!" She snorted, crossing her arms and looking peeved. "I'd be embarrassed for women everywhere, except this movie was written by a man, so it's obviously wrong."
"Cheesecake topping?" the Cheese Guy said, offering them the bowl.
"No thanks, I recycle." Xander turned back to Anya as the Cheese Guy sadly shook his head, walking into the closet and taking the bowl with him. "She remembered him for the rest of her life and loved him the whole time--"
"How can you say that? She got *over* him. She moved on. Sure, she remembered him, but it didn't hurt her, except that she was obviously deranged when she threw that big diamond back in the ocean--"
"It's not about the hurt, it's about feelings, and knowing that you aren't forgotten. I think. Okay, now you've got me confused, and I'm not really sure what it's about. Aside from the ship sinking. Uh...."
"It's just like Hank and Joyce." Anya scrambled off the bed to pace around the room, gesturing wildly, getting more and more upset. "He promised to love, honor, and cherish, they had two daughters together, and did he even show up for her funeral? Ha! A very sarcastic ha, Xander Harris! He did not! He didn't even send a card!"
"Okay, I'm trying to figure out what you've figured out, and once again, I'm completely missing the answer here. Back up and start over, hon." He got to his feet, blocking her path on her second go-round of angry pacing. "What are you saying?"
"If it had been real love, Rose wouldn't have gotten over Jack. She would have been devastated forever and never known true happiness again. And if Hank had really loved Joyce, he never would've left, become a deadbeat father, and failed to attend her funeral. So what's the point?" She leaned her head against his chest, and he stroked her hair as she spoke to his shirt buttons. "I don't want to get over you. This is true love. But somebody has to die first, Xander, and I don't want you to die! I'd miss you! But I don't want to be safely dead, and I don't want your heart to go on, either!"
"Oh." He rested his chin on top of her bright head. It wasn't funny, it really wasn't. Well, maybe a little... "Hey, maybe we'll get lucky, and we'll be like those old people who have heart attacks during sex at ninety and go at the same time. Or maybe we'll both die in an airplane crash."
"Really?" She lifted her head from his chest, sniffling a little. "You think it could happen?"
"An, we're living in Sunnydale. I'd say the odds are *extremely* good we're gonna go together."
"That is so... sweet." She smiled at him through watery eyes. "But promise me that if I go first, you'll never recover."
"Easy. If you ever die, I'll never get over it."
"Good. And I promise that I'll never get over it if you die either. Of course, I might get married if someone who's very rich and good at sex offers, but it'll be just for the physical gratification."
He grinned at her, pulling her closer. "That's a relief. So. Want to play shipwreck survivor again?"
"Oo, yes. That's always exciting. Where's my whistle?"
When he opened his eye, there wasn't any transition from the dream. He didn't think *where's Anya?* or even *what happened to the basement?* He just knew.
Anya was dead.
They'd had that conversation already, a couple weeks after Joyce died. It had been in his new apartment, with no Cheese Guy eating the popcorn --
(Anya'd just moved in, she was still trying to figure out how much space they had for all her clothes)
-- but they'd had that exact conversation, after watching TITANTIC.
("Stupid movie. Stupid Billy Zane. *He's* the one that should've drowned. Who writes this stuff?")
Which had prompted him to go looking for a ring. Because there'd been one too many close calls with Glory, and if they were all going to die--
(Later, stuck in the motorhome under attack by crazy knights with Tara and Willow and Spike and Dawn, he'd thought, this is it, but at least we're together--)
--then it should say "Anya Harris" on her tombstone, the one right next to his....
Willow's fingers were brushing across his face, which was when he realized he was crying, and God, he didn't think he could stop. Why did he leave her, why hadn't he married her, why did he chicken out? Why couldn't he have done something to make her *happy*, why why why wasn't she here? They could still work it out, maybe, maybe not, if she wanted, it's not like he stopped loving her, she made him crazy. Maybe he couldn't marry her or love her forever, but if she were *here*, then at least they'd have a shot. Maybe he couldn't be the forever guy, but she should have that, she wanted it so much.... She wasn't supposed to die, she was going to get her shop on the Stock Exchange, she wanted to see Spain again without the Inquisition screwing things up, she was supposed to get a pet, she wanted a kitten, she wanted so many things and she didn't get them damnit it wasn't *fair*....
It was only when Willow pulled him closer, rocking him as he cried, that he heard the words coming out of his own mouth. "Why?" He asked. Choked. "Why?"
"I know it hurts..." Willow whispered, holding him tight, "but I don't know. No reason."
"Just because?"
"Just because."
No more words after that, just crying and shaking, and remembering. That he'd said the same thing to her last year, after Tara died.
What felt like a long time later, Willow helped him sit up, and forced him to drink the glass of water she'd had next to the bed. She'd said she just wanted to be with him tonight, Scoobies again, but he'd known. She was waiting for him to crack, and she'd been right. Wills always did know him better than he wanted to admit.
"Does it get better?" he asked, because he wanted to know, and Willow wouldn't lie. It wasn't a fair question, but he figured she'd forgive him for asking her for the cheat-sheet answers again. She was better now, she had Kennedy, so maybe he already knew the answer. But he didn't want to believe it. Not right now.
She stroked his face, her eyes solemn and thoughtful. Some things hadn't changed since she was fifteen-- she was still careful with him when it was important. "It gets better, and it gets worse."
He leaned his head against the headboard, closing his eye and just listening to Willow's voice. "It gets better than this. And then, you remember, later, and... it's bad all over again. Because you forgot for a little while." She held his hand in one of hers, like she had when he was in the hospital, so tight it hurt. "I'm not sure if it ever gets *all* better. It hasn't for me."
He opened his eye to look at her and saw the tears streaking across her face. For him, for Anya... for Tara, even after a year.
"The day you die is the day I can't do this anymore," he told her, keeping his voice soft.
Her eyebrows drew down in a frown, and she shook her head. "You don't mean that. If I died, and Buffy still needed you, or the Slayers, with Giles---"
"We've survived Buffy dying how many times, now? And Giles, well.... I love the guy, but he's old, Wills. If I feel this old at twenty-something, he can't last that much longer at forty-plus." She shook her head reprovingly at him, and he smirked a little. "But I could live through losing them. I could keep going, tell myself it's what they wanted. But if you weren't here--" He shook his head, felt her fingers tighten on his. "That would be it. I'd quit and go to Alaska for the daylight season and Tierra del Fuego for summer there, and watch the rest of my life go by. Game over."
"So, I'm not allowed to die?" Willow asked, drawing him closer into a hug. "Not until you decide to retire?"
"Pretty much." His voice was muffled against her shoulder.
"Okay. But same goes," she whispered, her voice choked. "If you hadn't been there last year...."
He held onto her, remembering black hair and rage, knowing now so much better what she'd been going through, than he had before.
Before. After. His whole life was like that, his world changing and spinning around with each event: before Buffy. After Jesse. Before Cordy. After Faith. Before he moved out. After he got his real job. Before Buffy died. After she came back. Before Anya. After he left her at the altar. After she became human again. After Anya.
He'd never wanted there to be any "after Anya."
The only thing in his life that wasn't a before-or-after was holding him right now. There had never been a before-Willow. And god, there better never be an after-Willow. He really couldn't take that.
(An? Do you miss me? Do you want me to suffer? I'm okay with that. I don't want my heart to go on either.)
They didn't speak any more. Willow held him, still rocking him, and he finally fell asleep around sunrise, back in numb denial-space and grateful for it, and beyond grateful for the arms holding him, keeping him safe.
***
Chris kikimariposa@prodigy.net