Chapter Three: Joking Matters
Xander's mind rejected the scene before him. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real. That wasn't the really real Buffy. It was a trick. An evil, unfunny trick by evil, unfunny demons. Buffy couldn't die. Buffy could never die.
Xander looked over at Willow, expecting, begging her to shoot him an amused "gotcha" smile. Like the time she'd pretended to rip out one of the pages of his Giant Sized X-Men #1. That had been funny like a healthy dose of dysentery, and oh, the laughing once the crying stopped. Just a joke at Xander's expense. A big ol' bushel of amusement, fun for the whole family.
But Willow wasn't laughing. Willow was crying. Willow was crying like her heart had been ripped out and stomped on.
Okay, so she just wasn't in on the joke. That's all.
Giles! The G-Man, guy with all the answers! He'd be in the know, no doubt. He wouldn't necessarily laugh, but he'd say something appropriately scathing and British while cleaning his glasses in that confusingly superior way for so mundane a task. Nobody was better at cutting Xander into itty-bitty Xander parts than Giles, and the Watcher could never let an opportunity pass him by.
Xander quickly looked over to Giles, anxious to resume his role as "lovable yet ultimately ineffectual comic relief guy". He waited for the punchline, readied himself to deliver a witty response.
But Giles wasn't smirking, or cleaning his glasses, or doing anything at all but staring in stunned disbelief.
If Willow didn't know, and Giles didn't know, then …
Xander's attentions returned to Buffy, his thoughts frantic.
get up get up getupgetupgetup
The realization suddenly rushed through Xander, like his veins had been injected with ice water. This was no joke. Buffy wouldn't be getting up, dusting herself off and complaining about her ruined shirt. They'd never again dance together, or watch unsubbed foreign movies, or drink virgin strawberry daiquiris at the Bronze while trying to convince Willow that they were the real thing. Buffy was dead and there was nothing Xander could do about … about anything at all, really.
Dammit! Why am I so frikkin' useless?!
The urge to hit something was almost overwhelming. Xander didn't just blame walls this time. He blamed the crazy people who built the Tower of Doom. He blamed the hobbity minions for being so crusty. He blamed Glory for her stupid, perfect hair. He blamed the monks for sending the Key to their tiny little corner of Hell and being so damned sneaky in making sure Buffy protected it. He blamed the air for not re-entering her body. He blamed Giles for not fulfilling his job description and watching out for her. He blamed whoever was responsible for creating a universe that was so prone to become apocalyptic. He blamed Spike for a currently unspecified reason, but was confident he'd come up with something before too long.
He blamed Buffy for dying.
But mostly? He blamed himself for letting her.
There was a part of Xander that was still in love with Buffy. He would never admit it to anybody, and only barely admitted it to himself on occasion, but it continued to exist even without validation. Not that this was altogether surprising. Parts of him were, after all, still in love with Willow, too. And Stacey Gardner from junior high, and Nancy Stevens from junior high, and Cordelia. Okay, Cordelia, maybe not so much, but the point was that the girls who managed to worm their way into Xander's heart took up permanent residence. He never really felt bad about that; he wasn't the heart part of the Super Buffy for nothing. Xander was a comfortador -- he loved his girls, even when they didn't love him the same way.
But Buffy was always different somehow. Special, in a way that nobody else could be, not even Willow, not even Anya. Buffy was the one that he'd never had even the tiniest chance with. Buffy was what might have been, had Xander been a little less pathetic, if Buffy had been a little less platonic, if Angel had been a little more dusty.
Not that he wasn't happy with what he had. Xander loved Anya, he truly did. But he couldn't help himself sometimes thinking about what might have been. And wondering why things never seemed more attractive than when you couldn't have them. Now, more than ever, he knew he would never have Buffy. He thought he'd never wanted anything more in his entire life.
What are we gonna do now? he thought. The Scoobies help Buffy. That's what we do. But without Buffy …
Xander surprised himself by having an answer. They would carry on. They would mourn Buffy, bury her, and then keep doing the job that had taken her life. Buffy sacrificed herself for the world. That sacrifice would never be in vain, not if Xander Harris had something to say about it. He would keep fighting the good fight as "lovable yet ultimately ineffectual comic relief guy" 'til the bitter end, when he could see Buffy again and personally blame her for dying on them.
The Scooby Gang would fight on without Buffy. They'd patrol, dust vamps, and maybe even save the world a time or two. All without Buffy. It'd be like she wasn't even gone.
Xander hoped that his friend was able to hear his thoughts. She always did like a good joke.