Author: Rabid Squirrel
Title: "Post Hoc Ergo Propter Hoc"
Summary: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Xander Harris might just learn that lesson, if only he can survive long enough to reclaim his memory of the past 24 hours.
Disclaimer: All I have is my dignity, the shirt on my back, and a few thousand Marlboro Miles. Buffy belongs to the ages.
Spoilers: Through season 7, with a few provisions. The Hellmouth was closed, but Sunnydale survived more or less intact. Xander never lost his eye. The original Scooby crew remained in Sunnydale, sans Buffy, who is off in London reconstituting the Watcher's Council along with Giles. Faith stuck around, as did Kennedy. Dawn may or may not figure into this story, depending on how the wind blows.
Rating: M, for violence, strong language, and meandering story arcs.
Feedback: Whoever said 'tis better to give than receive has obviously never written fanfiction.
Notes: This is my second work in progress, and hopefully not my last. To the loyal readers of "Murphy's Law" – fear not, for I have not abandoned it. Just consider this a sabbatical. A really long, unpaid sabbatical.
Dedication: To the squirrel, the noblest of the Order Rodentia.
Words of Wisdom:
Chapter 1: "Genesis"
There exists a single moment, a solitary, fleeting point in time when everything in the world is just is as it should be. It's a moment whose arrival cannot be anticipated by any clock, nor predicted by the movement of any celestial body, for it exists solely in the realm of human perception.
For Alexander Harris, that moment came at precisely 10:21 a.m. on Saturday, March 12, 2005; that brief moment of perfect serenity juxtaposed between sleep and consciousness, the split second period of transition before the reality of one's waking life intrudes rudely upon a dreamless slumber.
And also, the moment before the reality of the hangover sets in.
Not quite a true alcoholic – though not exactly a teetotaler either – Xander sat up in his bed, in doing so unconsciously violating the first commandment of the binge drinker's bible: Upon waking, the first thing thou shalt do is to determine where the hell thou is. Not that Xander generally had anything to worry about in that regard; he was pretty much a homebody when it came to drinking. Public intoxication didn't rank high on his list of priorities, seeing as how he did just fine making a fool of himself all on his own, no alcohol required. Nor was he one to engage in the ubiquitous drunken one-night stand, or even sober ones for that matter.
He did, however, manage to also violate the second commandment, which in his case was of far more importance than the first: Upon determining one's location and assuming no coyote-ugly protocols are in effect, thou shalt sit up slowly, lest one risk incurring the wrath of the hangover gods. Xander wasn't sure if it was the splitting headache or the severe dizziness that set in first, though he became acutely aware that both were working in tandem as the first wave of nausea hit full force. With scarcely a second to spare, he rolled over in the general direction of the trashcan, ignoring the resulting pain as he discharged the better part of the previous night's festivities on the carpet below, a few extraneous droplets managing to hit the vastly underutilized waste bin.
The smell hit him instantly.
What the Fuck? What in God's name did I do last night?
Unable to answer his own question, Xander gave a cursory glance at the former contents of his stomach, and in doing so, triggered the imminent arrival of the second wave. With exaggerated care, he rolled slowly off the bed, careful to avoid the duplicating results of his earlier efforts. Half crawling, half walking, he made his way across the floor to the bathroom, where, dropping to his knees on the yet unspoiled tile, he deposited the remaining contents of his stomach into the toilet. A few moments - and a few dry lingering dry heaves – later, Xander pulled himself slowly to his feet, satisfied the immediate danger had passed. With a flick of the wrist he flushed away the vestiges of last night's transgressions, then shuffled over to the vanity, where he retrieved his toothbrush and a rolled up tube of Crest from the medicine cabinet. Squeezing out a generation portion of toothpaste, he proceeded to scrub away the foul aftermath of the morning's activities, conspicuously avoiding the occasion to check his appearance in the mirror. He already felt like shit, why bother to confirm he looked the part?
Finished with the task at hand, he replaced the toothbrush and paste, taking the time to splash a few handfuls of cold water over his face. He contemplated showering, but summarily dismissed the thought, knowing full well any attempt at standing for more than a minute or two was utterly futile, given his present state. He opted instead to slowly make his way to the kitchen, in search of a bottle of Tylenol and a large glass of ice water. He never made it.
Back in the bedroom, his cell phone sprang to life; the normally inoffensive ringer seemingly amplified several million times inside his pounding head. In sheer agony, Xander stumbled a few halting steps in the direction of the offending sound, then gave up on walking completely, lunging across the bed as he desperately grasped for the phone. On the fourth ring he succeeded in seizing the offending instrument. He flipped open the Nokia, collapsing on the bed as he did so.
"'Lo?" he managed monosyllabically.
"You sound like hell, Xand." came the familiar sound of Willow's voice. "Must've been quite a night. How was it?"
Xander almost laughed at that. "I guess that's the million dollar question, isn't it?"
"Come again?" Willow asked, the confusion in her voice evident.
"Sorry. I'm having kind of a 'Fear and Loathing' moment, so to speak. You follow?"
"Seldom if ever, Xand."
"In that case, do you have any idea what I was up to last night?" Other than emptying the liquor cabinet, of course.
"You're kidding…right?" Willow asked incredulously.
"You know me, Will. I never kid when I'm hung over."
"You're telling me you don't remember anything about last night?"
"Yes, that's what I'm telling you," Xander said. In as few words as possible, he didn't add
"You don't remember having drinks at the Bronze with Kennedy and me? Singing really bad Karaoke? Smoochies with Faith?"
"I don't remember any of that," Xander mumbled, massaging his throbbing temple with his free hand. "I don't remember being at the Bronze, or singing karaoke, and I sure as hell don't remember…wait. I had smoochies with Faith?"
"Oh yeah. There were definite smoochies."
"Faith and me? Together?"
"As together as two people can be."
"Did we…?" Xander asked, though he was pretty sure he knew the answer.
"I can't say for certain, but judging by the way you two were mauling each other on the dance floor, I assumed there was a mattress in your immediate future."
"So we left together?"
"You did."
"And you didn't try to stop me?"
"Three's a crowd, Xander. Besides, you looked like you were pretty much…um, on top of things. And Faith didn't seem especially evil at that particular moment, so…."
"I see."
"I'm guessing Faith's not the post-coital cuddling type."
"I woke up alone," Xander confirmed.
"Could be worse. You remember your last encounter with Faith?" Willow asked, alluding to a certain intervention gone bad. "At least she didn't try to kill you this time."
"The jury's still out on that," Xander proffered, "though I think if anybody tried to kill me, it was one Mr. Jack Daniels."
"But nobody's dead?" Willow asked, only half joking.
"No bodies to speak of. Just me, a raging hangover, and a thoroughly trashed bedroom."
Willow laughed at that. "Be sure to wash the sheets. Better yet, wash them twice."
Xander managed a laugh as well, but nonetheless found his gaze wondering down to where the sheets were bunched together at the foot of the bed. What he saw was no laughing matter.
Xander's initial inclination was one of disbelief; a transient feeling that would soon grow to full-fledged dread as the truth dawned on him. What had only moments earlier been a shared joke had now become a disturbing reality. The discarded khaki cotton sheets were mottled with a mass of unmistakable red blotches, an indication that something had indeed gone terribly wrong. A horrible sinking sensation overtook Xander, a sense of foreboding that his missing memories of last night were about to become extremely important. Xander felt himself moving from the bed, his hangover forgotten as he moved automatically, his eyes following an unmistakable trail leading out his bedroom door. He staggered out into the living room, his phone still clutched in his hand. He heard Willow call his name once, twice, then a third time, her tone become increasingly concerned. But he was unable to respond, unable to say a single word. He moved faster, terrified of what he would find, though subconsciously cognizant of what lie at the end of his journey.
Xander stepped into the kitchen, following the morbid trail to its terminus. He placed one hand on the island for support, summoning the courage to confront what he now knew must lie beyond. He took one deep breath, then another, and willed himself to take the final step.
He looked down, gazing directly into a set of accusing eyes, wanting desperately to deny the truth of what he was seeing, despite the evidence to the contrary. He'd hardly noticed that he'd brought the phone back to his ear.
"Willow…. I'm in trouble."