Xander Harris was beginning to seriously question his sanity. Here he was in Paris, a city that he had only ever dreamed of seeing someday and all he could think of was Sunnydale, California. It was ridiculous. Only a crazy man would want to leave this place and go back to a town that was largely rubble and yet Xander felt as if he was about to jump out of his skin, he was so anxious.

The guilt was overwhelming. Every second of every day he thought of home. He thought of the way the Sunnydale sign had looked as it fell into the giant chasm the amulet had created. He thought of all that had been lost as the Hellmouth had been destroyed.

He thought of those who had been buried underneath it all, without someone to help them, or even a proper burial.

Anya had been one of those people.

He blinked his one good eye fiercely as the tears sprang to it, unbidden at the thought of her. Walking along the Seine, all he could think about was how much she would have loved to have been here. She had been to Paris before, so it wouldn't be anything new to her per se, but it would be to him and she would have loved to have shown him all her old haunts or told him all her old stories from her demon days. He had once been uncomfortable with her stories of the torture of wayward men, but right now he would give anything to hear about just one evisceration if it meant having her by his side.

He had messed everything up so completely that he hated the very sight of himself. There wasn't one single thing that didn't feel like his fault. He had so many regrets, it felt as if the despair would swallow him whole.

They started with leaving her at the alter. It had been a supremely stupid decision and one he had desperately tried to rectify, but to no avail. He had loved her, and he had wanted to marry her, but his own stupid insecurities and fears had threatened to choke him and he had caved into them, rather than fighting them like a real man would have. It was cowardly and she had known it. Why else would she have turned to Spike, of all people for comfort? Clearly she had wanted to hurt him and it had worked. He had let it work. Rather than behaving maturely, once again he had acted the child and turned the cold shoulder towards her.

He hated that he hadn't had the balls to face the situation, to move beyond it. It had taken a year before they began to develop something once again and begin to rebuild the trust that he had caused to be lost. He had really felt as if he were getting somewhere.

And now she was dead.

That wasn't his fault, but part of him felt as if it was. He kept going over the battle in his mind, thinking of all the things he didn't do, all the things he should have done.

He never should have let her fight with only Andrew as backup. He should have been there with her, should have protected her. Buffy would call the attitude male chauvinism, but it wasn't. He loved her and you are supposed to protect the ones you love, it was as simple as that.

But he had left her to fight alongside Andrew-someone incapable of fighting off a head cold and she had been cut down in battle because of it. He should have been there.

These were all regrets that combined together kept him from sleeping at night, but none of them were as prominent as the regret that he hadn't been able to find her, to say good bye himself.

Andrew had told her she died instantly, that there wasn't any room for doubt or error, but Xander couldn't completely accept that. It felt wrong, even if Andrew had been telling the truth to just leave her there without visually confirming it himself.

He had been too cowardly to love her properly, and he had been too cowardly to bury her the way she deserved. He had fled saving himself, but leaving her to die alone, unburied amidst the death and carnage.

Fresh rage filled him as he thought of Anya's body falling into the Hellmouth along with everything and everyone else. It felt so wrong, so anonymous. Buffy's mom, Tara, Ms. Calender, they had all been buried, had funerals, proper grieving rituals. It wasn't fair that Anya shouldn't have that too. She deserved it just as much.

But he had failed her. He hadn't looked long enough, hadn't tried hard enough. He was almost certain that if he had just kept looking, if he had just stayed a second or two longer he could have found her, could have gotten her out. Maybe he couldn't have saved her, but he could have at least buried her. He could have made sure of it.

She had no family. And now, she had no legacy. She had disappeared along with the town into that hole to be forgotten without even the simple courtesy of a grave to mark her passing. It wasn't how heroes were supposed to die. And cowards weren't supposed to live.

And yet here he stood in Paris, miles away from his failures and seeing them clear as day, even with only one eye.

His life had become one huge host of if's and might-have-been's, with no resolution to them in sight.

Everyone wanted to help, but nobody could ever truly understand. They had lost people yes, and they could even empathize to a point, but all of them were happy to escape the Hellmouth, to leave that place that had held such horror for so long. They didn't understand that it felt to him like he had left half of himself there lying forgotten under the rubble. They couldn't know how badly he ached to go back for her.

And he couldn't tell them. He was never good at talking about his feelings. Jokes and casual avoidance had served to hide his pain in the past, but it was getting harder and harder to pretend that everything was OK.

He hadn't meant to snap at Willow earlier, or to leave and cause the others worry, but he couldn't bear to be under their sympathetic scrutiny one moment longer. The only thing worse than their worry was their pity and he refused to be subject to either.

After a while he had gone back to apologize, but they had already left and although he had intended to go to the address on the note they'd left him, he'd been dragging his feet the entire way, not relishing the prospect.

He began to see the bar in the distance, and sighed, knowing that it was only a matter of time before he had to put on his happy face and pretend he was OK.

It was as he was thinking this, that he heard a scream coming from behind him. Turning, he ran towards it and right into a darkened alley way, where a young boy was about to be bit by a vampire. He sighed.

"Destroy a Hellmouth, go halfway around the world and I still run into vampires in dark alley ways." He muttered to himself.

He was going to help the boy-that much was non-negotiable. However, as he stepped into the alley and drew attention to himself, he realized that for once he was about to go up against a foe bigger, stronger and faster than him and he had absolutely no fear whatsoever of his own death resulting from it.

He wasn't welcoming the idea either; he wasn't suicidal or anything. Still, as he called out to the vamp and stared him down, the fear and thundering heart beat that usually accompanied him when he fought was gone, replaced with a strange new deadly calm underscored by a humming rage that even he didn't understand. He didn't want to die, but he didn't particularly care if he did. That part was secondary, a possible side effect to the absolute necessity of the fight in front of him.

He had to do this. He wanted to do this.

"Oh good, a main course to go with this appetizer," the vampire said with a chuckle.

"You're going to let him go." His voice was low, and steady.

"Are you going to stop me long john silver?" The vampire laughed at the prospect. Xander didn't flinch.

"Try me and find out."

The vampire growled, and lunged, but Xander's eye didn't falter. It no longer mattered that he was missing one. It no longer mattered that he was merely human and not equipped with slayer powers. All that mattered was the vampire in front of him and what he represented.

He was everything Xander hated right now. Vampires were creatures that preyed on the weak.

Cowards.

Just like him. And if he couldn't take his hatred out on himself, vampires were the next best thing.

With a cry of fury he didn't even know he was capable of, he launched himself at the creature, attacking with all his pent up hatred, anger, and guilt. The vampire was surprised to meet such a resistance from a mere human, so that helped to give him the advantage he needed in the first few exchanges of the fight. The boy had taken off as soon as the second punch was thrown, but neither Xander, nor the vamp noticed.

The vampire was fast, but emotion made Xander faster. He ducked and threw punches with a deftness even he didn't know he possessed.

He grunted as the vampire managed to slam him into the wall of the alley, but it gave him just enough time to reach into his pocket for the stake that he always kept hidden there, just in case. It was a habit knowing the slayer tended to force upon you and Xander was grateful for it.

He whirled around, avoiding a swing from the vamp and thrust the stake upwards into his chest cavity just in time. The vampire turned to dust, and Xander stood there, his heart pounding with pent up adrenaline and anger.

He was sorry it was over so quickly.

Touching his head gingerly, he felt a bump beginning to form, but shrugged the pain away. The others were waiting for him at the bar. Maybe he'd do this again another night.

For those few brief moments, Xander Harris had felt alive once more.