Warning: Seven Days Crossover ahead.
Part IV: Xander Night Terrors
"*No!*" My legs were trapped. I fought, howling inside. My kicks did nothing against the fabric that slipped around my legs. Fear was quickly overwhelming me, making my struggles more frantic and futile. I was restrained and damn that was never a good thing! Memories gibbered inside my mind, three different voices crying out, but they were all in agreement about that. Then the softness of the bindings and the cool still air of the room registered against my desperation. There were no sounds of screams ripped from already hoarse throats nor did the smell of burnt hair flow in with every breath. Eyes still closed I determinedly loosened my fisted fingers; freeing the bed covers they had taloned around. Several shuddering breaths shook me and I bit my lip to keep from groaning. I lay shaking for what felt like forever as phantom electricity made my muscles twitch at odd times. As the minutes passed my fear faded, replaced by welcome anger. I growled in the darkness. ^Whoever came up with the idea of shock therapy should have had it applied to his balls. Yep, roasted nuts sound good about now ^
I sat up and reached down to pull the tangle of blankets away from my feet. They came away easily and I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. I laughed harshly letting some of my rage leak out. Such a piddling thing as logic hadn't kept the fear that they might really be restraints from making me nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. I growled and gave myself a mental slap. ^I am *not* Frank Parker. Frank Parker is guy with an ex-wife, a son, and a top-secret job worthy of an X-File. Besides that he isn't at Hansen Island any more. He's safe and sound in that facility so classified that even thinking its name is probably bullet in the brain worthy. And no matter what that doctor Olga threatens when he pulls his pranks she's not really going to get out the paddles. So calm the fuck down!^ My racing heart paid me about as much attention as Cordelia paid that girl.Marisa? And I knew how she turned out. I tried to call back the bubbling anger but it had slipped away leaving me drained and restless.
I opened my eyes. ^This sucks.^ I shook my head at that more than obvious fact. Only I would pick out the old fatigues of a guy with more mental problems and weirder sense of humor than me at the same time an evil turn- into-your costume spell was cast. Swinging my legs over the edge of my bed I leaned back slightly then pushed forward to get up the momentum to lurch to my feet. I just stood there for a moment in my dark room. There were shadowed shapes I knew were actually a sturdy, but ugly, old walnut bureau rescued from my parents' room with its adorning kitsch red glass lamp and its ridiculous capping lampshade of absurd grass green tassels. Inside its two locked drawers were my hunting supplies. I'd shivered at the thought of Anthony getting his hands on anything remotely like a real weapon while in close proximity to me because I'd left it lying around. True, the even more obscured objects on the floor were pieces of crap disguising nasty surprises to keep the bastard from walking into my room when it got into his drunken head to do so but he sometimes would forget in his rage all the dangers of coming in my room. In fact I was surprised that my mother hadn't hurt herself when she walked oh so innocently over the minefield to see if I was 'sick'. Over there near the right wall were the very geometric box shapes that were milk crates filled with clothes bought from Thrift stores. There was a window behind the boxes, but it was completely blocked because of our eighty-year-old neighbor who likes to walk around in the buff. ^Mrs. Peterson sure does drive down the property values of the neighborhood.^
The window that was providing what light there was hung above my bed. I could visualize it without turning around. The moonlight and struggling waves of starlight falling on the wooden box with legs masquerading as a bed and its slightly washed out deep blue mattress with pink flowers, it had started getting those little fuzz balls because it had been rubbed for so many years, covered in the clean brown stripped sheets I'd just put on it. Which were now soaked with sweat. My checkered quilt and white blanket made of -actually I didn't know what it was made of, it was that pressed stuff that came away in balls if pulled, sat balled up at the bottom looking utterly innocent despite their earlier attempts to swallow me. Underneath that there was the battered army green lock box stuffed with my few precious possessions. They had been displaced there when my stakes took up the bureau space. They were basically the few pictures of my childhood, and lately shots from my high school years, along with some surviving homemade birthday 'presents'. Next to it was the ever-important first aid kit. The kit used to have a big red cross laid over a white background but I'd scratched the one bar off long ago and now it was a red line on a white and silver background since the metal showed through the paint. There were dirty clothes and junk food stashes and piles of schoolbooks and comics filling up any of the empty spaces but there were no stuffed toys hiding in my closet like Willow's Mr. Fluffy or Buffy's Gordo. I shook my head.
^I don't live here. I could clear out of here in two moves. This is where I come when there's no where else to be.^ Shuffling forward in the dark, careful of my own traps, I found my door. I leaned over to grab the pair of jeans I'd left there before jumping into bed and shimmied into them. Straightening I then flipped, turned, and twisted the locks to let myself out.
My socked feet silently slid over the hall carpeting, disgusting rose pink stuff fading into gray. I used to slide along the hall in my bare feet getting up static charge to shock myself with by touching a doorknob when I was a bored kid with nothing else to do. Now I usually wear socks. They muffle footsteps indoors in a way I'd learned to appreciate as Anthony Harris got more and more violent as he hit the drugs and booze more and more heavily. There wasn't much light flittering into the inner sanctum of doom that was my house, however I had plenty of patrols under my belt and the little bit of light showed me all I needed to know. I choked down a snort. ^My life lessons are setting me up to either be a great cat burglar or an assassin. Oh, I'd love to see the expression on the guidance counselor's face if I told him that one.^
I made my way down the stairs without making more sound than the occasional whisper of cotton on nylon thread having long ago memorized the pattern I needed to walk to not set off a set of squeals. Unease unfurled in my heart, it was easier than it used to be to set my feet in a way to silence the noise of walking. I stopped at the bottom of the stairs my left hand resting on the worn knob of wood at the end of the banister. ^He feels so close now.^ My eyes closed almost involuntarily and I swallowed. There was a fog in the back of my head. It felt like if I just reached-
^Oh, look there's the door.^ Even inside my own head that sounded false. But I didn't want to think about how it felt almost natural to merge with the shadow in my head.
I turned the sharp corner at the bottom of the stairs and swung into the kitchen. Immediately I relaxed. The little compulsion in the back of my mind eased. I could handle this. I didn't need to be Super Soldier to handle this. I was okay. This was well known territory. The old linoleum under my socks sprang under my steps, unlike the flattened to death carpet of the house, and it felt safe. There were three easy exits: the door I'd come through, a door that lead to the small bathroom under the stairs that was along the same wall, and a door on the opposite wall that led to the outside. In a pinch there were three fairly large windows I could crawl out of. Knowing I had options was a big load off my mind. My room had only two exits. The straightforward one being through the door to the hall, but that was simple enough to block, as it had been blocked in the past. The tougher escape route was out the closed over window, across the garage roof, and down the oak tree. I'd only used that one once, and it had been more a test to see if I could than anything else. ^I'm paranoid..^ A smile flittered across my face. ^But I'm alive.^
And with that thought in mind I headed for the fridge hoping that everything inside wouldn't be. I cautiously opened the off-white door semi- believing my own wisecrack. ^This is Sunnydale after all.^ However once the near blinding burst of yellow light from the fridge bulb faded to some splotchy purple afterimages with red lining I saw only the Chinese islands and wilted lettuce that always seemed to be there. I shook my head and grabbed the milk jug off the door.
Part IV: Xander Night Terrors
"*No!*" My legs were trapped. I fought, howling inside. My kicks did nothing against the fabric that slipped around my legs. Fear was quickly overwhelming me, making my struggles more frantic and futile. I was restrained and damn that was never a good thing! Memories gibbered inside my mind, three different voices crying out, but they were all in agreement about that. Then the softness of the bindings and the cool still air of the room registered against my desperation. There were no sounds of screams ripped from already hoarse throats nor did the smell of burnt hair flow in with every breath. Eyes still closed I determinedly loosened my fisted fingers; freeing the bed covers they had taloned around. Several shuddering breaths shook me and I bit my lip to keep from groaning. I lay shaking for what felt like forever as phantom electricity made my muscles twitch at odd times. As the minutes passed my fear faded, replaced by welcome anger. I growled in the darkness. ^Whoever came up with the idea of shock therapy should have had it applied to his balls. Yep, roasted nuts sound good about now ^
I sat up and reached down to pull the tangle of blankets away from my feet. They came away easily and I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. I laughed harshly letting some of my rage leak out. Such a piddling thing as logic hadn't kept the fear that they might really be restraints from making me nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. I growled and gave myself a mental slap. ^I am *not* Frank Parker. Frank Parker is guy with an ex-wife, a son, and a top-secret job worthy of an X-File. Besides that he isn't at Hansen Island any more. He's safe and sound in that facility so classified that even thinking its name is probably bullet in the brain worthy. And no matter what that doctor Olga threatens when he pulls his pranks she's not really going to get out the paddles. So calm the fuck down!^ My racing heart paid me about as much attention as Cordelia paid that girl.Marisa? And I knew how she turned out. I tried to call back the bubbling anger but it had slipped away leaving me drained and restless.
I opened my eyes. ^This sucks.^ I shook my head at that more than obvious fact. Only I would pick out the old fatigues of a guy with more mental problems and weirder sense of humor than me at the same time an evil turn- into-your costume spell was cast. Swinging my legs over the edge of my bed I leaned back slightly then pushed forward to get up the momentum to lurch to my feet. I just stood there for a moment in my dark room. There were shadowed shapes I knew were actually a sturdy, but ugly, old walnut bureau rescued from my parents' room with its adorning kitsch red glass lamp and its ridiculous capping lampshade of absurd grass green tassels. Inside its two locked drawers were my hunting supplies. I'd shivered at the thought of Anthony getting his hands on anything remotely like a real weapon while in close proximity to me because I'd left it lying around. True, the even more obscured objects on the floor were pieces of crap disguising nasty surprises to keep the bastard from walking into my room when it got into his drunken head to do so but he sometimes would forget in his rage all the dangers of coming in my room. In fact I was surprised that my mother hadn't hurt herself when she walked oh so innocently over the minefield to see if I was 'sick'. Over there near the right wall were the very geometric box shapes that were milk crates filled with clothes bought from Thrift stores. There was a window behind the boxes, but it was completely blocked because of our eighty-year-old neighbor who likes to walk around in the buff. ^Mrs. Peterson sure does drive down the property values of the neighborhood.^
The window that was providing what light there was hung above my bed. I could visualize it without turning around. The moonlight and struggling waves of starlight falling on the wooden box with legs masquerading as a bed and its slightly washed out deep blue mattress with pink flowers, it had started getting those little fuzz balls because it had been rubbed for so many years, covered in the clean brown stripped sheets I'd just put on it. Which were now soaked with sweat. My checkered quilt and white blanket made of -actually I didn't know what it was made of, it was that pressed stuff that came away in balls if pulled, sat balled up at the bottom looking utterly innocent despite their earlier attempts to swallow me. Underneath that there was the battered army green lock box stuffed with my few precious possessions. They had been displaced there when my stakes took up the bureau space. They were basically the few pictures of my childhood, and lately shots from my high school years, along with some surviving homemade birthday 'presents'. Next to it was the ever-important first aid kit. The kit used to have a big red cross laid over a white background but I'd scratched the one bar off long ago and now it was a red line on a white and silver background since the metal showed through the paint. There were dirty clothes and junk food stashes and piles of schoolbooks and comics filling up any of the empty spaces but there were no stuffed toys hiding in my closet like Willow's Mr. Fluffy or Buffy's Gordo. I shook my head.
^I don't live here. I could clear out of here in two moves. This is where I come when there's no where else to be.^ Shuffling forward in the dark, careful of my own traps, I found my door. I leaned over to grab the pair of jeans I'd left there before jumping into bed and shimmied into them. Straightening I then flipped, turned, and twisted the locks to let myself out.
My socked feet silently slid over the hall carpeting, disgusting rose pink stuff fading into gray. I used to slide along the hall in my bare feet getting up static charge to shock myself with by touching a doorknob when I was a bored kid with nothing else to do. Now I usually wear socks. They muffle footsteps indoors in a way I'd learned to appreciate as Anthony Harris got more and more violent as he hit the drugs and booze more and more heavily. There wasn't much light flittering into the inner sanctum of doom that was my house, however I had plenty of patrols under my belt and the little bit of light showed me all I needed to know. I choked down a snort. ^My life lessons are setting me up to either be a great cat burglar or an assassin. Oh, I'd love to see the expression on the guidance counselor's face if I told him that one.^
I made my way down the stairs without making more sound than the occasional whisper of cotton on nylon thread having long ago memorized the pattern I needed to walk to not set off a set of squeals. Unease unfurled in my heart, it was easier than it used to be to set my feet in a way to silence the noise of walking. I stopped at the bottom of the stairs my left hand resting on the worn knob of wood at the end of the banister. ^He feels so close now.^ My eyes closed almost involuntarily and I swallowed. There was a fog in the back of my head. It felt like if I just reached-
^Oh, look there's the door.^ Even inside my own head that sounded false. But I didn't want to think about how it felt almost natural to merge with the shadow in my head.
I turned the sharp corner at the bottom of the stairs and swung into the kitchen. Immediately I relaxed. The little compulsion in the back of my mind eased. I could handle this. I didn't need to be Super Soldier to handle this. I was okay. This was well known territory. The old linoleum under my socks sprang under my steps, unlike the flattened to death carpet of the house, and it felt safe. There were three easy exits: the door I'd come through, a door that lead to the small bathroom under the stairs that was along the same wall, and a door on the opposite wall that led to the outside. In a pinch there were three fairly large windows I could crawl out of. Knowing I had options was a big load off my mind. My room had only two exits. The straightforward one being through the door to the hall, but that was simple enough to block, as it had been blocked in the past. The tougher escape route was out the closed over window, across the garage roof, and down the oak tree. I'd only used that one once, and it had been more a test to see if I could than anything else. ^I'm paranoid..^ A smile flittered across my face. ^But I'm alive.^
And with that thought in mind I headed for the fridge hoping that everything inside wouldn't be. I cautiously opened the off-white door semi- believing my own wisecrack. ^This is Sunnydale after all.^ However once the near blinding burst of yellow light from the fridge bulb faded to some splotchy purple afterimages with red lining I saw only the Chinese islands and wilted lettuce that always seemed to be there. I shook my head and grabbed the milk jug off the door.