home

His apartment was dark. He kept it dark a lot now, not just when he was out, but also when he was home. It was empty anyway, so why bother with lights? A little glow from the TV, a little flash of the fridge when he went for another beer... that was all he needed. Quiet and dark. Even the phone almost never rang anymore.

After the initial shock wore off all those months ago, Xander found he couldn't talk to anyone, couldn't get over Anya's death, couldn't really feel much of anything except cold and hardened. Willow and Buffy... yeah, they got it a little. They'd lost people they loved, but it still felt different. Everybody had loved Tara. Perfect, sweet Tara, struck down in her prime. And Spike... well, of course nobody but Buffy had ever really gotten Spike, but he gave his life saving the whole sorry bunch of them, so now suddenly everybody thought of him as big selfless saint guy.

Anya, though... Anya went too fast... too carelessly. Anya was defending Andrew, for God's sake. Not nearly enough nobility there to earn her posthumous praise. Not as much as she deserved, anyway.

Sharp-tongued, funny, beautiful Anya... The love of his short, useless life. Just when he'd gotten up the courage to think they could make it work again... poof. Gone. Finito. That's all she wrote. The fickle ex-demon has left the fucking building.

Xander kept himself numbed into a mild buzz almost perpetually now. Corona. Rolling Rock. Whatever he grabbed first off the shelf at the 7-11. A fifth of Jack if he needed something stronger. Some nights a little Pink Floyd droning softly. More nights than not just filled with infomercials and the sound of his own choked sobs. Hungover at his new job every day. Unhealthy, but what the hell did he have to stay sober for anymore?

***

"Answer the phone, Xand!" Buffy shouted into his machine. "I know you're there, I can practically hear the brooding!" She paused. "Oh, for God's sake. I'm coming over!"

She slammed the phone down. This had to stop. This self-destructive spiral toward murky bad blackness that had taken over her best friend's psyche was terrifying to watch, and Buffy decided she'd had enough.

We all hurt, she thought. God, do we ever! But this is so not the way to handle it!

She pulled on her coat and strode out.

***

When the doorbell rang, he groaned. He knew she was coming, but still he'd hoped she'd change her mind. Apparently not. That Slayer stubbornness that he used to love about her was now just an aggravation.

Why don't you just give up on me already? he wondered as he opened the door.

Her arms were folded across her chest as she glared at him.

"You look like shit," she observed.

"Nice to see you, too, Buff," he mumbled, stepping aside to let her in.

"Xander, this ends now. You're killing yourself."

He hiccupped. "I am not. I'm just..." He lifted the half-empty bottle in his hand and shook it. "Dealing."

She shook her head and plucked the beer from his fingers, stalking off to the kitchen after giving him another harsh look. He heard her pour the liquid down the sink drain and drop the bottle into the trash, where it fell with a hard clink.

"Jesus! There's enough empties in here to get a football team blotto!" Her heels clicked out a rapid-fire rhythm on the hardwoods as she returned to the living room. "I cannot believe you!"

He slumped down onto the sofa, a silly grin plastered across his face. "I don't care what you say anymore. This is my life."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Okay, Billy Joel, fine. Whatever. You wanna be left alone to turn into a raging alcoholic? That's just great. But before you go down that road, you wanna take a good, hard look at yourself?"

"Not so much."

"Well, lemme tell you what you'd see if you did." Buffy sat next to him, one leg curling beneath her on the cushions. "You'd see a guy who looks like a truck ran over him, who threw away his potential because he got hurt. Yeah, hurt really damn bad. But, Xand, do you honestly think this is how Anya would want you to be? Doing nothing but drinking and feeling sorry for yourself?"

"Yup."

Buffy eyed him skeptically. "Xander..."

"She would, Buffy, she'd want there never to be another woman for me! She was selfish!" He smiled softly. "And I loved her for it."

"Need I remind you that after you dumped her she went after... a... another guy..." Buffy replied hesitantly. "She still loved you, but she didn't sit around all mopey, not for long!"

"Ah, but she did make with the drinking a lot, though," he pointed out.

***

"No."

"Yes. You're going. End of story. I don't wanna hear another word out of you, mister!"

Xander had somehow allowed Buffy to throw clean clothes at him -- a suit, no less -- and inform him he was acting as her date for some stupid art gallery thing.

"Tell me again why you can't go alone?" he asked. The necktie wasn't cooperating, his fingers wouldn't work, and Xander finally sighed in frustration as the fabric hung limply from his collar.

Buffy crossed the room and started to fold the ends of the silk around each other. "I told you. All the people from my class will be there, and I don't want them to think I'm a big loser. They're a bunch of snobby beatnik wannabes. I want to them under the delusion that I'm not so lame I can't get a cute guy to come with me."

Cute? Xander blinked. Was this the same Buffy who was telling me I looked like shit two days ago?

"So you're just using me? I see how it is," he said with a smile.

She finished with his tie and quickly looked him up and down. "Totally," Buffy replied. "Plus, you know, it gets you out for once."

"Going out is way overrated," Xander said, picking up his coat. "Besides, I just got the dent in my easy chair exactly how I like it."

***

The gallery was already crowded when they arrived. Buffy scanned the room and spotted several classmates, to whom she offered nods and smiles, but exchanged precious few words. Xander's arm tightened against hers.

"You hanging in there?" she asked him with concern.

"Yeah, I just... there's a lot of people here," he said nervously.

She squeezed his hand in comfort, her eyes darting over him with worry. He looked better, but not like his old self. There wasn't even a hint of a smile on his face, and even though she'd made him shave, his cheeks looked as though they held a vague shadow. Faint dark circles were under his eyes -- the genuine article on the right, the rather impressive new prosthetic on the left -- and when she patted him on the back, she could swear she felt the bones of his shoulder blades through the thin material of his jacket.

God, has he been eating at all? she wondered. Man cannot live on hops alone, especially one whose body's used to a steady diet of Twinkies and cheeseburgers.

She backed away slightly and peered up at him.

"What?" he asked, running a hand through his hair. "Something wrong?"

Buffy shook her head. "No, it's just..." Fifteen pounds gone at least, she realized. This plus the drinking... definitely not of the good. "Nothing," she finally said, willing her voice not to break. "I... I'm just glad you're here."

***

"So who was the redhead, the one with the bad shoes?"

"Gail," Buffy replied. "She's in my figure drawing class."

"And she was so smug because..."

Buffy giggled. "She did that purple blobby thing I showed you. It won some kind of award."

"Oh, right," Xander said with a laugh. "The big painting that looked like the insides of a Pargo demon?"

"A reference one can only hope she would be totally confused by."

"Yeah, that one's gonna give me nightmares."

They'd reached Xander's door, and he fished his keys from his pocket. "Coffee? Tea? Japanese anime porn?" he offered.

Buffy raised an eyebrow.

"Well, that last one was worth a shot," he said with a sly grin, opening the door. "How about flat Tab and You've Got Mail?"

She followed him inside, turning on as many lights as she could find switches for. "Yes to the Tab, not so much to the movie," she replied.

"Gotcha. One delicious carcinogenic diet soda coming up." While he busied himself in the kitchen, Buffy wandered around the apartment, wondering why it seemed strangely different from his old one.

No pictures up, she noticed. No Impressionist prints Anya used to like, no photographs... maybe he just hasn't had time...

He returned and handed her an ice-filled glass of dark brown liquid. She eyed his own glass.

"Uh... Xand..."

"Gingerale," he said quickly. "I swear, you can smell it and everything."

"That's okay, I believe you." Buffy curled up in the corner of the couch and kicked her shoes off.

He took a sip of his drink and stared into the depths of the amber liquid thoughtfully. "You, uh, you're pretty worried about me," he began quietly, "but... you doing okay?"

Buffy shrugged. "Good days, bad days... it's not like it's easy, but I do okay. It kinda helps that the whole town's gone. Almost like it was all a dream."

"Ah, them's the words of a girl in denial," he said.

"No, not denial, just..." She paused. "It doesn't do any good to mourn forever, you know? I mean at least not for me. It's almost like... well, I guess a part of me was prepared."

"Guess I should've been, huh?"

She slid closer to him. "You couldn't have known."

"Couldn't I? She'd been saying all kinds of scary 'some of us are gonna die' crap for weeks before..."

Buffy put her hand on his shoulder and rubbed it soothingly. "They were brave, Xand," she said softly. "They knew what might happen, and they went in anyway."

He turned, meeting her eyes. "You ever think about where they... I mean... when you died, you..." He looked back down into his glass.

"Sometimes, yeah, I wonder," she answered. "I think... if things really work that way... whatever's in charge of that kind of thing... I think it forgave them their pasts and now they're... yeah, they're safe. They're good." They're loved, she added to herself.

That's what it had felt like to her, anyway. Being loved, purely and simply and unconditionally. But Xander didn't want to hear about how she wanted more than anything to believe that Spike felt loved. He didn't need that right now. He cared about Anya, and any concern he had about Spike was limited to Buffy's own reaction to losing him, not Spike for his own sake.

Xander needed her to display a little unconditional love of her own.

She moved her hand higher on his shoulder, and he reached up and engulfed it in his, holding it tightly as if he were clinging to her for dear life.

"Thanks," he whispered. He brushed his lips across her knuckles and released her hand.

Buffy took his glass from him, setting it down beside hers on the coffee table. She reached her arms around his neck and hugged him gently.

"It's gonna be all right," she said, her fingers brushing the dark curls of his hair. "It'll take time, but it's gonna be all right. Everyone loves you, Xander. I love you."

Tentatively, his arms found their way around her narrow waist, and he pulled her closer. "I love you, too," he whispered.

She pressed her lips to his cheek, smelling the oaky musk of his cologne. A thought flitted through Buffy's mind, but she tried to sweep it away. This is just comfort, she told herself. This is just...

His mouth met hers so slowly, so tenderly, it took Buffy a moment to register that it was really happening.

This is just...

She softened in his arms and let the kiss deepen.

... like coming home...