These characters belong to the good people at Mutant Enemy.
Two Way Street
"Well, good luck to you," Giles said, looking around Xander's now-empty apartment.
Xander shook his hand, then pulled him into an awkward hug. When they disengaged, Xander's eyes were bright. "And to you. When are you leaving?"
Giles scratched under the cast on his right arm. "Tonight. I'll be in London by Monday. Three flights, of course."
"Of course," Xander smiled. "That's why I'm driving to New York. The in-flight movie ain't as good, but at least I'm in control."
Giles flinched, painfully conscious of the lack of control they'd each had in recent weeks. "I can understand that," he said. He looked away. "If you need me to stay, I will."
Xander sucked his lower lip between his teeth. When he spoke, his voice was soft. "Yeah, I know, and thanks. But I think it's easier like this, really. There's nothing here for us now, with the others gone, and the Hellmouth closed. I'm not too worried about my parents."
They were silent for a moment, each reliving the moments of terror and helplessness. The moments of sacrifice. The image of Buffy poised on the Hellmouth, face frozen in terror, blowing Giles a kiss goodbye, was emblazoned on the inside of Giles' eyelids.
Giles picked up one suitcase, and Xander the other. Xander shrugged the cast on his left arm. "Between us, we're practically a whole person," he joked. "Thanks for helping me with my things."
"You're welcome. We should keep in touch."
They walked down to the car, both knowing it wouldn't happen.
****
And so Xander went to New York. He got a job in a bar near Ozone Park, which was no Coyote Ugly – which was a relief – and no Cheers, either. Also a relief. He wanted a place where nobody knew his name.
The bar, Ernie's, was clean enough, and honest enough. The boss was a lazy, skinny, petty little man, who had been known to water drinks – but he was also known to help drunks into cabs, with enough money to get home. It all evened out in the end.
Xander was working late one night, alone, when she came in. "Bourbon and coke, please," came a feminine voice from the end of the bar. Xander startled; he hadn't heard the door open. He mixed the drink, trying not to stare, and served it to her.
She was lovely. Fine-boned, petite, with pale skin and lustrous, red hair. She wore a thin black dress which did nothing to disguise the bruises on her arms. "I'm Ella," she smiled.
"Xander," he said softly, smiling back.
They went home together that night.
The one-night need for human company somehow turned into a four-week relationship. Until, one day, Xander found her injecting in his bathroom and finally faced the truth. Affectionately, regretfully, he told her she had to be gone by the time he came home from work.
Nine days later, he saw another redheaded girl outside his apartment, crying. He sat down next to her and tried to help. She was a hooker, desperate to escape her pimp. Xander gave her some money and she left. He felt useless.
Ernie had a talk to him after he'd been at work for three months. He ushered Xander into his impeccably clean, tiny office. "Xander," he said. Ernie sat down and put his feet on the desk.
"Yes?" Xander said cautiously. He stood by the door.
Ernie had never really spoken to him before, beyond the occasional muttered, "Close up, will ya?" or "We're outta pretzels."
"You gotta watch the redheads, dude." Ernie had what was probably meant to be a kind smile on his face.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I see you with a different one every week."
"It's not interfering with work."
Ernie nodded. "Yeah, I know, but you worry me." Xander started to warm to Ernie, until he continued. "But I don't need another idiot bartender mooning over women. Screw 'em and leave 'em. They're no good."
****
When Ernie put him on late shift permanently, Xander changed his routine. He walked home from the subway the same way each night. Past the all-night convenience store where he could grab some snacks. Past the group of hookers who hung out in the alleyway near his building. There was one with ethereal beauty, white skin, dark brown hair with a hint of chestnut.
She looked hungry, the first night. Xander took her somewhere to eat and talk.
The second night, they made love. He discovered that her name, apparently, was Melanie. He discovered that her skin was not flawless; she was simply very good with makeup. He discovered that she was at least five years older than he had thought.
He didn't care.
Xander saw her practically every night, giving up his tip money and most of his regular salary. He bought her presents, little trinkets to show that this was more than just a hooker/client relationship.
It took another three weeks before he realised. Melanie was groaning under him, head thrown back. He opened his eyes, eager to see her climax.
She yawned. Just a tiny, little yawn, but it was a yawn, nonetheless.
And he finally recognized her act for what it was. Simulated pleasure, nothing more, nothing less.
He dressed, paid her, and told her to leave, sickened.
He took his leave of Ernie in the morning, and went travelling.
****
Five years in Australia taught him how to hunt, and how to surf.
Two years in Tibet taught him peace, of a sort, and how to clean windows.
Four years in India taught him to watch his back, and the value of a bargain.
One day in England brought him closer to home.
"I think I'm ready," Xander said. He smiled at the man across the desk.
"It's a big commitment."
"I know. But I want to help."
Giles smiled, taking off his glasses. "Then as the head of the Watchers' Council, I formally accept your application. It's good to have you here."
