AUTHOR: Peter Meilinger
E-MAIL: p_meilinger@hotmail.com
SUMMARY: Willow goes home.
RATING: PG-13? Some not-nice stuff.
TIMELINE: Future.
DISTRIBUTION: Anyone who's already got my stuff is
welcome to this as well. If anyone else actually wants
it, I'd be tickled pink to hear about it. This and all
my stories can be found on my site at
www.crosswinds.net/~pmeilinger/fiction.html
SPOILERS: None.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own the characters, and I'm not
making any money off of them.
DEDICATIONS: To Vic, Jen, Meg and Dot, for putting up
with me.
To Sarah, because her Pure And Simple is what got me
off my butt to finish this thing. It's been half-done
for months. I finished mine, Sarah, now you have to
finish yours. Please?
We saved the world that night. But the price was too high.
Buffy, Giles, Tara, even Anya. All dead. All of them died
so that the rest of the world could live. I miss them. For
ten years I've missed them every second of every day, but
I won't dishonor their choices by regretting their deaths.
They died to save the world, without stopping to count the
cost. They're not the price I'm talking about.
Xander and me. Me and Xander. That's what I'm talking about.
We didn't die. Not on the outside, at least. No, we managed
to finish the ritual in time. We closed the Hellmouth, sealed
it shut for a hundred years and a day. It was a huge victory,
but we couldn't tell anyone about it. The only people we could
have told were dead.
I wish we'd died, too. It's a horrible thing to say, but it's
true. Death would have been better than surviving that night.
Because we didn't survive, not really. We walked away without
a scratch on us, but something inside of us was dead. Nothing
was the same after that. We weren't ourselves. Survivor's
guilt, I guess it was. That's an easy diagnosis to make ten
years after the fact. At the time, I just knew that I should've
been dead too, that it was my fault the others had died. I
should have died instead of them. If I'd worked harder, if
I'd been a better friend, I could have saved them. I knew it
was true. I could feel it in my bones. Feel it in my soul.
Xander felt the same way. It was obvious whenever I looked
into his eyes. But I didn't look very often. I couldn't look at
him. He tried to help me, to hold me, but I didn't let him.
Because I didn't deserve his help. I'd failed the people I
loved, and I didn't deserve to be comforted. That was part of
it. But I blamed him, too. If he'd fought harder, if he'd made
the right choices, the others would have survived. Part of me
hated him just as much as I hated myself.
We saved the world that night. But the price was too high,
too high by far. The price was pain and loathing and fear.
It hurt so much.
As far back as I can remember, I would go to Xander whenever
I was hurting. I would go to him, and he would make it better.
He would take all the pain and doubt and fear away and make
me smile again. But he couldn't do that anymore. Because I
wouldn't let him. Because he was part of the problem. Just
looking at him was painful. The one person I'd always been
able to go to to end the pain was hurting me more than anything
else in my life ever had. So I ran.
I ran far and I ran fast, and eventually I ran into the arms
of a man who told me he loved me. And he did love me, I think,
in his way. His love was nothing compared to the love I'd run
away from, the love that died that night, but I think that just
made it all the more attractive to me. What I had with Ray was
bland and unthreatening compared to what I had with the others.
With Xander, Buffy, Giles, Tara, Anya. Their love was wonderful,
but it was painful, too. Ray promised his love would never hurt
me. I believed him.
All love hurts. I should've remembered that. It wasn't too long
before Ray started hurting me. He never hit me. But nothing was
good enough for him. I wasn't making enough money. I wasn't
keeping the house clean enough. I was working too many hours.
I wasn't a good enough cook. It was my fault he hadn't gotten
the promotion, I was holding him back. It was my fault we couldn't
have children. It was my fault whenever he lost a job. I lost
count of all the things that were my fault early on. It was all
my fault.
But he was right. I knew he was right. It was my fault. All of it.
It was my fault because I was alive. Because I hadn't died when
I should have. Because I let them die in my place. Ray was right.
He wasn't telling me anything I hadn't told myself every day since
I ran.
But he never hit me. Not until tonight. He was watching the fights
on HBO when the cable went out. It happens sometimes. We have a
bad connection. I can usually fix it in a few minutes. I'm still
good with my hands like that. But Ray wouldn't let me fix it. He
wanted to fix it himself.
Ray's not so good with his hands. Especially when he's been drinking.
And he's always drinking. He didn't know how to fix it. He tried for
a good half hour, but he just didn't know what to do. All he knew was
that it was my fault.
I tried to get him to sit down, to let me do it, but he wouldn't. He
wanted to do it himself. Finally, I must have asked him to stop one
too many times, because he whirled around to yell at me. And he hit
me.
He apologized and swore it was an accident, that he didn't know I was
so close. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to, but I couldn't. Because
I saw his eyes. They told me that even if it was an accident this time,
it wouldn't be next time. Or the time after that. Or any of the times
after that.
He must have seen something in my eyes, because he stopped apologizing.
He stopped telling me it had been an accident. He just stood there and
looked at me for a few minutes. He looked at me, and I looked at him.
I could feel my eye swelling shut, but I didn't do anything. I just
stood there and looked at him. And then he said it.
"It's your fault. You shouldn't have been so close."
That's all he said, and there was no anger in his voice. He was just
stating a fact. Then he turned and walked into the kitchen. He came
back with a bottle of whiskey and a glass, then sat down and started
flipping channels and drinking. And I just stood there.
I stood there for a long time. And then I moved. I went into the
bedroom and closed the door and sat down on the bed.
Ray had hit me. He'd never done that before, not ever. I told myself
it was my fault. I made myself believe it. I told myself he only did
it because he loves me. And I believed that too, but only for a second.
You don't hit someone you love.
'Xander would never do that.'
It was my first conscious thought of Xander in years. He'd always been
in my thoughts, but only in the background, popping up at odd moments.
I'd see an ad for a movie and think "Oh, Xander'll love that," before
I could catch myself and put him out of my head. Or I'd be eating lunch
alone, and I'd keep my fork ready to stab at his fingers for when he
tried to steal my fries. And then I'd remember Xander wasn't part of
my life anymore. And I'd want to cry, but instead, I'd make myself stop
thinking about him.
Not this time. This time, I deliberately made myself think about him.
Made myself remember. I remembered everything, from playing on the
swings in kindergarten, to unrequited love in junior high, to fighting
alongside him to save the world that night.
And I remembered the pain. The pain when they died, and the pain when
I couldn't turn to Xander. But it wasn't so horrible anymore. Or maybe
it was just as horrible, but I finally realized that it must have been
every bit as bad for Xander, that he must have felt the same way I did.
But he didn't run. He didn't let it destroy him. He didn't let it stop
him from trying to help me. Because he was my friend. Because he loved
me.
He did love me. I know he did. I didn't think he loved me anymore, I
didn't see how he could after I ran away all those years ago. After
I left him alone. But I had to find out. Either way, I had to find out.
And either way, I had to leave.
I got up and packed a bag. A small one. There wasn't much I wanted to
take with me. Then I got my purse and went back to the living room.
Ray didn't bother to look up when I came in. I stood there and watched
him for a minute. Finally, I spoke.
"I'm leaving, Ray."
That got his attention. He looked up and saw my bag. His face had no
expression at all as he stood up and looked at me. His hands curled
into fists and he took a step towards me. Then his eyes caught mine,
and he stopped.
We stared into each other's eyes. A minute, ten minutes, I don't know
how long. Then his fists relaxed and his eyes dropped to the floor. He
looked like a lost little boy. But I didn't care, and I didn't let it
stop me.
"It wasn't all my fault, Ray. Not all of it." He lifted his head and
looked at me again, and I knew he didn't understand. I sighed.
"I'll find a lawyer and be in touch."
Then I turned and walked out the door and got into my car and drove
away. I wasn't sure where I was going, only that I was going away from
the life I'd let myself lead for ten long years. I was going as far
away as I could. But it didn't feel like running this time.
**********
Which brings us to now. I came here to the Hilton because it's the
first hotel I drove past. I didn't care. A rundown fleabag would've
suited me just fine. Maybe it'd even be better.
I'm scared. It's been ten years. Ten years since I ran away from him.
Ten years he's been left to deal with his pain all alone. Ten years
he's been hating himself for driving me away.
I know Xander, you see. After all these years, I finally know him
again. And I know he blamed himself for the way I ran. I know he told
himself over and over that if he'd just been a better friend, if he'd
just loved me more, I'd have stayed and we'd have been okay. I know
he thought it was his fault.
That's not true, of course. It was my fault. All my fault. And I think
I can convince him of that now, after all these years.
But what if he doesn't want to listen to me?
That's what I'm afraid of. What if he hates me? God knows, he has every
right to. I ran away and left him to deal with his pain by himself,
that's reason enough to hate me. But even worse, I ran away and didn't
let him help me with my own pain. And I know Xander. I know that hurt
him worse than anything else possibly could have. I made him believe
that he couldn't help me. I made him believe that he was part of the
problem. I made him believe that he himself was hurting me.
I have to make it right. If I do only one thing for the rest of my
life, I have to make it right with Xander. But I'm not sure I can.
I have his phone number. At least, I think it's his number. There
were far too many Alexander Harrises in the nationwide directory
I called up on the terminal here in my room. Far too many Alexander
L. Harrises, even, and I doubt he uses his middle name anyway. I
couldn't just call them all. I knew that if the first person was
a wrong number I'd never get up the courage to go further down the
list. So I had to get it right on the first try. I had to make sure
I had the correct number. But it's been ten years since I did anything
resembling hacking. I knew I was too far behind the times to break
through the security net and get at the private information that
might have let me narrow it down to find Xander.
It's been ten years since I did any magic, too. But this was a simple
spell. The very simplest, maybe. I got a pen and a pad of paper and
I just sat there with the pen in my hand. I didn't do any chanting,
I didn't wave my arms around, I didn't burn any incense. I just sat
there and thought about Xander. I thought about home. And I thought
about how when all is said and done, the two are one and the same.
And when I broke out of my memories a few minutes later I'd written
down this number I'm holding in my hands now. The number I'm trying
to make myself punch into the computer. But the prefix tells me it's
a vidphone number. I can't look at him, I just can't. I want to, I
want to see him so badly, but I'm scared. What if he turns away? What
if he doesn't want to see me? What if he hates me? He has every right
to. I can turn off the camera so I don't have to see him and he won't
be able to see me, but I'm not sure that'll be enough. I'll still be
able to hear the hatred in his voice.
I don't want to make the call. But I have to. If I don't, I'll be
letting the fear rule my life, and for the first time in years, I'm
not willing to let that happen. I sit and think about that for a
while, think about what that means.
Finally, I turn off the camera and punch in the number and wait to
face my fate.
It's ringing. God help me, it's ringing. I check to make sure the
camera's off. I can't let him see me, and I don't deserve to see
him.
This is the fifth ring. Maybe he's not home. Maybe this isn't even
his number. No, this is the correct number. I'm sure of it. He must
not be home, and I can't leave a message. I hate myself for the
relief I feel as I reach over to cut the connection.
Before I can, someone on the other end picks up.
"Hello?" His voice is tired, out of breath, and ten years older, but
it's Xander. I know that voice. It's imprinted on my soul.
"Hello?" he asks again. I try to answer, but I can't open my mouth.
I'm so scared. I can't make a sound, and suddenly I know what's going
to happen. He'll say hello one more time, maybe two, and then he'll
hang up the phone, and I'll just sit here silently, unable to say I'm
sorry, unable to ask his forgiveness, unable to do anything at all.
After he hangs up, I'll stare at the terminal for a while, maybe a
few minutes, maybe a few hours. And then I'll get up, and I'll leave,
and I'll go back to Ray. I don't want to, but I will, because there's
nowhere else for me to go, no one else who will have me, and it's what
I deserve, after all. Because it's all my fault. It's over. My attempt
at redemption is over before it began. I shouldn't have even tried.
I hear Xander draw in a breath, and I wait to hear his final words
before he hangs up. Maybe another hello, maybe a curse. It doesn't
matter. Nothing matters now. It's over.
Xander's voice jars me out of my thoughts. "Willow?" he pleads.
"Is that you?"
Through the shock and surprise of hearing him say my name, I can
feel the pain he's barely keeping under control. I caused that.
I'm the one who hurt him so badly. It's all my fault.
"Xander," I sob into the phone as my tears start to fall.
"Xander, I'm so sorry."
I can't say anything more, and I brace myself for his reply,
for the hatred he's going to rain down on me. For the hatred
that I deserve.
"Willow." His voice is so soft, so tender. "Oh God, Will, is it
really you?"
"It's me," I whisper, wondering why he hasn't started yelling
yet. What's he waiting for? I don't understand.
He makes a sound, half a laugh and half a sob, and I can tell
he's crying now, too. We cry together for a while before he
gets himself under control.
"Where are you?" he asks through the tears.
"Atlanta."
"Atlanta," he says, and I hear him typing on his keyboard.
"Atlanta." He says it again, as if he can't believe it. He
laughs, but there's no humor in it. Just pain and tears and
relief.
Relief? Why is he relieved? Why isn't he hating me yet?
"Oh, Will, I thought you were... I didn't know what to think,
Will, I didn't know where you went. I've been looking for you,
I swear to God I've been looking for you, but I never got to
Atlanta."
"Why did you look for me?" I ask. I don't understand what's
happening.
"What?" he asks, confused.
I don't know what to say. That's not true, I do know what to
say. "I'm so sorry, Xander. I'm sorry for everything I did."
He won't believe me, but I have to say it.
He still sounds confused. "You don't have anything to be sorry
for, Will. It's okay. What's wrong? You sound like you're crying.
And why do you have the camera turned off? Please turn it back
on, Willow. Please?"
"No!" I shout. I can't do that. I can't see the anger in his
eyes. I can't.
"Willow," he begs, "Willow, please let me see you."
The anguish and longing in his voice cuts into me like a knife,
and I react instinctively. Xander's hurting. I have to make it
better. My hand darts out to turn the camera back on before I
can think about it. And suddenly, I'm looking into his eyes on
the terminal in front of me.
He looks exactly the same. That's not true. I can see some
differences. His hair is shorter. His face is drawn and tired.
He looks more than ten years older than when I last saw him.
And his eyes are full of pain.
But they light up as soon as he sees me, and the pain goes away.
A wide smile crawls across his face as he looks at me. He doesn't
say anything for a minute, as if he's afraid I'm going to disappear.
Finally, he lets out the breath he's been holding and whispers,
"Hey, you."
He doesn't hate me. The realization hits me like a hammer. He
doesn't hate me. He never did. I don't know how, but I know it's
true. I can hear it in his voice and see it in his eyes. He doesn't
hate me.
"Hey, you," I reply shakily, reaching my hand up to wipe the tears
off my cheeks.
His eyes follow my hand, and when they widen in shock I don't
understand at first. But then I remember. The bruise on my
cheek, he's seeing the bruise from where Roy hit me. I start
to reach up again, to cover it, to hide it, but I stop myself
and lower my hand and look at Xander.
"Are you okay?" he demands, and now his eyes are angry, but I
know it's not at me.
"I'm all right," I say, nodding.
"What happened?" he asks, calming down.
"I..." I begin, but stop. I don't know how to tell him. How do
I tell him about the last ten years? What do I say? How do I
let him know I'm sorry?
I look at Xander, and he must see the confusion in my eyes because
he says, "You don't have to tell me now, Will. It's okay, you
don't have to tell me until you're ready. You don't have to do
anything until you're ready."
I can't speak. All I can do is nod my thanks at him, and he smiles
again. God, how I've missed seeing his smile.
"Are you in a hotel? Which one?"
"The Hilton," I answer without thinking. Why does he want to know
what hotel I'm in?
"Good," he says, and glances away from the screen. What's he doing?
I get my answer when he turns back and says "If I leave for the
airport now, I can catch the Redeye. I'll be in Atlanta by morning.
Okay?"
The hope in his voice sets me to crying again. He's afraid I'm
going to say no. He's afraid I'm going to push him away like I
did before I ran. But that's not going to happen. Never again.
"Okay," I whisper, smiling through my tears. "Thank you, Xander.
Thank you."
He's crying now, too. "No, Will, thank you." He looks down at
his watch and says, "I have to get going if I'm going to catch
the plane. Are you going to be okay?"
I laugh, for the sheer joy of it. "Now I am."
He laughs with me, and the pain and the blame are a million miles
away.
He stops laughing quickly, far too quickly, but it's okay because
I know he has to hurry. Because I know he's coming to get me.
"I'll call you from the plane," he tells me.
"Okay," I say, and then open my mouth to say goodbye, but I don't.
I'm never going to say goodbye to Xander, not ever again. "I'll see
you soon."
"Yeah," he says with a smile, "I'll see you soon." And then he's
gone.
I disconnect the terminal and collapse onto the bed. It's not
going to be easy. I know it's not going to be easy. But I also
know it'll be all right. Because Xander's coming. I'm going
home.
But first, home is coming to me.
The End
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