Perhaps
by Alexandria 

Perhaps one day, if he lived long enough, if he managed to survive this
bout of insanity and desperation and torment and longing, if he managed to
retain whatever small shreds of sanity to which he still clung, perhaps
one day he would understand the reasons behind this.

Of course, that didn’t mean that he understood them now. He curled his
legs tighter into his chest, clutching the pillow firmly to him. No, he
didn’t understand it at all. He supposed the chip was some divinity’s
idea of an appropriate punishment for all his crimes. Now that, that he
could understand. Of course he could understand that, he always expected
to be damned. The religion in which he was raised was too deeply
ingrained in his bones for him to believe otherwise. The chip, that he
could understand. However, this torment, this desperate fierce longing
for one he could never, never have, this was inexplicable.

Perhaps it was just his fear of being alone. He hated being alone, it
left him too much time to think, too much time to look back on all he had
lost, too much time to ponder when his unlife had turned into this farce,
this surreal mixture of drama, comedy, action and slapstick. Usually all
at the same time. And now this, this obsession, that was the only way to
describe it, with the least of them. It must be that he was afraid to be
alone. That was the only possible answer.

He rolled onto his back, sleep far, far away at the moment. He draped an
arm across his face, idly considering lighting a cigarette. No, they were
all the way across the room and it would require too much energy to move
from the bed and walk over there now. Energy he just didn’t have anymore.

His eyes opened and he stared up, seeking a pattern in the cracks running
across the ceiling. There was none, if there had been he would have found
it long, long before now. No, no pattern, no order, just chaos. Chaos.
Just like the chaos of his life. Utter chaos, no stability, no center, no
family, not a single thing he could truly call his own.

A hand dropped down to the floor and he picked up the picture lying there.
He raised it straight into the air, the flickering of the candlelight
caressing the face that stared down at him. Dark hair, dark eyes, huge
smile that didn’t quite touch those eyes. No, there was something there,
some hidden pain. This picture always made him ache. That’s why he stole
it from the Watcher’s house, gathering it up with his meager belongings
when he was so unceremoniously kicked out. The picture originally had
been one of the whole gang, but a few quick flicks of his switchblade
quickly remedied that. No, he didn’t want to see anyone but him.

Perhaps he finally had gone mad. He always assumed that he would, too
many years with Dru finally taking their toll. He must be mad, that was
the only explanation. How else to justify his actions. Christ, even now,
lying here, the longing to just stalk out and stand guard under the boy’s
door was almost overwhelming. He let out a huge sigh. No matter how much
he wanted too, he couldn’t do that, couldn’t risk false protection for
true. No, if the Slayer thought he was stalking her friend, then his life
would truly be forfeit. And then he couldn’t protect the boy for real.

Without thinking, his hands dropped down and rubbed at the spot in the
center of his chest. Even though the wound had completely healed weeks
ago, it still itched every now and again. Though if the itch was physical
or psychological he could never tell.

Perhaps it was just that he wanted to bear some reminder of that night.
Gods, that night. It still made him shudder to remember it. At first it
amused him, watching the terror on all their faces when they were
attacked, the shock when they realized it was humans. Bloody hell, if it
wasn’t funny seeing them faced with the evil their own kind could do. The
amusement died the second Red went crashing into the tombstone and the man
leaned over her, intentions clear. No, that wasn’t funny at all.

Another sigh heaved out as his hands came back to rest behind his head
again. No, that was when it all became very, very serious. He couldn’t
really help with the fight, not really, just enough to pull Red away, just
enough to keep an eye on them all. He could still smell the blood
drenching everything, still feel the longing to rip anything that took a
step towards what was his. He hadn’t been frightened, not really, that
little gang fought worse on a nightly basis. He hadn’t been frightened.
Not until he saw the flash of the barrel of the gun.

The first time he realized he moved was when his body was in mid-air,
twisting to face the shot. He could still see every movement after that
in perfect clarity. He could still hear the ringing of Xander’s screams.
He could still see the shock and horror on Buffy’s face. He could still
feel the terrible heat and wrenching pain that tore through him. He could
still feel the stolen blood drain from him. He could still hear the
frantic sound of his name falling from Xander’s lips. He could still the
tremors as he tried to force the words from his mouth, tried to say that
precious name one more time. He shot from the bed and began pacing,
trying to force the images from his mind.

Perhaps it wouldn’t still hurt so much if he had just said something that
night. He strode over and picked up the cigarettes, angrily shaking the
last one out then crushing and throwing the pack across the crypt. He
paced the well-worn track, turning his actions over and over again in his
mind. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to speak, it was that he couldn’t.
When he woke he thought for one dizzying second that he had died again and
this time gone to heaven. That was the only explanation he could come up
with for lying there on a soft couch, deeply inhaling the scent of his
heart’s desire. Then reality kicked in and he was ready to dodge and run,
looking for the trap that must be there. And when there was no trap,
when there was just care and concern and a mug of warm blood, warmed human
blood, and just where did that come from, he was shocked speechless. Then
with every second that passed it became more and more difficult to find
the words, to express his gratitude, the shattering happiness of just
watching Xander walk around alive and unharmed simply too much. He
couldn’t trust the words. So, instead, he said nothing. Nothing until
directly asked. And even then the words weren’t enough.

“Couldn’t let them hurt you, whelp. Couldn’t stand to see that.”

He moved to lean on the door, gently banging his head on the wood. Just
those words. He hadn’t even said thanks. Gods, he would give anything,
anything, to go back and change that. But there was nothing he could do
now. Nothing but stalk over to the bed, reach down and pull out the chest
there. He opened it slowly, then carefully unfolded the clothes. A black
t-shirt and too long pair of black jeans. Clothes that smelled like them
both. He buried his face into the cloth, letting the scent creep into his
bones. This, this kept him sane on those lonely nights, those nights that
he couldn’t help but set out to find him. To just see him, just that,
alive and whole for one more day. And when he came back here, alone,
alone as always now, he at least could reach for this. Their scent.
Their smell. Combined here, if nowhere else.

Perhaps he should leave and get away. His head dropped on the bed as he
let the thought wander through his mind. Leave and never look back. That
was the wisest course, really it was. He could fend for himself now. He
knew that he could do whatever he needed to survive. A snarl escaped him
at the thought. Survive. And that’s all it would be, survival. Well, he
was sick of surviving, sick of moving dully from moment to moment, sick of
just watching the never-ending seconds of his life tick by. Sick of
surviving. Fuck surviving. He wanted to live. He folded up the precious
scraps and replaced them in the trunk, then locked it and pushed it back
under the bed. He crushed out the cigarette and then settled back on the
bed.

“Xander,” the name sighed out, a prayer to the gods who abandoned him long
before. “Xander.”

He woke a short time later, the familiar creeping feeling of being watched
tickling up his spine. He lay perfectly still, focusing only on that
sensation. It wasn’t threatening or he would have immediately torn out,
ready to destroy whatever it was. No, it wasn’t threatening; it was just
there. And had been for the last few weeks. The same not quite there
feeling that someone was outside. He couldn’t place it, but it was there.
He sighed again, turning and wrapping himself around the pillow tightly.
It was there. And it was oddly comforting. His eyes drifted shut again
as a moment of peace eased through him.

Perhaps tomorrow night he would see what it was. Perhaps tomorrow night
he would open the door and stride out and confront whatever it was that
was watching him. Perhaps tomorrow night he would have his heart broken
when it wasn’t who he longed for it to be. But for tonight he would stay
right here, unseen eyes caressing his body while impossible dreams danced
in his mind.