Title: Disintegration
Summary: Set a few years into the future. X/W.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters.
Archived at: www.angelfire.com/tv2/legendmf and www.unfitforsociety.net/meg eventually.
Thanks to: Jen, Vic, Dot, M-Rae, and Pete, as always.
Xander put down his briefcase and shrugged out of his coat. He hung it on the hook by the front door and called, "I'm home!"
He stuck his head around the door to the front bedroom and grinned at the sight of little Joyce, fast asleep on her stomach with her butt stuck in the air. Baby Big Bird was clutched tightly to her side, as usual. He crept over to the crib. He was long past the time of checking every five minutes to make sure she was still breathing, but just this once he couldn't help himself. When he had watched her tiny back rise and fall three times, he tiptoed out of the room.
Feeling the familiar tension settle in his stomach, Xander took a bundle of papers out of his briefcase and walked into the living room. Willow was curled up in the armchair in front of the TV, engrossed in a book. "Charmed: The Quickening" was on, with the sound turned down.
Xander felt his breath catch in his throat. Willow had put on a little weight after Joyce's birth, and there were a few more lines on her face, but damn, she still looked great.
He knew by the tightness in her shoulders that she'd heard him come in. She wore a black turtleneck sweater and brown pants. Nothing clingy. Nothing exposed. Her arms were held across her stomach. It was basic body language; Defensive 101.
"Hi," he offered.
"Hello," Willow said calmly, without looking up from her book.
Xander placed the papers on the desk by the window and sat down. He took a red pen from the drawer and picked up the first essay. He was onto the third by the time Willow spoke.
"What are you grading?" she asked.
He put the pen down and rubbed his eyes. "Essays on Chaucer. I still can't believe they hired me for this. Though I know I *talk* English all proper."
Willow laughed politely, then went back to her book. Xander worked through another two essays. He turned to look at Willow. "Did Joyce go to sleep okay?"
"Yes, she was fine," Willow said. "I think her cold's completely cleared up. The eucalyptus oil helped."
"That's good," Xander said lamely, unable to think of anything else to say. He picked up the next essay, then something came to him. He tried to put a joking smile on his face. It felt weak and uncertain. "So, when did you stop loving me?"
All humour fled when he saw Willow freeze. She stared at her book. "It happened gradually, I suppose. No one particular incident." Her voice was low, and casual, as if she were holding herself in check. "When I showed you my novel and you weren't interested. When you had to work late the night I wanted to go out with Tara - she was only in town for the one night, and I hadn't seen her for five years - and I couldn't find a sitter. All the times you come home late and I have to look after Joyce by myself."
Xander nodded dumbly, heart in his throat. He wanted to say, "I'd found out my mother was dying when you showed me your novel. I told you and I thought you understood. I read it later and I loved it. You didn't tell me you couldn't find a sitter, you just hung up when I said I had to work. And I come home late mostly because it's so awkward when we're together. We get on better when I'm not around much, though it kills me not to see Joyce."
But he didn't.
Willow already knew most of that.
And he couldn't seem to speak, anyway. He remembered his own times, when he'd shown her the crib he'd built for Joyce, and Willow had brushed him off. When he'd picked up Joyce when she was only two days old, and Willow had snapped at him for doing it wrong. When he'd bought an expensive Mediterranean cookbook, because she wanted to try a particular dish, then he'd prepared it, cooked it, served it, and she'd said she wasn't hungry. It all rushed at him in an overwhelming, muddling heap.
He stood and took a half-step towards her. She sat in her chair and carefully didn't look at him. "I'm sorry," he said finally, aware of how inadequate it was. "How long. . ." he trailed off.
"A while," Willow whispered. "I wanted to talk to you about it this week."
"We can't go to counselling, or, or something?"
Willow rose. "I don't think there's any point." She picked up her book and walked towards the door while Xander tried to think of something else to say.
"What about Joyce?" he said helplessly.
"You can still see her. I wouldn't hurt you like that." She left the room. All without looking at him.
"That's something, I guess," he said to himself. He sank back into his chair. "It's okay to kick me in the guts, but at least you're not kicking me in the face, too. That makes it all better."
She was gone by the end of the week.
Xander stared blankly at the neat, vacuumed space in the closet where her clothes used to hang. Where they were meant to hang. They belonged there. He was suddenly furious at Willow for taking her clothes.
The phone rang. He picked it up on the second ring. "Willow?"
"Dawn."
He slumped into the chair by the phone and twirled the cord around his finger. "Hi, Dawn. I guessed she'd go to you. How - how are they?"
"Oh, Xander." He heard the love and concern in her voice. "I'm so sorry. She just turned up here today. I couldn't turn her away."
"I know," he said. "I wouldn't want you to." They were silent for a moment.
"Anyway, they're fine," Dawn said. "I'll let you know about seeing Joyce."
"Thanks," he said mechanically. Then he burst out, "Is that it? Is that what it becomes now? My family lives with you?"
"Hey, it's not ideal for me, either," Dawn snapped back. He heard her take a deep breath. "All we can do is give her a little time," she said. "Just get on with your life."
Xander wanted to tell her that she *had* his life, but he was already disgusted with himself. "Yeah, you're right. Thanks for calling."
He hung up in the middle of her goodbye. The phone cord was hopelessly snarled. He gave up on untangling it and made himself some dinner. Toast, as it was all he could stomach.
He forced it down, brushed his teeth, curled up neatly on his side of the bed, and didn't sleep.
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