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Nominated Best Song Fic       Nominated Best Angst Fic

 

 

Please Don't Tell Me How the Story Ends

by spikeNdru, completed June 15, 2005

Written for crazydiamondsue and brandil's Xander: Music of Pain Ficathon

Genre: Angst

Pairing: Xander/Anya

Rating: PG

Based on Please Don't Tell Me How the Story Ends, by Kris Kristofferson.

Setting: BtVS, Season 7, during Touched.

 

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Twenty-three. He was only twenty-three years old, although tonight he felt thrice that age.

He was stiff and sore from falling asleep on the cold, hard kitchen floor—and there was something sticky and disgusting on his right foot. He pushed himself to a sitting position, muscles protesting every movement, and pulled off his right sock. It was covered with melted cookie-dough ice cream. Somehow, the remains of the half-gallon of ice cream had joined them on the floor, and his foot had found its way inside the container during the night. Something pleasurable, desirable and sweet had undergone a metamorphosis into unappealing, sticky gunk over the course of the night. It was like a metaphor for his own life.

They had both agreed that it was over, and they could just be friends. Comrades-in-arms. Or something. They'd agreed that although they cared about each other—would always care about each other—they weren't in love any longer. They'd both moved on. One of them had for damn sure moved on a hell of a lot faster than the other, but even Anya's . . . tryst with Spike didn't matter any more. Nothing mattered any more, because it was all a lie. A big, fat lie. Xander's feelings hadn't changed. They hadn't morphed into friendship or comradeship or whatever they were calling it this week. He was still madly, passionately, deeply in love with Anya, and he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

He'd been the one to hurt and humiliate her by leaving her at the altar. He suddenly remembered how badly he'd felt when Cordy had broken up with him on Valentine's Day. What he'd done had been so much worse. At the time, he'd only thought about his need to get away and sort things out. He'd been naive enough to think he could come back and they'd pick up from where they'd been before the whole wedding fiasco. They could pretend it never happened and get on with their lives. Because it wasn't Anya he was trying to run away from—it was himself. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have been so selfish?

So, he was afraid of commitment. Afraid of turning out like his parents. Well, what about free will? Was there such a thing, or was everything fated and people were just pawns being moved around on the chessboard of life? 'Cause that would just suck.

Maybe it really was All. About. Buffy. He'd been hanging around her for so long . . . She didn't have a choice, being all Chosen. One girl in all the world . . . Yada, yada, yada. Sure, she saved the world a lot, but she'd never had a choice about that, or about who or what she was. But that didn't mean he didn't.

Look at Anya. She'd lived for centuries, suddenly found herself mortal, and she didn't run away from life! Okay, maybe she did, at first, but she came back. And being mortal must have been a lot scarier for her than for the rest of them, because this one life was all they knew.

And yet Anya was ready and willing to make the commitment—to live out the rest of her short, mortal life with him.

This could be our last good night together

We may never pass this way again.

Just let me enjoy it till its over, or forever.

Please don't tell me how the story ends.

But he already knew, didn't he? He guessed he was finally growing up, because denial wasn't a place he could live in anymore, even though he wanted to—god, he wanted that ability to pretend everything was just fine. Please don't tell me how the story ends.

He'd always been confident before. During the last eight—or was it nine—apocalypses they'd faced, he'd always trusted Buffy to get them through it. To save the day . . . somehow. When had he lost that confidence? When she hadn't been able to stop Willow with strength? And Giles hadn't been able to stop her with magic? It had been he who managed to stop her—with love. Was that it? Was love really the answer? If it was, they were all totally screwed, 'cause there sure hadn't been much of the love floating around Sunnydale lately.

Or, had it been when she was willing to kill Anya at the drop of a hat? What happened to “We don't kill our friends—we try to help them”? Nobody'd been in a big rush to make with the sharp, pointy things when Willow went all veiny and homicidal! No, it was all she's still Willow, we have to help her.

“And Spike! Spike slaughtered and sired half of Sunnydale, but it wasn't his fault 'cause he was under the control of The First, so no free will. And besides, Spike has a soul now! Well, big whoop! So does Anya, goddammit! Or did Buffy just find it 'convenient' to forget that little fact? When D'Hoffryn required the life and soul of a Vengeance demon to make things right, Anya volunteered! She volunteered to give up her life and her soul in reparation. But, guess that doesn't matter. Spike's the only one who gets to be all repenty around here. Because Spike's useful—because we need him? And we don't need Anya? Or, because Buffy loves Spike, so he's a special case, and the fact that I love Anya doesn't mean diddly squat?”

Xander clenched his fists and took deep breaths in an effort to calm himself. He realized he'd been muttering out loud, and let his breath out with a whoosh. Wow! He hadn't realized how much underlying resentment he had been actually feeling towards Buffy. He had been supporto-boy for so long, it was just sort of taken for granted by now. He was the 'heart' of the Scoobies—the 'one who sees'. Well, his heart was pretty damn broken now, and it was hard to 'see' with monocular vision! Or, maybe it wasn't. Maybe without all the other distractions, he could finally see?

He had taken Anya for granted! She'd loved him with all her heart and soul, but when he'd had two eyes, he'd been too blind to see that. She'd never come first with him—never. He'd fallen for Buffy when he'd been sixteen years old, and maybe he'd never quite gotten over that. Well, gee whiz, Buffy's teenage crush had been 'eternal love', hadn't it? She certainly lost no opportunity to remind them all of that! She got to have the Epic Love, but his and Willow's feelings were somehow . . . lesser.

She'd expected Willow to 'get over' Oz in a few weeks, but five frickin' years later, she was still all “Oh, boo hoo, I loved Angel more than anything and I killed him, so step aside while I kill the love of your life.”

Except, she hadn't killed him, had she? He came back, all safe and sound—unlike Jenny, who was never coming back—so the I loved Angel and I killed him to save the world card had pretty much been played out.

Did he have a hero complex? Was that it? Can't settle down and have babies, Anya, gotta go save the world. Well, it wasn't his job to save the world! It wasn't his responsibility. Oh sure, once he knew what was really out there, he couldn't just walk away from it—not and still be able to live with himself. Yet, Buffy had. She took off for LA because she was all traumatized after 'killing' Angel and just left the rest of them to sort out the pieces and pick up the slack.

Giles did. He knew Buffy was dead—knew Faith was in prison, so there wouldn't be any help forthcoming on the Slayer front. Yet, he'd just walked away from it. Went back to England to have an actual life. Well, bully for him! His Slayer was dead, so he'd done his job and apparently felt no further responsibility to the world. The Hellmouth? Not to worry! It was being guarded by two witches, an un-souled vampire, a carpenter, an ex-demon shopkeeper, a teenager who used to be a blob of energy and a robot—none of whom actually had any responsibility to do so.

Still and all, both Buffy and Giles had put their personal needs above their responsibilities, but not him! Oh no, not him. He'd always put Buffy and the mission first; his relationship with Anya taking second place. She had to have known. She'd given him everything she had, and he'd never been able to reciprocate in kind.

Xander leaned over and gently stroked Anya's hair. It was currently chin-length and a warm, honey color. He watched their shadows join—become one.

See they way our shadows come together

Softer than your fingers on my skin.

Someday these may be all we remember of each other.

Please don't tell me how the story ends.

And it was gonna end. He felt it. They weren't all gonna make it out alive. Not this time. They'd already lost Joyce and Tara and some of the potentials—cannon fodder. He'd felt bad for them. They were so young and hadn't any idea what they were getting into, but they didn't matter as much to him as Joyce and Tara had. Not nearly as much as Anya and Willow and Buffy did. Did that make him a terrible person? Or just realistic.

He sort of figured his number was up. He'd never really believed that before. They had all seemed . . . invincible, somehow. They'd staved off apocalypse after apocalypse—even fought a god and won. But their luck had run out. They weren't invincible any more. Tara was dead—dead and not coming back. He was maimed. Their cohesiveness was shattered. They couldn't fight The First Evil and win. He knew that now, and with that certainty came the final loss of his innocence. He had finally put away childish things and become a man.

Oh, they'd keep fighting, because that's what they did. And they might even get lucky one more time and defeat that abomination calling himself Caleb. Xander hoped so. He didn't want to die knowing Caleb was still alive, spreading his perversion like . . . like an evil oil slick. If they could just take out Caleb, he'd feel better about the dying.

The First Evil—the evil that lived in every man, woman and child on earth . . . well, except maybe not in Mother Theresa . . . or the Dalai Lama . . . maybe a handful of others . . . The First Evil couldn't be vanquished.

Except . . . maybe it could.

Oh, not from the world at large. That would never happen! But, maybe it could be vanquished—just for a moment—from this one, tiny, insignificant Xander-shaped piece of the world. If he refused to sacrifice his love, his belief, his optimism on the altar of bitterness and despair, then he won! He'd triumph over The First Evil, and even if he died, it wouldn't matter—'cause he'd already have won!

“Anya! Anya, wake up!”

“Wha' . . .”

“Anya, I want to marry you.”

“Oh, please, Xander! Been there, done that, didn't get the ring!”

“I know. I screwed up big time, and I don't have the words to tell you how sorry I am, but . . . I never stopped loving you, Ahn. Never. And I want to marry you. You don't have to marry me back, or anything, and I wouldn't blame you if you didn't—after the way I treated you. But . . . there's a chance I really might die this time. I know that. And I want to marry you before I die. If the world doesn't end and I don't die, we can go to Vegas and make it legal—have a honeymoon and everything. But just in case . . . I want to do one thing right, before I die.”

Xander reached for her hand and held it tightly between his own warm, large ones. His thumb gently stroked the tendons on the back of her hand, and then stilled as he began to speak. His voice was clear and sure.

“I, Alexander LaVelle Harris, take you, Anya Christina Emmanuella Jenkins, to be the wife of my heart. To have and to hold, to love and to cherish, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, from this moment forward, 'til death do us part.”

Anya looked into his single, warm brown eye. There was no fear and no doubt there—she saw only pure, bright, uncomplicated love. Love for her. She took a deep breath.

“I, Anya Christina Emmanuella Jenkins, take you, Alexander LaVelle Harris, to be the husband of my heart, my best friend and my sex poodle. I promise to love you and cherish you, and to stop being jealous of the time you spend with Willow and Buffy, because they're your friends, too. As long as I get to be your best friend, I suppose I shouldn't worry so much about them taking you away from me. I promise to be supportive of your ideas . . . well, maybe not the really lame ones, but that's good, right? Because if I'm being supportive, then you'll know it's not a dumb idea! So . . . yay, me with the supportiveness! I promise to love you for better or worse, in sickness and in health, no matter how many body parts you lose, and to give you lots of orgasms, which I will also be able to enjoy, because marriage is a partnership—till death do us part. Did I forget anything? I hope I didn't leave anything important out. Let's see . . . love, friendship, support, orgasms . . . I think that covers everything.”

“I think so , too.”

Xander drew her into his arms and they sealed their vows with a kiss, into which they each poured all of their hopes, dreams, fears, and most of all, their love.

Never's just the echo of forever

Lonesome as a love that might have been.

Let me go on lovin' and believin' 'til it's over.

Please don't tell me how the story ends.

 

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