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Pairing(s): Xander/Andrew friendship, Xander/Andrew pre-slash
Disclaimer: ***Serious*** spoilers for 'Chosen' (series finale of 'Buffy').
Disclaimer #2: OK, I lied. Part of the challenge is to reference Star Trek. I know *nothing* about Star Trek ::hides::. Instead, I'm going with what I know. Anyone who's read 'The Sandman' graphic novels will be able to tell where I'm going with this. I hope others will enjoy this as well.
And without further ado...
Her Wings
By C.C
The bus doesn't make it *that* far outside of Sunnydale... well, the place where Sunnydale used to be... before the engine burns itself out. Big Yellows aren't meant to be pushed like Giles has done, not even spanking new ones courtesy of Hellmouthian tax dollars. He suspects that Willow did a little mojo on the thing to get it to go fast enough for them to make their escape from the devouring crater that swallowed his home of twenty-mumble years. Still, not even magick stops entropy, and just outside the small city the bus declared that it had Had Enough.
If he could still laugh Xander would laugh himself sick when he sees the sign they've come to a stop near: Welcome to Oxnard. it's fitting, he thinks: life really does go full circle.
No one bothers to ask how he has any knowledge of the town or why he knows there's a motel close enough to walk to. As he recalls, it's pretty decent on the flophouse-o-meter and likely to have plenty of vacancies for all the new Slayers, Buffy, Faith, Giles, Robin, Andrew, himself, and a partridge in a pear tree. They can stay the night before recouping and going on.
No one really asks where they'll be going next. The busload of refugees seem to have a common bond that gives them a jaunty resignation to go where the wind blows. Will all of them go to Cleveland, he wonders, or will they do a Johnny Appleseed across the country, dropping off a mint vampire killer here and there wherever there seems to be a need?
He wonders... where will he fit into their plan, when it forms in their heads?
Because it won't be his plan. He won't be one of those that comes up with ideas. He never was. And he doesn't feel like one of the hard-core any more. Maybe it's for the same reasons as always. Xander doesn't save, he gets saved. Primo example: what did he do that counted? really counted - during their closest brush yet with the end of the world? He couldn't even drag Dawn to safety without getting his ass tazered.
that's just shit-pitiful, he thinks. He should be disgusted with himself. But -
Huh. He realizes, as they shoulder meager packs with the pitiful few possessions some had thought ahead to bring (including, thank god, credit cards in his, Giles?, and Robin's pockets) - he realizes that he doesn't really feel much of anything at all. Not belonging. Not not-belonging. No
excitement over winning. No grief over what he's... they've... all lost. Just... empty.
he'd think it was funny if he could think like that anymore. that's exactly how he felt the first time he hit Oxnard.
Full circle. Walking down a highway, headed for a small town, with nothing but the sound of birds circling overhead, their wings loud in the weary air.
* * *
He and Andrew end up straggling at the end of what feels like a parade. Buffy's in the lead, of course, together with Giles, Willow, and Kennedy. Robin's doing the tough-man act, pretending he's not one good cough away from knocking on heaven's door so he can keep up with Faith. Xander considers she's doing a damn good job of going slow for his sake but not making it *look* like that's what she's doing. Wood doesn't know her well enough yet to see it.
Xander figures that if he's worth that kind of consideration in Faith's eyes, he'll be getting to know her a lot better. Idly, he wonders exactly what kind of strings the ex-principal can pull in the tough Slayer to rate that sort of treatment. Maybe if he'd known, way back when... but no.
Then there would have been no Anya.
And right there, his brain stops. There won't be any thinking along those lines. he's just not ready yet. Like he wasn't ready to marry her. Like.... no, no, not now. it's bad enough to walk alongside Andrew and deliberately keep his bad side to the boy so he won't see the steady, silent flow of tears dripping down the youthful face.
Bad enough to know that he lived and...
No, no thinking for Xander. Better to be comfortably numb. He lived. So, he can live with the empty feeling.
And the birds circle above the quiet tail of the parade, filling the air with the sound of their wings.
* * *
No one really questions them at the motel that Xander leads them to. The place earns a curled lip from Buffy, a nod of approval from Faith, and a shrug of resignation from Giles and Willow. that's good enough. they'll stay for the night.
He supposes he should feel glad that his Xander-brain had enough power to remember the place, and how to get there. He doesn't. he's in his blank spot, and it's better there. No new Slayers in there, all starting to get giggly and over-loud from exhaustion and excitement. No increasingly grim looks as they remember how much they all lost. No silent Andrew-tears. Fuck, is he ever going to stop? he'll get dehydrated; it's hot out.
Xander shakes these thoughts off easily.
Much easier to stand back and idly gaze through the fly-specked plate glass window of the motel lobby while Giles, British blush firmly in place, negotiates with the dirty-shirted, stubble-faced managed for nearly half the vacant rooms for a night. On some vague level it registers just how
ludicrous this is, but he can't bring himself to be bothered.
he's OK just to stand and look out the window at the birds circling above. He can't hear them, but he knows that they're filling the air with the sound of their wings.
* * *
they're settled in for the night, and Xander uses that term loosely. He surrendered his credit card to the forces of Willow not long after they checked in. So far, pizzas have been ordered, the Quik-Stop nearby has been pillaged for its stock of sodas and candy bars and who-knows-what-else, all
racked up to his account. He doesn't care. they're all being aggressively normal, and he figures they've earned that. After all, no one else on earth can say they've had the kind of day these girls have. They deserve a little 'normal'.
But it gets under his skin after a while. He can tell the other men in their group are feeling the same way, and that eases him a little. Andrew books out early, not crying now, but his eyes still full of misery. Xander doesn't blame him. He went from hating the kid to feeling sorry for him a
good while ago. And he tells himself it's just inadequate testosterone crumbling beneath a tidal wave of whatever-it-is that women put off.
Lord knows he felt that way with...
Nope, no thinking, no, no, no.
So they go on, pretending that they can celebrate. Robin gets into the groove after a while, once he's been bandaged up. Giles even smiles once or twice before fading into the background with a newspaper he managed to buy for himself.
Xander grins once, a death's-head-grin, at the headlines as Giles unfolds the thing. So normal. He wonders what the media will make of the crater that used to be a seafront town. Probably the same kind of bullshit they used every time something happened in Sunnydale. Nah, it's not
heart-stealing, floating demons that stole everyone's voices; it's an epidemic of laryngitis.
It amazes him how facile lies can be, and how believable.
Spike always got that.
Funny how it doesn't hurt to think of Spike. Not that he ever liked the vampire. Besides, he went down a hero, by his own will, and he still managed to stick a middle finger up at fate while he did it. That 'Welcome to Sunnydale' sign toppling into the hole... that was perfect, pure Spike.
He almost laughs.
Then he sighs. Whatever else has happened that day, no matter how much he'd like to crawl between the (clean?) sheets and shut his good eye and fall asleep, he knows he can't rest until he's patrolled the place. No one else seems interested. Too busy scarfing pizza and painting each other's nails with a bottle of silver gloss that Dawn had in her jeans hip pocket. Only Dawn. Aggressively normal.
And he gets that.
But he's not getting any sleep until he's at least done a circuit of the place. He needs it. He needs that normalcy. He needs to feel like he's contributed something.
And so he gets up, makes a few jokes about needing to go 'see' about a few things, and makes his escape.
Outside, the birds are still circling. He sees for the first time that they're an odd mixture of seagulls, ravens, and.... doves... and as he watches them soar above, though they're too high he imagines that he can hear the beating of their mighty wings like the sound of the sea.
* * *
Once around, twice around, and he misses him. The kid's good at hiding. Not so good at being quiet. that's why he catches him, cached away behind the motel dumpster, sobbing like his heart's broken, on his third circuit.
Above the sound of wings, he asks: "Andrew?"
Okay, so it's really the last thing that he wants to do, but he can't just leave Andrew there like that, hunched up behind a foul-smelling dumpster. Even if he is crying more of those hated tears.
"Andrew." No response. "Andrew!"
For the first time, Xander's heart aches just a little. He's compared him to a kid; well, he might not be, not in years, but Andrew's heart is open and free as a child's. He gives his love not wisely but too well, and when it's gone...
Tears.
He doesn't cry, himself. Hasn't in.... oh, years. Not even with all he's had to cry about lately. Oddly, that pierces the numb shell he's sunk into and needles him. Why can't he cry? He's got a right to.
But...
He heaves a heavy sigh and rakes his hand through his hair. His thumb catches on the string of his eyepatch and it digs cruelly against the still-tender wound, making him hiss.
At that, Andrew does look up. His face is raw and ugly, crinkled up with the force of his weeping. That makes Xander even madder. So what's he got to tear himself up over? So he was there when.... say it, say it... when Anya died. He'd barely known her. She had been Xander's fiancée. His reason for living. Once upon a time.
But now Andrew's muttering something, not to Xander, not to himself, just words spoken soft and low. "I was prepared to die. She wasn't...." Xander shuts his eye. Hard. Above head, he hears the sound of wings beating. Forevermore beating in an endless susurration that terrifies.
It's not fair that he's the Heart. It's not fair that he's the one who Sees.
But he is. And he does. And just as sure as the birds fly he knows what he has to do.
He slides down beside Andrew, weeping Andrew, and silently holds out his hand.
Andrew stares at it as if it's coated in the special cobra venom from Superman Issue #Whatever. "I won't bite," Xander says patiently. "Go on, take it."
Slowly, probably not believing it's true, Andrew reaches out and tentatively grips the tips of Xander's fingers. The boy's own hand is wet.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, dashing at the tears with the back of his fist. "You must think I'm a total crybaby. Warren, he said I was just like a little girl the way I'd get sniffly at everything."
"I bet he did," Xander says softly. "Warren was a bastard."
Again the nervous giggle. "Yeah. But he was... my friend... I guess I thought he was, anyway. Just like in Aeon Fluxx, when?"
"Yeah." Xander finds a half-smile. Geeks of a certain obsession level don't even need the full reminder of episode and page; they know it by heart. "Or the X-Men, when Wolverine?"
"Yeah!" The tears are drying, now. Then, shyly: "Did Anya like comics?"
Xander gives Andrew's hand a light tug. "She didn't understand them at first. I had the worst time convincing her that not everything you read is true. Especially in graphic novels. She thought that if it was written down, it was real. God, you should have seen her face the first time she found my stash of comics in the closet. I thought she'd faint. But after a while, she loved them. She liked that you could do anything if you were a hero."
Now; that's close to a real laugh. "She was a good wheelchair warrior," Andrew offers softly. "We had a battle in the hospital when we went to steal supplies."
Xander cocks an eyebrow. "Would've liked to see that."
"Xander?" Andrew shuffles uneasily. "I'm sorry that...."
"Don't."
"I have to," Andrew insists. "It wasn't right, what happened. I was prepared to die. She wasn't."
"So why you, then?"
The baldness of the question takes the boy's breath away. While he's gaping, Xander follows the one-up with a one-two: "Are you willing to trade your life for hers? If you could, would you? Maybe there's a spell. I bet Willow knows one. We brought Buffy back, after all. If you lay down like a little lamb?"
"Stop it," Andrew whispers.
"...then maybe we could raise her up out of the ashes. Who knows?" Xander goes on, relentless. "Think your blood would be enough? Are you willing to find out?"
"Stop it!" Andrew tears his hand from Xander's. "Stop it!"
"You think I wouldn't want to try it if I could?"
"You can't." Andrew is trembling. "You won't. Because I understand now. I don't know how, but I do. She died saving me... us. I'm not going to feel sorry for myself anymore. Not when she did what was right. She *was* the kind of hero she wanted to be."
Oh, hell hell hell, he can feel it, something he hasn't felt since Joyce died, the light pricking behind his eye, but he won't cry, he won't.....
And above-head, the birds continue in their merciless flight.
* * *
Andrew holds Xander while he cries, and it feels right, somehow. Bony arms wrapped tight around him, barely long enough in reach to encompass his bulk, but hanging on for dear life. Burying his face in a shoulder that's all angles and soaking it with tears and blood from the ruined eye that thinks it should be weeping too.
And he knows that Andrew won't think any less of him for breaking down like this.
Maybe he'll think more.
So at last he cries. And he cries. Until he's all cried out. Until at last the rushing of the birds softens into a soft, sleepy swishing.
* * *
Andrew's noticed them too. He keeps holding... almost cuddling - Xander as he says softly: "Maybe, for her, it was like in the Sandman. Remember?"
Oddly enough... he hiccups a surprised laugh... that's the one comic Xander can't remember. He manages a murmur of confusion. He's rewarded with a real laugh, a low-ish chuckle.
"Like the Eternals in Sandman," Andrew says, stroking the dark hair of the man he's holding tenderly as a broken baby bird. "Death was the Sandman's sister. After he was held imprisoned for almost a hundred years, and finally got free, she came to him and told him that he had to move on. He followed her around while she did her... did her job - and every time she took a life, a life that had ended, he heard the beating of her mighty wings. Remember?"
And he does. Anya liked that one. Really liked it. How could he have forgotten?
There's so much now that he wants to remember. To know. To understand.
"It was quick?" he murmurs.
"Quick," Andrew soothes him.
"She didn't....didn't hurt?"
Soft sigh. "Not much. I don't think so."
Heavy exhalation. "And she went down a hero."
Gentle fingers comb through Xander's hair. "Protecting me. Protecting all of us."
"Finally understanding what it means to be human," Xander wonders aloud.
"Yeah." Andrew's fingers don't stop. Xander doesn't want them to. He's soaking this up. Comfort and understanding. Things he'd thought were lost to his world.
Above, the birds fly in lazy circles.
"Maybe it was like the Sandman for her," Xander murmurs.
"Maybe so." Andrew drops a light kiss on Xander's head. They've come full circle, the two of them. From comfort-er to comfort-ee, and the other way around.
And it's good.
The younger man glances up at the birds. "Think she's trying to tell us something?"
Xander smiles. "The way only Ahn could."
Together, they listen. They know that whatever happens next, it won't be easy. It could suck. But they have her as a common bond, and it'll keep them tied together for a while at least. And they feel good, comforting each other.
And so they rest together in the alley, looking up at the sky. And they marvel together at the beating of her mighty wings.
~ Finis ~