Too Many Thoughts

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Summary: Post-‘Wrecked’ Xander. Willow. Past and present collide in the midst of Willow’s long night of withdrawal.

AUTHOR: Aurora
EMAIL: girl292@hotmail.com
RATING: PG-13
PAIRING: Xander, Willow
SPOILERS: Season 6, Post 'Wrecked'
DISCLAIMER: Joss's toys, my games.
IMPROV#36: fur -- spill -- gender -- salted
DISTRIBUTION: ask, receive, big grins for all.
THANKS: a million go to HonorH for being gracious enough to beta this despite the last minute request, THANKS!!
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He stands there in the doorway and watches. Watches as the shadows slipping in through the sheers on the window crawl across pale flesh that shimmers heavy with sweat. Soft red locks stick to her face as she twists her body against the weight of worn cotton sheets printed with tiny purple flowers, lilac he thinks, or maybe lavender. It’s too dark to really tell and he abandons that particular mental tangent when she moans and grimaces, pain wracking her nerves even in her sleep.

He watches and can’t help but wonder where in the hell it all went wrong.

He knew he wasn’t getting the whole truth from her, that much was certain in the casual toss of her hair and the drift of her gaze away from his face to rest anywhere *but* him when she’d told them all that Tara had moved out. Subtle body language screaming WillowSpeak for: ‘Look at me, I’m lying.’ She knew as well as he that she couldn’t fool him, could never successfully lie to the boy who knows her inside and out.

Or so he once thought.

She’d made her hurried announcement, looked away, and missed the hurt in his eyes that he’d covered by turning his attention back to the wedding planning conversation Anya had been holding with herself since he sat down at the table. Adding in the expected, ‘Sure, An. Whatever you want, hon,’ to fill in the appropriate pause, staring blankly at the stacks of glossy magazine clippings she’d shoved in front of him, all the while his mind caught up in Willow and what could be so that bad she couldn’t share it with him.

He’s not naïve, he knew then and knows now that there have been times when they’ve both lied. Kept secrets to spare the other and avoid the shame. Kept their own secret from everyone else until their little world of flukes cracked and dissolved into the dust of delusion when Cordelia and Oz rescued them from Spike, then left them to sift through the pieces alone.

Knows it doesn’t matter. They have the memories of pain that has faded with time and the scars that won’t, and up until he received the middle-of-the-night-what-in-the-hellmouth-is-up phone call from Buffy informing him that he was needed at Summers’ Central pronto, he’d thought that things weren’t that bad. Knew that the breakup with Tara and the stress of Buffy’s resurrection were affecting Willow more than she let on, but expected a phone call to bring the request for an industrial-sized tub of Ben&Jerry’s and the requisite chick flicks, not the Slayer rousing him from dreams of bowling with the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit models (got to stop reading just before bed). Buffy’s voice drawn and empty as it woke him, yet still managing to convey an urgency he hadn’t heard since every moment of their days were filled with the threat of imminent death by crazed hellgod.

It certainly got his attention, draining the remaining vestiges of sleep from his brain and replacing images of buxom, bikini clad Barbie dolls with weapons, demon trivia, and estimated arrival times from his apartment to there.

7 minutes and 16 seconds this time.

New record for him, shrugging on an old t-shirt and a jacket over his navy pajama pants, forgoing shoes altogether, hands not steady enough to deal with the intricacies of looping and tying, while grabbing the keys and leaving Anya, annoyed and still half asleep, once Buffy made it clear that it was *just* him who was needed.

She was waiting for him on the front porch. Pacing slowly under the garish yellow halo cast by the porch light. He’d tried to ignore the cold, sinking, feeling that slid from his throat to settle heavy and menacing in the pit of his stomach at seeing Buffy so completely unnerved. Subconsciously cast a glance to each side of the walkway, searching the shadows out of habit, as he joined the rattled Slayer on the steps.

Tried to remember how to breathe, how to swallow past the lump of anger and hurt choking him in the back of his throat as Buffy hurriedly spilled the Reader’s Digest version of that night’s events, and apologized softly for dragging him out of bed. He reassured her, letting her return to her vigil over the sleeping-the-sleep-of-the-heavily-medicated Dawn, following her up familiar stairs that seemed to shift and scatter under feet that suddenly felt like two leaded concrete blocks. Watched Buffy disappear into the darkness of Dawn’s room as he took his post outside Willow’s.

And here he finds himself, still standing in the doorway. Half in the hall and half in the room, debating the wisdom of taking either option, and wondering what exactly he can do to make this situation seem not as bad as it really is.

He doesn’t question Buffy’s decision to involve him, knows it goes without saying, the unwritten Scooby code where Xander and Willow are concerned. He knows Buffy needs him now, that she’s got too much to handle as it is. Willow falling to pieces is scaring the shit out of him and he doesn’t have the added baggage of his own death, subsequent resurrection, the knowledge of the peace of heaven fading into distant memories, and an injured sister nearly killed by one of his best friends to deal with.

No, instead, what he’s got is the other half of himself shaking in fits of he-doesn’t-know-what in the bed less than a foot away, while the half that was consumed with righteous anger just five minutes ago aches with regret and guilt that he didn’t see this coming. That maybe part of it was his fault, and no matter how irrational it sounds to his head, his heart hurts just the same.

And it’s his heart that finally pulls him completely into the room, away from the indecision clawing at him from the shadows in the hall, to stand silent and still at the edge of the bed.

He draws in a deep, much-needed, breath, crowding his lungs with Willow and fear and pain. He holds onto it just a little too long, just until the fire of suffocation begins to spread through his ribs, and then releases the captive air back into the darkness.

He feels useless just standing there, knowing that keeping watch this way will slowly drive him mad, the dread of inaction and indecision pushing his heavy limbs into motion.

Without thinking past the next second, he sheds the cover of his jacket, tossing it to the carpet along with his car keys, leaving him hovering over her in pajamas and bare feet.

His hands are steadier than they feel to him when he gently unwraps Willow’s left arm from the knotted tangle of linens and waits patiently as the movement momentarily jars her from uneasy slumber. Watches her brow furrow briefly, legs kicking out as she shifts restlessly and tumbles onto her side to face the wall and away from him, scattering small decorative pillows and familiar stuffed animals with well-worn fur to the floor.

He carefully peels the covers back and slides in beside her, slipping his arms around her trembling body and pulling her back to rest against his chest. Smiles despite himself as she unconsciously relaxes at his touch, her form fitting up against his out of habit, and buries his face in her hair, marveling at the scent of Willow and how, even though the smell of bubblegum and cinnamon has since given way to honeysuckle and sage, he would know it anywhere. Exhales and catches a waft of Tara still clinging to the sheets, the faintest trace of green tea and vanilla, and wonders if Tara once smelled of candy and innocence like his Willow.

He remembers the little redheaded girl with the fair skin and large eyes that captured his heart long before he knew anything of the rules of love and friendship and heartache, when their world didn’t extend beyond the wooden fence of the backyard and the limits of childish imagination. Remembers teaching her to climb a tree and watching her face break out into that WillowSmile, so bright and young, the first time she followed him bravely up into the thin and swaying branches of the very top. Remembers that same mouth held solemn and straight, brow furrowed in concentration, as she helped him hold mock funerals for the GI Joes that had perished in the latest battle of the day, never deterred by the dirt sneaking underneath her little fingernails as she dug each hole with him, nor as easily bored as Jesse, who inevitably wandered off to chase the neighbor’s cat or to search for frogs underneath the garden stones in Mrs. Collins’ yard, leaving just the two of them, making up noble speeches to honor each fallen soldier’s valor and giggling when an errant arm or leg wouldn’t quite fit into the makeshift graves.

He wonders when the world stopped revolving around video games and who could make it to the corner and back the fastest, and finds it increasingly harder to recall his life before things like death and the Hellmouth became real. He tries not to dwell on the moment his existence ceased being about killing imaginary bad guys and suddenly became the reality of plunging a stake through the heart of the only guy friend he’d ever really had.

He shrugs off his thoughts as he brushes the soaked tangle of Willow’s hair away from her neck and places a soft kiss against her temple, the salted dampness of her skin so much like the taste of tears that it causes something hidden inside him to ache, and he tries so hard not to let it remind him of the last time he held her like this, but it’s too late. The memories have already been jarred loose from that corner of his mind reserved solely for gut-wrenching pain and the nightmares that still wake him up with a silent scream in the dead of night.

Knows with a certainty beyond logic that the last time Willow was asleep in his arms this way was the day that Buffy died. Can recall, with startling clarity, every ache that throbbed through his bones and the void in his chest where his heart used to live. Remembers the way Buffy’s skin felt too still, freakishly still, beneath his fingers as he and Giles carried her up the stairs and placed her on her bed. Can hear the hitch of wild terror in Willow’s voice as she insisted on putting Buffy under the covers and no one had the strength, or the heart, to protest. Stood still and watched the frantic way she tucked, un-tucked, and re-tucked the quilt, never satisfied with the results. Watched as the others silently left the room, leaving just he and Willow and Buffy.

The Slayer and her original Slayerettes.

He wasn’t worried about the others, knew that Tara and Anya went to rest, most likely in Joyce’s room, neither of them anything resembling well after the night’s events. Remained silent as Spike herded a dazed Dawn without resistance into her own room, where he stood watch at her doorway, carefully avoiding looking in the direction of Buffy’s room all night.

He can still hear the sound that Willow made when he finally pulled her away from the bed, knows that he’ll never forget it as long as he lives. His name torn from her lips in a desperate protest which melted into a wail that sent shivers spreading cruelly down his spine while he watched her crumble to the floor in a sobbing heap. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he knelt and helped her up on shaky legs, guiding her step-by-step down the stairs, his arms around her shuddering body the only thing that kept her from falling.

He can vaguely recall the image of Giles sitting stone still at the dining room table, glasses clutched and unmoving in his hands, eyes staring straight ahead as they passed by en route to the living room. Remembers knowing that Giles would be there, watching over them as always. Remembers being angry that there would be another day, that the world would keep going, all without the girl who died to make it so.

Giles didn’t spare them a glance as Xander settled back into the familiar cushions of the Summers’ couch, wrapping his Willow up with arms and blankets and shared pain. He still isn’t sure when she stopped crying, when soothing words meant to calm led to exhausted sleep. He just remembers feeling the reassuring weight of Willow pressed up against his body as they slept, a tangle of arms and legs and grief, passed out for far longer than the rest.

He remembers waking to find Tara smiling softly down at them, apology in her eyes as she whispered that Anya was awake and on her way downstairs any minute. He understood and smiled briefly back in acknowledgement as he extricated himself from the maze of blankets and Willow limbs, brushing a kiss across her forehead and touching Tara’s arm gently in thanks as he headed upstairs to see about Anya. Knew that Anya tolerated his friendship with Willow, just as he knew she wouldn’t understand finding him asleep with her in his arms, no matter the circumstances, and wondered if that insecurity made her more or less human.

He doesn’t like to let his mind wander over the five months that came next, instead, he forcibly clamps down on the thoughts struggling to surface, and focuses his attention on the girl in his arms and the worry that crawls up his spine when he realizes that he can trace the line of each one of her ribs through the flimsy cotton of her t-shirt. He inhales sharply and fights past the urge to wake her up and force her to eat, wary that the effort will prove futile when she pukes it all up immediately afterwards. Willow shifts restlessly in his arms, moaning deep in her throat. He instinctively flinches and tries to ignore how cold her flesh suddenly is underneath his fingertips, holds his breath and listens for her pulse to reassure himself, no matter how crazy it seems, that she’s still alive, still with him, even if it’s only physically.

Visibly relaxes when he catches the steady thump-thump, thump-thump of her heart, but she’s still freezing and sweating and shivering all at once and he pulls the covers up over them both, wraps his arms even tighter around her, and holds on.

He listens to her breathe, consciously timing his breaths to match with hers, and feels the tension slide slowly from his body, allowing his mind drift from thought to thought in concert with their breathing.

He often wonders if he’ll ever be able to love someone else as he loves her. Not that he doesn’t love Anya, because he does, but he’s wise enough to know that there’s a difference. It’s not like he’s *in* love with Willow in the way that means marriage and mortgages and dreams of babies and two car garages.

No, it’s nothing like that. Knows that what they share goes much deeper than love but doesn’t want to pick it apart, doesn’t dare analyze it, still afraid after all these years to look too closely and risk dislodging the secret truth hidden between them. No, he prefers to accept it as a given, his love for Willow as an innate part of his being, necessary for life, like air for his lungs, and blood in his veins. He knows, without question, that no matter what happens in their lives that there will always be the two of them. That despite lovers (and gender), and friends, and the inevitable changes which accompany the pain of growing up and beyond childish things, they will forever be drawn back together.

Knows it and needs it to be so. Willow is his home, his center.

It’s the truth that nags at him in the middle of the night when he lies awake in bed with Anya draped over him– all angles and bones and arms and legs – oblivious to his lingering doubts as he stares up at the ceiling until the sunrise spills in through the blinds and chases the shadows away.

But he doesn’t want to think about Anya and weddings and the complications of his life right now. He just wants to focus on the girl in his arms and the feeling of his body pressed against hers, knowing he’s needed right now, right here.

He sighs and shifts carefully in the bed to find a more comfortable position for his neck, knowing he won’t sleep tonight, tied up in worry over his friends and dreading tomorrow and The Talk that’s looming on the horizon.

He wills himself not to think about it and pulls her in closer to his body. His arms freeze when he feels her begin to stir, doesn’t move when her trembling hand closes around his fingers resting securely against her belly.

“Xander?” Sleepy WillowVoice extracts him fully from the tangle of his thoughts. He responds by brushing his right thumb gently across her forehead, and whispers soft words into her hair.

“Shh, Wills, go back to sleep.”

He doesn’t try and reassure her beyond that, can’t force himself to form words that offer false comfort, knowing that it’s not going to be okay. They might have survived longer than most, and he knows that they’ll eventually get past this, but nothing *ever* turns out to be okay on the Hellmouth.

She sighs and he feels her smile against the palm of his left hand before pressing a soft kiss briefly into it. He smiles into her hair in return as she threads her fingers through his own and wraps his arm back around her waist, snuggling into the shelter of his body and slowly crawling back into a restless sleep.

He knows that he’ll hold onto this moment, savoring the trust implicit in that small, simple gesture, as he faces her in the daylight, her lies and his failings more visible in the harsh light of morning. He’ll need it to remind him of what they share, even as the anger and hurt coalesces into hot rage coursing through his blood, and she shrinks back inside that cheerful, unconcerned shell she’s been hiding behind when everyone is there, pulling at her for explanations, desperately seeking answers for her choices of late.

Knows, even now, that she’ll seek out his eyes for reassurance even in the midst of his anger and her pain, and he’ll give it to her.

Because she’ll always be his WillowGirl, and he’s her XanMan and nothing, not even the truth, can change that.

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