Summary: Xander goes to Giles for help when he
needs it most.
Spoilers: Minor through the third season.
Disclaimer: Joss made the characters (I like to think he did it so I could
screw with their lives.), and Suzanne Vega sings the song at the end.
Rating: PG13
Feedback: It's always nice. Unless it's mean, in which case it's... less
nice. But I like to get what I can.
by: Amy
* * * * * *
He had seen the bruises before. Not often, but sometimes.
Enough to suspect
what was happening. But the boy never came to him for help. And, listening
to his teachings on decorum, and against his better sense, he didn't ask.
Then one night, he was preparing to go to bed. It was late-- at four, later
than usual, Buffy and he had just slain a particularly horrific demon-- and
he heard a knock on his door. Thinking it was his Slayer, he puttered down
to the front door with his robe wrapped around him, shoving his glasses on
up
to the bridge of his nose on the way. The door opened smoothly, and revealed
Xander standing there.
Under the dim light, Giles had trouble seeing his face. Xander ducked his
chin and shuffled his feet slightly while Giles waited. After a moment of
long silence, Xander's eyes flicked up. "Hey... Listen, maybe... I'm sorry
for waking you up. I'll go."
Giles's brow furrowed at the strangeness of bringing him to the door and
then
deciding to leave, and his breath caught a moment later when Xander lifted
his head as he began to turn and walk away. Giles stepped out and grabbed
him by the arm.
"Wait. Enter if you're able." He was concerned, not stupid.
A painful smile curved Xander's mouth, and he stepped inside. Sticking his
hands deeply in his pockets, he looked at Giles, who was staring at him
open-mouthed. "It looks worse than it is," he mumbled.
Giles answered him with silence, ushering him to the couch. After Xander
was
seated, he sat across from him and continued to study his face, a face that
was beaten almost beyond recognition. His lips were split in three places,
and one of the cuts was still oozing, swollen black bruises covered his skin,
his eyebrow had a large gash on it, and the index finger on his right hand
looked broken, or at least severely sprained.
"A demon?" Giles asked quietly, disturbing the stillness of the room. He
hoped, for once, that he was right.
Xander shook his head.
He adjusted on the couch under Giles's scrutiny. He opened his mouth and
then promptly closed it again. Giles, understanding that perhaps they needed
a segue into the conversation they were about to have, stood. "Would you
like something to drink or eat?"
Xander looked up and Giles controlled himself from flinching at the blood
and
sadness on the boy's face and in his gaze. "Yeah, thanks," he said in a
voice that spoke of gratefulness and relief.
"What would you like?"
Xander licked his lips and winced when the small gesture brought him pain.
"Uh, whatever."
"Well, are you hungry?" Giles pressed gently.
Xander's eyes twitched down. "Yeah," he confessed, as if being hungry was
a
sin and he might or might not be punished for admitting that he was.
Giles swallowed against the sudden burn in his throat and he nodded. "I have
some left-over lasagna. I could heat that up. Or perhaps some soup?"
Xander nodded quickly, but Giles wasn't sure which he was saying yes to,
so
he broke into something of a teasing smile. "Both then?"
The boy shrugged, looking down. Coughing suddenly, he placed his injured
hand against his chest and gripped it. Giles remembered in a stir of clarity
that his apartment was a good five miles away from Xander's house. The boy
must have walked, and it had been unusually cold that day.
"Both," Giles said firmly, decided, and nodded to himself. Xander sniffed,
whether from the tears that had gathered in his eyes or a flu that might
be
overtaking him, Giles couldn't tell. "I'll be back in just a moment."
Xander nodded again, and Giles disappeared into the kitchen to heat up some
food. After a few minutes, he finished placing the plates on a tray, and
completed the dinner with a can of grape soda that Xander had brought over
during one of the study sessions at his house, and had never gotten around
to
drinking. It had remained in his refrigerator since.
He carried the tray out to the living room and stopped in silence when he
looked at Xander again.
The boy was fast asleep, clutching his wounded hand in the other, bundled
underneath his coat. Giles sighed, shame filling his heart. Why had he
never pressed? Why had he never even asked? Why had he allowed this to go
on?
Giles set the tray down on the coffee table and set about the task of making
Xander comfortable. He took off his shoes and his coat, covering him with
a
warm, soft blanket that he was sure wouldn't irritate the abrasions on
Xander's arms that he hadn't noticed when Xander had first arrived. Looking
down for a moment longer at the face that, while was still incredibly broken,
was peaceful and childlike in sleep.
Giles sighed, and scrolled a note for Xander to read in the morning, should
he wake up before Giles did.
* * * * * *
Giles hadn't slept much. The thoughts had whirled through his mind all
night, of what he would say, what he wouldn't say, what needed to be said.
For once in his career, in his life, he really didn't know what to do.
He woke abruptly at nine in the morning, realizing that he had fallen into
an
uneasy sleep at around six. Making his way downstairs, he was surprised to
find Xander awake and up, the smell of coffee wafting out from the kitchen.
The dark-haired boy looked up, the bruises still horrifically evident, but
the cuts less bloody than they had been. Xander tried to smile, but his lips
were too caked with scabs, so his grin didn't come out looking like he had
wanted it to.
"I made coffee... I, uh, hope you don't mind," Xander said quietly.
"No, not at all," Giles said, as lightly as possible. "Thank you." He went
into the kitchen for a moment to pour himself a cup, then returned. Placing
his mug on the table, he sat down and looked at Xander.
"I think we should talk, but I must confess that I don't know quite what
to
say," he started.
Xander sighed. "Yeah, no-- I know. Look, I'm sorry for barging in on you
like that last night. I'll clean up and leave if you want."
Giles tried to hide his surprise. He assumed that this had been going on
for
years, but Xander had always kept up his relentless witty mood and strange
charm. Now he seemed quiet and pensive, thoughtful in a way that Giles had
never witnessed but knew must be possible. "No, Xander. That's not what I
mean."
Xander set down his cup; It accidentally clinked with Giles's as he set it
down, and he stared at it for a moment, as if the coffee held the answers
to
the questions Giles wasn't going to ask but wanted to.
Running his hand through his hair, and gritting his teeth when his broken
finger came in contact with his scalp, he finally looked up. Giles noticed
that Xander must have gone to the first aid kit and bandaged up his finger
when he had woken up.
"I'm guessing you guessed," Xander started. Giles simply raised his eyebrows
and inclined his head in a silent affirmation of the stated question. Xander
bit his lip, a thing he couldn't remember doing since he was young and this
had first happened. "My dad and I got in a big fight last night. About
college."
Giles concealed his worried expression; he knew that if he allowed Xander
to
say what he needed to say, what Giles needed to hear in that moment, there
would be no going back. Xander apparently saw this too, and looked to Giles
for guidance.
Giles nodded again.
"Anyway," Xander continued, "You know how Willow is this great genius
brilliant, great person? Well, I'm not like that," he explained. "Not that
I'm blaming her. Because if this is her fault, then I'm... Something that
I'm not. But since I've known her since I was little, she's always been what
my dad holds up as someone I need to live up to. Not that I mind, because
I've always respected Willow too. And then he met Buffy, and she was cool
and suave and lively, and my dad wanted me to be that, too. And Cordelia,
who is soft to touch and beautiful and knows how to work a conversation,
and
Oz, who's in a band. He didn't want me to have them for friends. He wanted
me to be them."
Xander cleared his throat, and Giles leaned forward. "You shouldn't be
anyone but who you are, Xander," he said.
He tried to smile at Giles again. "Thanks. But the thing is, I knew that.
My dad isn't a violent guy, really. But he sometimes drinks and stuff, and
when he does, he says things that sort of get bottled up. Or does things.
I
learned a long time ago to just let it get over with and not say anything,
because when I talk back, he only gets worse. It hurts, it always hurts,
but
I was never scared until last night."
He looked down, a tear dangled on his lashes. "He knocked my mom out last
night. She woke up for a second and told me just to go, so I went. He's not
like a vampire, Giles. You can't just make him go away by saying a witty
pun
and staking him. I talked back. I was so mad, so mad that he had been doing
it for years and that he was jobless and a lush and I was the town joke and
that even my girlfriend made fun of me because of him-- After we were broken
up of course. So I told him that I had a job. That I wasn't going to
college because I didn't get accepted, but it didn't matter because I *had*
a
*job.* And that I was almost nineteen and old enough to make my decisions
and not get the shit kicked out of me for them and that I *wasn't* Buffy
or
Willow or Oz or Cordelia, and didn't want to meld myself into this god of
a
son for a guy like him."
Xander began to choke, struggling to keep his tears in check. "I talked
back. And I never do that. I don't even know if my mom's okay, if she's
really okay."
Giles swallowed, hard, and nodded in something akin to understanding. He
lifted up the phone and handed it to the boy that was trying so hard to be
a
man with his emotions that he only succeeded in looking sadder and smaller.
Xander took it, looked at Giles for an explanation.
"Is it safe to call there?" Giles asked.
Xander smiled, not caring that the scabs on his lips cracked. "Yeah, I
think," he whispered hoarsely, punching in the numbers. "He should be passed
out for most of the day. Thanks."
The phone rang twice and Xander's mother picked it up. If he were completely
honest, his mother wasn't the best mother in the world, but she had never
raised a hand to him since he could remember. He nearly started crying when
he heard her voice; soft and trembling, but there. "Mom?"
"Xander," she whispered. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah. Are you?"
She seemed to hesitate. "I'm fine. Your father is sleeping. You know he
doesn't mean it when he does things like that. You know you shouldn't talk
back."
Xander gulped his tears down, an acrid taste in his mouth. "Yeah, I know.
I'm sorry."
"It was very brave, though," she admitted to thinking, and he was suddenly
proud of her that she wasn't completely under his father's thumb. "Why don't
you come home? He'll apologize when he wakes up-- He always does."
"Come home?" Xander felt a swift and terrible fear, the likes of which he
hadn't felt since Willow had almost died, or Cordelia or Buffy. Giles placed
a hand on his arm as Xander searched for words, and Xander looked up. The
older man shook his head, his eyebrows raised.
"Uh, no mom. I think I'll... stay with a friend for a while. Will you be
okay if I do?"
"Of course," she answered instantly, and he wondered if maybe it was because
things were always worse when he was around. "You stay as long as you like.
I'll settle it with your father."
Xander snorted at the casualness of that statement, but checked himself and
grew quiet.
"Okay Mom. I'll talk to you later."
"Bye, Xander," she murmured, and he could hear the sound of a loud snore
in
the background. He winced, and she quietly hung up the phone.
* * * * * *
Over the next few weeks, they adjusted. The girls were curious as to why
Xander was staying with the Watcher, but they didn't ask in the way that
only
people who are ignorant by choice choose not to. Xander liked it that way.
He told Giles that one night.
"I think Willow has always known," he said, staring at the fire Giles had
built.
Giles looked up from the paper he had been reading. "About... What had been
going on?"
"Yeah. She and Jesse used to come over to my house and sometimes my dad
would be really cool to them-- Call us all the three musketeers and sometimes
give Willow piggy back rides. But sometimes my mom would have to tell them
to leave right away, right as soon as we got to my house. I wanted to go
with them when they left on those days. I knew that it would get worse
before it got better." He looked down; His hands were trembling. "I don't
ever want the girls to know. Not Buffy, not Willow, not Cordelia. I almost
told Cordelia once. But, then, you know... We got in a fight." A small
smile edged his lips. "Wasn't the right time."
He stopped. Giles never pushed him. He knew what parental (was he the
parental figure in Xander's life?) pushing sometimes led to. He had lived
through it. What Xander needed to say would come out in time, if the trust
was secure and the companionship safe enough.
But, sometimes, he would bring up a question or two. Mildly asked, no answer
necessary. Even though Xander always answered, Giles made sure he was doing
it because he was comfortable enough to.
"When did it begin?" was one of those questions.
They were at the breakfast table that morning, and Xander set down his fork,
thinking. After a moment, "I don't remember. It was just always like that.
It used to be that I think he liked to make me cry. And I did, for the
longest time. At the first hit, I would cry. It wasn't like he was doing
it
very hard, then. I just didn't know why my dad was hitting me, and I would
wig out. I got harder later, when I stopped crying."
"When was that?" Giles asked, absorbing the information.
"After I met Buffy," Xander said, with a tinge of pride in his voice. "I
didn't stop crying, but I never cried in front of him. Never. Buffy-- All
of
you guys-- sort of taught me that what the bad guy likes is to make you
bleed, on the inside." He sighed, exhaling deeply. "Even though I don't
remember thinking of him as the bad guy. I remember the first time I didn't
cry. He was drunk and he laughed and called me a man, said that I was
finally a man. But he kept hitting me."
Giles nodded then, and they resumed their breakfast, the break in the eating
and conversation gone but not forgotten, the topic of discussion becoming
Buffy, who was visiting LA to see her father and Angel the next week.
There were many mornings like that, where the conversation was quick and
lively, but the tense silence of that one subject hung over the air. Giles
got used to them. He assumed Xander did too.
* * * * * *
Giles often had to curb the impulse to march over to Xander's father and
beat
him silly. After four months, the subject was exhausted, but still talked
about in the quiet way one talks about a secret. Xander would volunteer more
and more information each day that passed, and one night after slaying with
Buffy, Xander was particularly quiet. Giles understood, but the silence was
different.
He decided to take a chance with the question that had been plaguing his
mind. Something that he wasn't sure if Xander was ready to answer--
Something that he knew he should never ask. Xander sometimes got like that,
thinking to himself, but only when he was alone or with Giles. It made Giles
wonder. So, setting aside the firm trust he had with the boy, the trust that
was unbreakable, but not unshakable, he plunged in and asked.
"Are those things," Giles started, avoiding the word "beating" as he always
had to make Xander comfortable, "The only things your father ever did to
you?"
Xander looked at him with large hazel eyes, eyes glittering with tears that
threatened to fall in the space of seconds. His word was soft and rough,
but
he answered. "No."
He said no more. He didn't need to, and Giles didn't need to hear anything
else. Xander's shoulder's were shaking slightly, and he began to whimper,
almost inaudibly. The tears started to course down his face, slowly at first
but then faster, with no break in them. He buried his face in his hands,
hiding his grief and pain from the man who he had come to know as the father
he had always wanted.
Giles sat perfectly still for a moment, feeling the nausea that came with
having one of his worst fears confirmed, and then slid over on the couch,
resting one arm over Xander's back, touching his hair tentatively. Xander
immediately turned, facing his chest, and allowed himself to cry in front
of
a man.
For the first time in what seemed like forever.
Giles simply let him cry, let him grieve his lost youth and innocence, and
occasionally whispered, "You're here now, Xander. And crying *is* something
that men do. It's all right, my boy."
He didn't know what else to say.
* * * * * *
Two whole years passed. Xander never went near the house he had grown up
in
again. He saw his mother occasionally, and sent one invitation for her, but
not one for his father, to his wedding. Xander had healed as much as it was
possible. Giles had helped him in ways he could never thank the man for.
When they fought, it was like a summer rainstorm-- over quickly, and it never
got too harsh. The weather stayed warm.
Xander smiled at his reflection, remembering the night that had brought him
to Giles's house, remembering the approval Giles gave him when he really
needed it, remembering the comfort he found in the place he now called home.
He straightened his tie. The tux looked pretty good on him. His reflection
winked, and Xander began to laugh.
Giles entered the room, and Xander got himself under control. He grinned.
"With the accent, you must feel like James Bond." Giles continued to look
at
him with a serious face, and Xander's smile flickered, but didn't leave.
"Hey, it's okay, G-man. I feel like James Bond, too. Just have no accent."
"Xander." Giles's voice was quiet, but commanding.
Xander let out a shaky breath, knowing something was wrong. "Yeah?"
"Your father is here. He wants to see you."
"What does he look like?"
"Repentant. And... Angry that you didn't invite him."
Xander's breath caught, but he remained a steady eye contact with Giles,
looking for guidance in the matter, the guidance Giles always gave him.
Giles's eyes were veiled, however, so Xander went ahead and asked. "What
should I do?"
Giles lowered his head. "I can't tell you that, Xander."
Suddenly, things became clear to him. He was about to get married. The
father who had abused him in horrendous ways, almost his entire life, wanted
to be there. But Xander didn't need him there. He saw Giles waiting for
Xander to tell him to let his father in. He saw Giles skillfully trying to
hide his pain over it all, his rage and hurt.
Xander broke the silence with a smile. "One father is all I need at my
wedding."
Giles glanced up quickly. "Pardon me?"
Xander shrugged. "You already have the tux on. You're giving my bride away,
and doubling as my best man. You're the dad. I don't want him here."
Giles, being who he was, tried to talk to him. "Xander, I hope this isn't
because..."
"Giles, it's just the way it is." He grinned, his eyes twinkled. "It's not
that I hate him anymore, because I don't. You helped me with that, like you
helped me with everything. You're the.... Well, you're the dad I always
wanted when I was a kid. A little more stuffy than I would have liked, but
still him."
Giles looked away, discreetly wiping at his eyes. After a minute, he looked
up at Xander with an ill-concealed smile. "Very well, then. You should be
out there soon." At Xander's nod, he turned away, but stopped and turned
back. "Xander... Thank you for coming to me."
"Don't count on it stopping any time soon," Xander joked. "Most of my
clothes are still at home. I'll need your help moving."
Giles nodded, and left the room. Xander looked at his reflection again.
He smiled.
The sins of his father were in the past.
The future was looking pretty good.
The End
* * * * * *
My name is Luka
I live on the second floor
I live upstairs from you
Yes I think you've seen me before
If you hear something late at night
Some kind of trouble, some kind of fight
Just don't ask me what it was
Just don't ask me what it was
Just don't ask me what it was
I think it's because I'm clumsy
I try not to talk too loud
Maybe it's because I'm crazy
I try not to act too proud
They only hit until you cry
And after that you don't ask why
You just don't argue anymore
You just don't argue anymore
You just don't argue anymore
Yes I think I'm okay
I walked into the door again
Well, if you ask that's what I'll say
And it's not your business anyway
I guess I'd like to be alone
With nothing broken, nothing thrown
Just don't ask me how I am
Just don't ask me how I am
Just don't ask me how I am