Happy Guy
The water rained down on him, flushing his slender limbs pink as steam rose to cloud his eyes. Xander didn't even bother with a washcloth as he rubbed the bare bar of Irish Spring vigorously over his naked body. No matter how much he washed, he couldn't get clean enough. The Life of Alexander Lavelle Harris, he thought, amounted to little more than a puddle of mud on a stormy day. Anya's soft but too-efficient hands, Willow's sad glances, and even this bar of soap couldn't do a damned thing to fix that.
The army, huh? His friends... God, he couldn't even form rational thoughts. He could only feel the anger coiling in his gut, the flood of hurt slamming him worse than any vamp in a dimly-lit alley. Life had him beat. He was the misfit in a world of superheroes and gods. How disappointing. He was the funny guy, the happy guy, the one who does the Snoopy dance in the backround while everyone else used their actual skills to save the day. Then he'd run for donuts. No matter how many times her risked his life to protect the ones he loved, he was the one that got the "good" punches and the fun syphillis. Sometimes he wondered if the diseases had merely internalized and infected his soul.
Xander squirted a glob of shampoo onto his palm and worked it through his hair. He considered using it as lubrication briefly, but pushed the thought away. He probably wan't even good enough to deserve release. Last night had proven that.
Xander had had many obsessions in his life. The first was Buffy, with her strength. If you took away her absolute beauty, he thought, she was the man he had always wanted to be but never could. And then there was Willow with her red hair that fell softly through his fingers and her gentle stutter when she resisted. Anya had been a surprise- Anya persued him, and he owed her a place in his life because she performed a simple function: she kept his mind away from his real obsession.
The soap from his hair was trickling down his face, stinginghis eyes, making them burn. He made no attempt to wipe it away. When he stopped to think about it (which was far too close to admitting it for his tastes), he could understand his attraction to Willow and Buffy (though Cordelia, he surmised, was anyone's guess). He wanted to be close to them because they were close to him. Willow was even like Him, with her bookish qualities and studious nature- Willow had always been His favorite, anyways. And Buffy- he was her Watcher... two people can't bond much closer than that, can they? Sometimes he was jealous of them, because they did things that pleased him where he, always the buttmonkey, had always been reproached with tart snaps. Xander was forever seeking approval from the man behind the books.
It was probably Larry who had done it to him, he was quick to assume. He had never looked a a man before the way he had begun to look at Giles. He loved the way his mouth moved as it formed words in his crisp accent that spoke of knowledge he would never have, and he loved the way he'd clean his glasses meticulously every ten seconds if for once he was at a loss for words. He settled for Buffy, for Willow, because if he had their approval, someday maybe he might have his as well.
His bid had been desperate- with a broken arm, he had rescued Giles from the mansion the day Acathla was to suck the world into hell. If he expected gratitude, he was sorely mistaken. Giles wanted to see Xander no more than he had wished to learn that the specter of Jenny Calendar had been Drusilla's private game.
Maybe it was a schoolboy crush, but yes or no, Xander hungered for that same admission of a job well done, but only received glances of impatience and annoyance from the man who created all those confusing emotions in him. He needed Giles, it was as simple as that.
When he had combined his essence with Giles, Buffy, and Willow's to defeat Adam, it had been a trippy experience, to say the least. Little pulsing points of light combining with primal force, all glowing bright. Xander could almost imagine that Giles was reaching for him, he was the brightest light in a sea of stars. For a moment, he could almost taste him.
Back to Sunnyhell, back to being Xander the Scooby bitch. Apparently, such things are his nature- even Dracula took advantage of that. Despite his protests, he began to fade away. Spike was forced on him, and he'd spent far too much time babysitting the peroxide brat. Funny how he'd almost considered inviting Spike into his bed. He knew Spike was weak, he knew that Spike had a desire, too. Together, they could close their eyes and play pretend. Xander would pretend that the British accent was softer, and that Spike's thin figure was solid in his grasp, and that he smelled of antiquated books and not of cigarettes and cheap booze.
He watched as Giles began to drift, too.. the scotch glass got a little emptier every day, and those blue eyes got a little paler. And then the bomb hit, and secrets came unrravelled, and everyone walked away, heads down. Giles sank down in a chair, and only Xander was left.
And suddenly, it was too much to bear. He sat down at Giles' feet and put his head on his knee. There were fingers in his hair, and Xander began to cry. He smelled the buttery scent of scotch on Giles' breath as he bent over. "Xander, don't..."
He looked up at the older man, the weary crows' feet lining jis slightly glazed eyes. "Giles. I need you. Tell me that's okay."
Gles shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I can't."
"You can." Xander moved in uncertainly, all nerves himself, and gently kissed Giles' lips. They began to kiss open-mouthed, scotch mixing with Xander's saliva. Xander put one hand on the nape of Giles' neck, pulling himself in, and the other hand crept slowly up his thigh as Xander knelt on his knees. Giles gasped a little, and drew back. Xander tried to deepen the kiss, but the more he struggled to maintain the desperate kiss, the more dissonant it became. When Xander's hand reached Giles' belt buckle, the man broke away completely. "Xander, no. You're just a boy..."
Xander reeled, dumbstruck. "No, Giles, please let me-" It was a plea, deperate for completeness. He wanted to please him, even if it was only on his knees. He needed it.
Giles stumbled for the stairs. "I'm going to bed, and we're going to forget this happened."
"I'm sure the scotch will help," Xander spat.
"Leave, Xander," said Giles, annoyance and confusion in his strained voice. He heard Giles' footsteps pause at the top of the stairs.
Slowly, he stood and let himself out.
The spray was burning him and his skin was an angry red as he sank to his knees, weeping. His chance wasted, the unyielding reality that his days spent trying to be a superhero had amounted to a few drunken kisses and hurt feelings.
As the soap invaded his mouth and his fingernails dug half-moons in his palm, Xander was dimly aware of his father shouting that he was wasting water.