His Gift

by Suika

Copyright © 2003

suika713@hotmail.com

Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Disclaimers: Xander and Willow and Giles and Faith and Wood and Andrew and Kennedy and the rest of the new Slayers are ALL MINE! Oh wait, that was just a dream I had. Joss owns 'em.
Distribution: Watchers: http://thewatcherscouncil.net and Mystic Muse http://mysticmuse.net
Feedback: As the illustrious May Queen, Cordelia Chase, once said: Duh!
Spoilers: After "Chosen," set in the Watchersverse.
Author's Note: Susan for Beta-ing, and the rest of the WaTchers staff, most especially our grand poobahs.
Pairing: Just Xander

Caleb had called him the one who sees things.

He saw the twisted truth in that now.

The doctor, he couldn't even remember which one, he'd run into many of them over his seven years with Buffy, said that the phantom pain would probably be present for quite some time, until his body adjusted to its loss.

He snorted at the memory; the guy two stools down from him gave him an odd look. He smirked at him, mouth twisted in pain, and sucked down another gulp of fire.

Would that his eye was the only loss.

He conjured up a hundred different images of her body. Sometimes the cut was small, a tiny blossom of carmine against her gorgeous creamy skin. Sometimes there were thousands of bites, her life dribbling out of her skin like water through a sieve.

But in every one, he was too late.

Too late to stop the blow, the bite, the backhand that ended it. Too late to shout a word, a warning, a wish. Too damned late.

But he saw it. Saw it all.

He knew his gift, because Dawn was almost right. It wasn't what he saw, but what he didn't see.

In her he didn't see the eviscerations, the destruction, the wrath. She wasn't Anyanka to him, she was Anya, and it made all the difference.

She was his prom date, his girlfriend, his fiancé. She changed her hair color even faster than her moods. Her love of money went beyond simple greed to an expression of competence and control.

Because God knew life was so easy to control on the Hellmouth. Yeah. Pull the other one.

Except it wasn't the Hellmouth anymore, was it? It was just a hole, a deep grave for her. Just another pit in the earth where love turned to ashes and then rose again to suck out your life.

Things sucked enough already, thanks muchly. Didn't need another gaping mouth draining the life from him and poking out another eyeball.

So he was here, gulping mouthfuls of scorching liquid, and his best friend in the whole world, forever and ever, cross your heart and stick a needle in the only eye that's left, was over in Cleveland.

Willow wanted to jump back into that never-ending, life-altering, fight-the-good-fight crap. She had debts yet to repay and trust yet to build. She had a purpose.

What was his, he wondered.

Because for all his gift of not-seeing, he could see where he played Zeppo to Giles and Willow's Groucho and Harpo. Or maybe Chico. Willow was a lot more talkative than Harpo.

Freedonia aside, he could see where he ran for doughnuts and mochas. Where he could flip through meaningless pages of parchment and never discover anything because he was useless. Purposeless. Nothing.

He figured he was long overdue for compensation for his inadequacies, for his mistakes and his deficits. He hadn't tried to end the world or killed anyone's mother or turned anyone's genitals into blue Jello. He could use a leg up, damn it, a break! Just for once.

Just a little hint. Just a chance to see, and not not-see, his place and his purpose.

He saw that he wasn't chosen, wasn't called, wasn't seeking cosmic, brooding redemption. He saw everything that he wasn't, but for once in his messed up, impossible life could he please see what he was?

The nearly empty glass in front of him did not answer his mental tirade.

"Betcha don' kno' ‘nywaysh," he informed it, tossing back one last mouthful of pain, the liquid slicing down his throat to join the broken glass and barbed wire memories twisting in his gut.

He dug out a crumpled bill from his jeans and dropped it on the bar. It didn't matter if it wasn't enough to cover his tab. He'd be back.

Because couldn't see anything else in store for him.

That was his gift.

The End

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