*****

Last thing Xander remembers happened shortly after he went to bed in a charming little hotel in Perros Muerto. It's an ancient limestone building--the rooms are airy and cheaper than dirt, and the breakfast burritos across the street are to die for. He'd spent a full day in the town after extricating himself from a weird and mostly pleasant encounter with Spike and Drusilla. Decided to spend the night. He wasn't worried about them catching up with him anytime soon, even if they have already managed to get out of the shackles. He smogged things between them so thoroughly that they'll be arguing and making up for weeks.

So--a good night's rest and then back to a road trip he's enjoying immensely. He'd love to do San Francisco and the Pacific Northwest if it didn't mean backtracking, so he's thinking about going back up into the States and east through Texas. Drifting, dreaming, on the verge of falling into bone-tired don't even wake up to pee slumber, and...

The last thing he remembers? Chloroformed rag over his nose and mouth, no time even to think maybe he was wrong about being safe.

Then blackness.

***

Now, in order to remember getting drugged unconscious you probably have to be conscious. That tracks, doesn't it? Because if you're still out, you're not going to remember. But if your ears are ringing and you're lying there thinking it would be nice if you could open your eyes...

Of course, you could just be hungover. But hey, didn't someone smother me with a stinky rag last night? Yes, gosh, it does fit together. I think... hey, I must be waking up!

He doesn't even twitch as his thoughts resolve into coherence, just breathes deep and slow and thinks about this a little. He's comfortable, lying on a bed at least as cushy as the one in Mexico. Still dressed. No new, exciting aches and pains to report. And not tied up.

Motionless, he continues the inventory, drawing clues purely from his senses. No IV in his arm, no hospital smell. His face itches in a first-day-of-no-shaving way, so it's not too much later than it would've been if he had gone to sleep on his own initiative. Which is what I was doing, he thinks. Stupid duplication of effort. He can't tell for sure, but his underwear feels like the set he went to bed in. The blanket over him is light but the fabric is quality--no polyester.

What else... ah hah! The bandage in the crook of his arm feels new--tighter than the one Xander put on last night. Someone's had a peek at the slash he made in himself, a bit of ouch with a scalpel in the interests of making Spike horny and vulnerable.

Meaning what? It's hard to say.

Breathing. Someone else is in the room. Xander waits.

***

Faking sleep is oddly meditative. Xander concentrates on keeping his breath convincingly deep, despite the fact that it makes him groggy. Focuses his entire attention on listening to the other person in the room.

And learns nothing.

He's bored enough that he's considering new options when there's a creak--door opening. Footsteps, someone entering the room. A chair groans as Xander's--watcher, guard?--shifts.

"How is he?" Angel's voice.

There's a yawn. The sound of a teacup being set on a table. "Still unconscious."

"You can't overdose someone with that stuff, can you?"

"Give me a little credit, Angel. I know what I'm doing."

Xander nearly blows his cover now, because this is nearing funny, might almost cut it as comedy if he helps them out with a witty comment. But he hangs on, more amused than angry, wanting to know what the hell is going on. Doesn't Giles remember he hates to be talked about?

Giles huffs a little. "Without knowing how much blood he lost, it's hard to say how his system will respond. But he *will* wake up. Soon."

"And then what? Have you thought about this, Giles?"

"We help him."

"If he doesn't want to be helped, there isn't much you can do. Take Faith as a case in point."

Help how? They want to break the spell that makes Xander irresistible?

"I won't abandon him, Angel. He's been through a terrible ordeal. One which is indirectly your fault, I might add--"

"You don't have to remind me."

"I can understand why you'd prefer I didn't. Nevertheless--"

"Bringing him here... I'm far from Xander's favorite person."

That's for goddam sure, Deadboy.

"The... exposure last time distressed him, Angel. I wanted to protect him from another round. Protect Buffy and Willow too, for that matter. At least Xander doesn't care what you think of him."

"I wasn't expecting to see any of you."

"Painful, is it?" Xander doesn't have to look to know Giles' eyes are glittering. "I can't find it in my heart to regret that."

Enough. He knows he's safe, and the spying thing is getting him nowhere. Xander opens his eyes.

They don't notice at first, are too locked into their little argument. The room is exactly Angel's style, dark and spacious. There's a framed picture of Buffy on the dresser, so Xander supposes he's in the big guy's bed. Bleah. It's the first thing about this that's genuinely upsetting.

Come on guys, he thinks disgustedly, show some class.

"Giles, you can't track me down every time you have a mess on your hands. I'm out of your lives for some very good reasons."

"This is your mess, Angel."

Which Xander thinks is stretching it, but whatever.

"Obviously I'll do everything I can..."

"I'd expect no less. You owe--" The librarian radar finally reports back and Giles breaks off. Turns, meets Xander's eyes. Remembers the no talking deal. Looks abashed and very, very worried.

"My wake-up call was for six," Xander says.

Giles sits, takes his hand. "How are you feeling?"

"Hungry. I was looking forward to another day of godlike Mexican breakfast. Where are we?"

"L.A.," Angel says.

Cool. That eliminates the backtracking issue. Maybe he'll do the San Francisco thing after all.

"I don't have any food in the house," Angel says. "Maybe Giles could go out..."

Meaning it's day. "Yeah," he says. "Or he and I could go out and you could sleep."

They do the worried glance thing.

"What? You're not planning to feed me?"

"Are you sure going out is a good idea?" Giles asks. "Are you really feeling... up to it?"

"Why not?"

"Xander." Long pause, serious look. "We know."

He ducks his head, looks away, knows he's making the too-innocent face as he connects again. It all depends on what they know. He hasn't told them about the spell that's on him, the one that makes him irresistible. Hasn't told nearly half of went down with Spike in their first encounter...

"The wound on your arm," Angel says. "It's self-inflicted."

"You went to Perros Muerto looking for Spike, didn't you? I noticed you got into my books--you learned it was one of their places. And when you didn't find him..."

"I slashed myself?" Now he can't help laughing, whoops so hard he puts the squeeze on his bladder, so hard he has to dash a tear off his eye. He sits up abruptly, startling the librarian, who looks like a textbook case of ready to act if the laughter becomes hysterical. "I'm hoping you remembered to bring my clothes."

"Xander, listen--"

He waves it off good-humoredly. "I'm going to the bathroom with my shaving kit. If you're all worried I might hurt myself with the safety razor, you can sit on the toilet and watch me. Then we're going to breakfast. I might even pay, since you gave me a ride up here and all."

"You're not fooling anyone."

"You're right, Giles, I'm completely faking a need for nourishment."

"I wish you'd trust me."

"Hello? Peeing, shaving, eating? Speechify while I'm grooming, please. Garcon, my kit?"

Angel leaves, returns with the small leather bag. "Giles is right," he says, as he passes it over. "We're not letting you out of our sight."

Still chuckling, Xander salutes. Takes the shaving kit and gestures to Giles. "You do have a bathroom, don't you?"

"Sort of. It's down the hall."

***

Giles hovers while he makes himself presentable, looking but not looking, tangibly nervous about the razor in Xander's hand. Their relationship has taken a weirdly intimate turn in the past six weeks, result of him being needy and Giles being supportive. Now he's not so needy; the dynamic has changed and they're both uncomfortable.

Finally he combs his hair, buttons up a clean shirt, and emerges from what Angel laughingly considers his john.

"So. We going?"

They look at each other, Giles and Angel, and Xander can almost hear what they're thinking.

"Tell you what, guys. If I try to run, Giles can shoot me with the trank gun."

"I left it at home," the librarian mutters.

There's a big silence which is broken by Xander's gut letting loose with a deep, wall-shaking, beautifully timed rumble.

"I have a trank gun," Angel volunteers, making a half-hearted move.

"That won't be necessary," Giles says, stiff lipped. "Come along, Xander."

*****
Part 2:

"I am not in a snit, as you call it." Giles wrenches his deathtrapmobile into a parking space half the size of an envelope and struggles to get his door open. There's a big van parked on one side and a new-style Volkswagon on the other. Xander manages to slip out of the passenger door with minimal abrasions.

"Giles. If you were any snittier, there'd be a film crew here to catch you setting the standard."

"I'm not fooled by any of this... this *cheerful* behavior. I found you with a vein open not ten miles from a site where Spike supposedly goes to ground."

"You could have asked about that."

"I'm not about to let you wander away and not come back."

The pain in the voice perforates Xander's otherwise sunny mood, and as they get a table out on a restaurant's outdoor patio, he remembers what the months have done to Giles. Losing Ms. Calendar, getting tortured, worrying about a missing Buffy all summer--and those were the highlights. He opens his mouth to get serious, to explain why there's nothing to worry about. But then the waitress shows up--cute, perky, and increasingly smitten as Xander notices how good she smells. Even irregular sex--which is all Xander's really had, highly irregular sex--can be habit forming.

He orders three eggs and a stack of pancakes, plus sausage and bacon. Giles orders toast.

"Ooh! What I ordered comes with toast, right?"

"And fried potatoes," she assures him flirtatiously. He settles back into his chair, satisfied.

"Are you sure you ordered enough, Xander?"

"No," he says honestly, "But I figure if I need to I'll order seconds."

This earns him a look he's seen before on adults in myriad food-related contexts. Does nobody ever tell them that adolescent guys have appetites? I mean, Giles was young once, wasn't he?

"I know you grew up in the land of starch cuisine and all, but didn't you ever go through the whole put a buffet in front of my mouth and give me an extra fork thing?"

"I can see I'm not reaching you," Giles says. "What do I have to say?"

"I'm the one who obviously needs to say something. I'm guessing 'I'm fine, really' is gonna sound a little lame."

Hurt voice. "You could try the truth."

"Ouch." He can't keep himself from laughing at that, which earns him more wounded dog look. "I'll spill if you promise to try and believe me."

Still stressing to the max, Giles eventually nods. Curtly. Unconvincingly.

He runs his hands through his hair, remembers too late that you're not supposed to do that when you're about to eat. Wouldn't worry him so much if he'd been on his own, but Giles is the kind of guy makes you second-guess your table manners. "So--where to start?"

"Thoughts of suicide."

"Okay, sure. Twice. Once during the Spike thing, once right after. Sort of a maybe he'll eat me and I can forget about this. But not once since, Giles. Not once."

"The cut on your arm?"

"Giles, even I know you slash the wrist. Vertically." Stony silence. "Okay. Perros Muerto was where some Marines happened to drop me off. But--" Hoping to forestall the obvious next question--what had he looked up in Giles books?--"Dru found me there."

The girl comes back with a mountain of food just then, inhumanly fast service, getting between the two of them as Giles pales. Whatever he expected, it wasn't that. And Xander should reassure him right away, but he's got to eat something first or he's plainly gonna die. Rapidly he douses a pancake in syrup, slices it in half, rolls it onto the fork and jams it into his mouth. Which earns him another familiar expression from the standard responsible adult repertoire.

God, it's time he stopped thinking of himself as a kid. He's just another grownup, like the man across the table from him. No more us and them. Even if Giles is a bit of a dad-figure, it's us and us now. Equals, almost, sort of.

"Shwo," he says, talking with his mouth full. "Thish is gonna thround a little--" swallows. "Odd."

"Go ahead."

"Dru was there because she had one of her psychic fits, knew what had happened and knew where I was. She was jealous. And Spike came because he's still looking for her. At least, that's what I sort of think brought everyone together. The two of them got into a fight and he took Dru out of things, locked her up. And then--" How to say what came next?

"Talking *will* help, Xander."

Not the way you mean, he thinks, but if it mellows you, Giles, then yes it will. "He's sorry, Giles."

That earns him a nice long disbelieving stare, enough time to eat the other half of the top pancake and dip a sausage deep into a golden sunny-side up.

"How do you know?"

"He said so."

"And you believed him?"

"Giles, I *made* him sorry."

He's getting the rhythm of this now. Say something stunning, fill his face, chew and swallow while Giles processes, and go for the juice glass while he's getting it up to answer. The food here is terrific. Angel has yet again picked himself a great neighborhood to slouch around and be guilt-ridden in.

Finally: "How?"

"Your toast is getting cold, Giles."

"Just answer the question."

"Remember the bite last time? How did you put it--Spike bit me to 'facilitate an erection?'"

"Yes?"

He holds out his bandaged arm. "Okay, so think about that, and think about this, and tell me if you honestly want the details."

He gets through another whole pancake on that.

***

"And so it's over for you? Done?"

"I don't know about over. But it's better."

"Sounds like denial."

"I have stages. Really, really upset. Petty or not so petty revenge..."

"The love spell when Cordelia dumped you..."

"Case in point." He shrugs. "After revenge comes a happy phase."

"Which is now?"

"Yup."

"And then?"

"Nightmares, usually six months or so later. Followed by--according to Will--acting like a jerk." For some reason this makes Giles flinch.

The breakfast place is on a street filled with quirky shops and run-down, friendly looking cafes. After they eat, Xander suggests a stroll, window-shopping. That Giles agrees to anything containing the word shopping indicates how disturbed he is. He's torn between believing Xander is suicidal and faking the mirth, and believing Xander is--hardassed, weird, deviant?--in a way he didn't suspect.

It's bothersome. He cares what the G-man thinks.

"You didn't kill them?"

"I thought if Spike went dusty, Dru might gnaw her hands off to get to me."

"Discretion is the better part of valour?"

"And it seemed like the wrong thing to do. Plus once he dies it's over. He doesn't have to think about it anymore. Why should he forget if I can't?"

They pause, eyeing a collection of ceramic pigs through a store window. Giles' reflection shows his face stiffening. "Leaving them alive and then staying in town seems almost as self destructive as an actual suicide attempt."

"They aren't coming after me."

Giles looks unconvinced, his own fault for opting not to hear the details. Not that Xander particularly wanted to share.

"So... what? You drag my butt back to Angel's and the two of you bump heads against the fact that I can't manufacture the right flavor of angst for you?"

For you. Something about that. He turns it over in his mind. Sees something that makes some sense.

"I don't know."

"If you've got the time allotted anyway, you can come to San Francisco."

"I think having an adult along might negate the point of your trip."

"*Another* adult." Somehow, he's stung. "It's okay to drug and kidnap me, but socializing is out of the picture?"

No answer.

Fuck this. Gloves off. "You know what this is really all about, Giles?"

The eyes flick his way, barely visible through reflected sun-glare on the glasses.

"It's about you. You, Giles. Sitting at home and taking care of me and remembering that Angel killed Ms. Calendar."

"Xander..."

"That he spent how many hours playing his little reindeer games with your pain centre. He broke you, man. You gave it up. And all you get out of it is knowing Buffy must have killed him."

"You're projecting..."

"You wanted to see me upset, Giles. Just enjoy the moment." He presses his hands against the glass, knows he's right, got it in one. "You take care of us all summer, and then she comes back from runawayland and you take care of her.

"And then *he* comes back. And you can't kill him, because Buffy'd hate you. And you can't send him away, because good old Angel is a tactical advantage, and this is a war. He's one of the reasons she's gonna live to be world's oldest Slayer in a starring role. And it's easy to be okay with her dying miserable--which is how Angel makes her--just so as long as she dies old."

He pulls his hands off the glass, leaves steamy impressions. A trick from when he was a kid, which he isn't anymore.

"And then Faith goes off the boards and the Mayor thing gets underway. Also--thank the Queen, because otherwise you might have time to think about the fact that Angel is in your face all the time--Xander gets himself in a hell of an ugly mess..."

"That's enough!" Trash boy undertones play in the tense but civilized accent. Voice of Giles about to hit somebody.

He snatches up the older man's hand, presses it against the window where his own print still smudges the glass. Porcelain cats stare past them blankly. The mangled remains of Giles' hand look weird. On the window, Xander's handprint is whole. The truncated fingers scream from inside the perfect outline.

"You didn't bring me to see Angel," Xander says. "You brought you."

He lets go so they don't break the window tussling. Giles leaves his hand where it is, staring blankly, breathing a little funny.

"Giles?" He's not so sure of himself that he doesn't worry he's pushed this too far.

"Bloody hell." The ashen face turns slowly. "Now *I'm* hungry."

***

Giles got a key from Angel when they went out. Which, like everything else this morning, strikes Xander as amusing. Returning, they find Angel in his bed.

"Dead to the world," Xander says.

Giles gives him a strained smile.

Xander goes into the kitchen, leaving them alone, finds his bag and sorts things back to their intended order. If someone's gonna search him everywhere he stops, maybe he should just write out an inventory and leave it on the top.

The shaving kit's still in Angel's room. He goes back, finds Giles still standing there. Still looking at him. Unreadable expression, pained eyes. So Xander takes a glance around the bedroom, looking for the familiar oriental box with ivory inlay. Even here, Angel is the vamp with vamp enemies.

Xander tips the box open silently. Inside are stakes. Giles' eyes widen.

He pulls one out, admires the symmetry of it, wonders if Buf and Angel carved these together for fun on their quiet nights. Takes it over to Giles, slides it into his palm. Giles' expression doesn't change, but the fingers close around wood.

Xander whispers then. "She'll never know."

With that, he takes the shaving kit back to the kitchen. Finishes packing. Takes his bag and Giles' to the car. Sits in the passenger seat, waits. Because you never know. He doesn't *think* Giles will do it, but if Xander's watching he certainly won't.

Waits some more. An hour.

Finally he can't take it. He tiptoes back inside, creeps down the hall.

Giles is just finishing. He has emptied the box of stakes, taken each one and driven it through the coverlet and mattress, using furious strength to pin Angel to the bed. Nobody but a slayer should be this strong, but stakes jut in an outline around the vampire's otherwise untouched body, stitching him down. As Xander comes into the room Giles shoves the last one home, scratching the point along Angel's temple, through the pillow. There's another one on the other side of the vampire's head--twin pegs which have the pale head imprisoned amid a dusting of small feathers.

Giles has his jacket off, is sweating with the effort. His eyes are doing the glitter thing again and the room is filled with cigarette smoke. He looks pale, fragile, but somehow clearer.

"I think the snit has passed," Xander says.

Giles stops, straightens, collects himself. It takes a minute or two. "Perhaps I could drive you as far as San Francisco," he pants finally. "Since I allotted the time."

"Sure," Xander says. "You could talk. I could do that listening thing."

"Talking's your strength, I think."

"I teach you revenge, you teach me empathy. Call it bonding."

Giles coughs once, cleans his glasses. Tightens his tie and reaches for his jacket. Xander, meanwhile, takes one last look around. He sidles up to the picture of Buffy--Angel's only one, he hopes--sunlit and smiling, beautiful Buf, and helps himself.

"I'm surprised he didn't wake up for the property damage," he says as they leave. "You got lucky."

"Sod luck." Giles holds up a handkerchief and a bottle.

It's chloroform.

And just like that they're laughing together, jogging down the steps to the car.

~end~