Perfect Color Me

[madimpossibledreamer]

I found something saying mandatory reporting was a thing for at least health professionals in 1991 (not sure if it’s particular states or anything). There was a federal law in ’74 but I wasn’t able to find a ton of info on its implementation from a quick google search. 1990s laws on familial physical abuse still weren’t (quite) up to standard.

Main Points:
Buffy/Devil May Cry
Chapter Summary: Alisha follows up on Xander's slip-up.
Word Count: 1371
Rating: Teen
Warning: Not explicit, but there's a discussion of Xander's PTSD from Last Man's Dead (lingering effects of sexual assault)--Alisha wouldn't ignore it. (she's actually a good cop)

        Alisha grabs the teen on the way to the interrogation room—she wouldn’t have done it physically, but if she does it verbally, she’s pretty sure he’d just ignore her.  “You should go on, honey.  We’ll just be in the next room.”
        “I want to hear this,” he states stubbornly, and even Ari is pouting at her.
        “You won’t miss much; Morris and Hiedler will mostly be getting details more important to us than you.”  And, possibly, less relevant to the case.  “You’ll be able to hear—it’s one of those two-way rooms, and it won’t be for long.”  She sees him perk up a little at the two-way room thing, even if he’s still on the defensive.  She needs to address the daughter, now, because he’s not going to say no to her.  “I think your mommy needs a good hug now.”  Ari thinks about it, then nods happily and goes to Jane, hugging her close, and the mother relaxes instantly—not that she’d mistrusted Xander, but in her position her daughter practically adopting anyone else is a big deal that needs Constant Vigilance, which in the best of circumstances (a car with a working radio and plenty of snacks) is still an exhausting task.
        Xander’s shoulders slump, and Buffy casts a worried glance between her friend and her job.
        “Go on,” he decides, defeated, and manages a reassuring, brilliant smile.  If it wasn’t hollow.  After another moment of searching, Buffy nods, following the women into the room.
        She’d had hints here and there, and had caught something from Spike’s mind when he’d possessed her, but wasn’t in the frame of mind to pry.  She should have.
        There are no quips, no blithe words or goofy asides.  The instant it’s just them in the corridor, even the smile drops.  The half-devil marches into the room, resigned to his fate.
        She’s had to do this before, and it’s never easy.
        He’s already secluded himself in the darkest corner possible, a carefully staged casual look undercut a little by the way his arms are crossed and he appears, just slightly, to be shivering.  She’d seen his eyes that dark once before, shortly before he threw himself sword-first into the shadow demons that had bled from the ground.  She eschews the table and chairs, carefully closing the door to take up the opposite corner by the one-way glass, mimicking everything about his posture besides the defensive arms.  The giant sword (that’s Spike’s cage, she recognizes it) is sitting on the desk, now, and she hadn’t even noticed he’d had it on.  He’s good.
        “Well?” he snarls, and his voice only sounds half-human at the moment.
        “I’m not prying because I want to see you in pain,” she begins gently, and his eyes widen just slightly.  “I’d like to be your friend, and I do care about you.”
        He closes his eyes and swallows reflexively.
        She continues, compassionate but adding a strong tone, because she does take this seriously.  “Secondly, I’m a mandatory reporter.  It’s part of my job to report abuse should I suspect it.  Now, it gets awkward with your living situation, and it might actually put you in more danger, not less, should I do so, which is why I needed to talk to you first before taking action.”
        He opens his eyes, takes a deep breath, and nods.
        “I can talk about this however would best make you feel comfortable,” she tells him, and he flashes a sardonic smile.
        “Nothing about this is gonna be comfortable.”  His voice is harsh, but not, at this point, defensive, which is good, because she’s not the enemy.
        “I can just ask yes or no questions, and you can just nod or shake your head.  I’m not trying to force you to talk about it, and I don’t want to push, but some of these things I do need to know.”  If it’s more comfortable for him to go non-verbal, she can work with that.  He takes a deep breath, then nods.
        “Is it Giles?”  She’d thought they’d had a good conversation about being sensible, but that only worked if he wasn’t a criminal.
        “What the hell?”  Xander’s staring at her as if she’s insane, which is the best-case scenario.
        “I had to make sure.”  Surprisingly enough, that seems to have relaxed him, just a little, enough that he’s not visibly shivering anymore.  “Is it current?”
        A shake of the head.  Good.
        “Family?” she continues, and a snort.
        “Different kind.”  That’s…not promising.  “Freaked out Willow, but occasionally, when Dad got a little too drunk, he’d smack me around.  Mom just got too drunk to remember her own name, let alone mine.  I told her it’d stopped.”  He doesn’t go on.
        And, unfortunately, unless he ended up in the hospital, that was perfectly legal.  “But it didn’t, did it?”
        He shakes his head.
        “All right, let’s try a different tack.  Is the person in a position to hurt anyone else?”  Because that’s the other half of her obligations, removing kids from places they’re not safe and preventing it from happening to anyone else.
        And then he does something unexpected, breathing in harshly and curling in on himself.
        “Xander?  What do you need?”  She’ll get him whatever help he needs, because that question was evidently a bad one.
        “No,” he croaks, crouched on the floor, now.  She joins him, within reach but not too close.
        “No?”  She’s confused for a moment before she realizes he’s answering her earlier question.
        “No, he’s dead.  Or…he was undead first, I guess…” he responds, arms wrapped around himself, and he looks his age, now.  “I couldn’t let him touch Willow.”
        He’s begging with her, pleading with her to understand a horrible, hard decision he had to make.  “No, you couldn’t, and you didn’t know how else to stop him.”
        He shakes his head frantically, sniffing.  “He was my friend,” he blurts, miserable and slightly broken, and oh honey.
        “Listen to me, because this is a hard lesson.  You’re not omniscient.  You can’t stop everything.  And you’re a kid.  It’s not on you to do anything but protect yourself in your situation.  You didn’t deserve any of it, and you’re not to blame or responsible or whatever other nonsense you might be thinking.  You are worth it, you are good enough.”  He curls up further, but seems to be breathing easier.
        And it’s not his fault for not knowing that, either.  “It takes years of being a police officer to learn that, and even then we forget.”
        He smiles, small and ephemeral, and uncurls a little.  His eyes are still dark.  “…Can I get a hug?”
        “Are you sure it’s okay?”  She doesn’t want to make it worse.
        He snorts and uncoils lazily, eyes amused but still bright with pain.  “Look, if you make me beg, everyone’s gonna be embarrassed.”
        He leans into the hug, awkward as it is sitting on the floor, and his breathing eases.  “Thanks for…”  He finally leans back, and she disentangles, getting to her feet and holding out her hand for him to take.  He does with no hesitation.  “For caring, I guess.”  It’s unexpected, but it seems a weight has been lifted from his shoulders, for the moment anyway, which tells her something else.
        “Anytime.”  No hesitation.  Because he is worth it.  “Though I don’t have a degree.”
        He chuffs in amusement, and it sounds genuine again.  “You know someone who wouldn’t bat an eye at the whole ‘half-demon’ thing?  Because the family stuff’s easy enough to talk about without weirding out your average therapist, but the whole vampire thing is a whole ‘nother ball of wax.”
        She blinks.  That’s…that’s a really good point.  “I’ll keep an eye out?”
        “You do that.”  He laces his hands behind his head, casually strolling to the one-way window, staring through at his partner and the kid.  “So, uh, about the whole re-traumatization thing.  Do you, I dunno, maybe owe me a pizza?”
        He’s feeling a little better, which is something.
        “I think I could swing that,” she responds, and the satisfied grin that meets her is…well.  He’s not okay.  Not by a long shot.  But it feels like he took one step down the path to recovery today.