refuse to remain in regret

[madimpossibledreamer]

Main Points:
Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Constantine|Hellblazer
Summary: Stopping Willow with magic.
Word Count: 970
Rating: Teen, with the warnings. because it wouldn't be constantine or hellblazer without the warnings
Warning: some self-loathing, with everything else brief: reference to abusive relationship/improper bdsm, reference to underage sex (although this is BtVS so the fact that that's happening should practically be a given), actually referencing the trauma of Miss French again, Willow's magic addiction arc, reference to familial abuse, speciesism (against vampires), being manipulative, probably depression. basically the worst of constantine and xander...but it's also not all doom and gloom, because there's also hope and light.

 

         “You’re lying!” Willow yells, eyes black, and Xander smirks, provoking her.
         “You’ve your hands on magic I can’t even begin. You can verify for yourself. Have a look, then. I’m an open book.” He throws his hands wide, a theatrical gesture that’s just a little magic, innit.
         She’ll see it all, every dark little secret he’d ever kept. The fact that he hadn’t simply had a one-night stand with Faith, but more of a relationship, if a poor one, where he hadn’t even established a safe word (like she’d listen, in the first place, if he’d even said a thing) and allowed her to use and abuse him, simply because he hadn’t felt he mattered. He’d tried to be better, to not fall back into bad habits not even his own, but he only had so much self-control and after the first taste he couldn’t help himself. Well. Not like the first taste was his choice, really, to begin with. Not like that was the last time, either.
         The teacher, and how scared he was.
         How he’d seen Willow drowning long before this and hadn’t lifted a finger to help because he was a coward too scared of mucking up things he hadn’t even bothered to try. How he’s even viciously glad Willow’s the one that went off the deep end, just so for once he’s not the pathetic disappointment, and maybe he can even play the hero, here. How he’d lied to her about his da. The jealousy, not exactly of Angel, but of anything taking away his friends, anything that might leave him the scared putrid little boy in the dark. How he’s begun to learn a lesson he paradoxically always has known—that no matter how much he might want to paint vampires with the same brush, it’s just a racist excuse to tell himself he hadn’t done the wrong thing, that Jesse just couldn’t be saved.
         How he resents his friends because they have potential or a future and he’s just going to mould over, here in the dark, only it’s mostly his fault because he’s so paralyzed of making the wrong decision he’s trapping himself in a cage of his own making.
         How he hadn’t really been too concerned about becoming an abusive—well, physically abusive—drunk like his father, even though that’s the lie he told them all. He’s been drunk before more than once, and while it might sharpen his tongue, that’s usually as far as it goes—most of the time, it just makes him overly affectionate or curious. It was the thought of taking advantage, of using Anya, and she’s so innocent to the ways of the world for being a vengeance demon she’d be none the wiser. Every time she got too close to the truth, he could, sober, lash her with words, force her to fit the shape of ‘Xander’s wife’ and chop up anything that didn’t fit, making her all the lesser for it. Every hypocrisy, every lie, every rotten bit of his soul, all dragged into the light of day. Terrifying. Cleansing. A baptism in hellfire, only it’s luck if he survives it or emerges a pile of ash.
         It’s a gamble, really, riskier than any he’s ever made, because if he’s misjudged this, that’s the end of everything, no do-overs, no second tries. If she sees this and thinks it’s better to put him out of his sorry, miserable existence.
         But because she’s been too busy going like the Energizer bunny to slow down she doesn’t notice. The feeling like none else, when Giles pauses to put a blanket over him as he’s dozing on that familiar if uncomfortable couch, or watches the sun peek up over the horizon, or gets to smell an old tome. Babylon 5, just the fact that it exists, really. Or Bollywood. The smiles of his mates, where just for a second, his bastard of a brain lets him just exist in the moment, where everything isn’t awful and he doesn’t have a complete shitshow of a life. Every drop of blood spilled is a prayer that the violence need touch no one else. Every scar is a trophy. See that, you bastards, despite your best attempts Xander Harris lives to see another day.
         As a wise pirate once said, life is pain. But it’s his pain, and he’ll join Constantine in the ranks of the damned if he’ll just let that be taken away without a fight.
         He feels it, the second she steps inside his mind. The House of Mystery’s no obstacle to her, not when she’s absorbed nearly the entire wellspring of magic into herself. It’s a tornado, picking him up and tossing him like a ragdoll.
         He’s unconscious before he hits the ground.