How Nita got her groove back. At least temporarily.
For yahtzee63's wonderful AFI Greatest Movie Lines Challenge.
EEE, I miss writing Xander. Writing him makes me very, very happy. And Anya? And them? Oh my gosh, the fun. I'd forgotten that writing could be fun.
#9. Xander/Anya. Season 7, Post-Storyteller.
The last time they had sex for the last time, it had marked the beginning of their relationship.
So now Xander finds himself almost hopeful, which would be okay, he guesses, if it weren't for the fact that Anya's suddenly paying more attention to Andrew than to him. Not in a sexy way, because that would just be not of the Lord and even a bunny-fearing ex-ex-demon can't conjure up that kind of madness. But in a way where now Andrew's getting all of the terse, stressed out, random, Anya-y comments that should rightfully be his.
Maybe celebrating your one-year-since-I-left-you-at-the-altar anniversary by gettin' it on on a cot technically belonging to a vampire jonesing to be the next Angel isn't the best way to go about resurrecting a deeply damaged romance.
Not that it's even really time for romance resurrection, if you want to be all logical about it. Judging by the crazy-ass primitive vampires and multiple house calls from the source of all evil, the apocalypse may very well be mighty nigh, and stopping that should really be the top priority.
Okay, granted, his role in this is pretty much to fix all windows which may wind up shattered due to all the sinister First Evil-y goings on.
But still.
"Focus, Harris," he tells himself, and obeys by staring with mild interest at the windowframe. Currently, it's all intact, windows and everything, but who really knows the next time he's going to have to replace it? It almost seems like he should be here. Bonding. With the window.
It's a nice window, he guesses. It'll be a shame to see it go. But then again, it's always a shame to see things go. And it's a shame to go, too, if you're, say, going away from your wedding. On your wedding day. And therefore destroying the one lasting, serious, eerily successful relationship you've ever had. He knows that technically it's a good thing that he hadn't married Anya -- she didn't deserve to have to become the victim of his own doubts about whether he was man enough to handle the whole 'till-death-do-us-part deal -- but sometimes, he wishes he'd just sucked it up and gone through with it. How bad could it have gotten, anyway? They'd probably be living in his apartment together right now, making dinner or watching reruns of Friends (which, granted, would prompt Anya's frustrated sitcom commentary, but by now, he's even desperately missing that) or . . . picking out new curtains, or something.
Because that's just the way life is. It all comes back to windows.
And Anya.
When she'd said that thing about one more time, the last time, had she really meant . . . the last time? Ever?
Oh, God. Oh, God. He can't handle that. He's turning into a whiny girl. God help him, he feels a little bit used right now. He's losing his mind and all he's got is the window for company because Buffy's off making inspirational speeches or pretending not to stare longingly at Spike, or something, and Willow's making out with her new girlfriend and how come Willow's so much better at having girlfriends than he is?
"Damn it, Anya," he says aloud, just because he figures that no one's going to hear anyway, except the window. Well, and maybe the couch, but it's not like it's gonna tell anybody. Besides, it feels kinda good to say it.
"What?"
. . . That is, until it comes to his attention that she did just in fact walk into the room. Just call him Xander Master Of Stunningly Bad Timing Harris. If only because even that is catchier than Xander Lavelle.
"Er, nothing," he says, and is suddenly struck by how entirely important it is that he play it cool in this particular scenario. Real cool. "Hey."
"You said 'damn it, Anya,'" she reminds him sharply, and he really shoulda known that she wouldn't let it go. It's just not her way, and really, it's one of the things that he usually loves about her. Except during instances when it makes him look like an idiot. Then the love is somewhat lacking, but the annoyance is all on board. Ready and accounted for. "And you didn't even know I was there. You said it to the window."
"Yeah, I know," he says, figuring he may as well not even try to argue himself out of this one. He's had four years to discover that under no circumstances will he ever win. "I was just . . ."
"I don't know why you're talking to the window," Anya progresses loftily. She crosses her arms in front of her chest. "There's no point in you getting attached to it, you know. It's just going to get broken anyway."
"I'd already assumed as much, yeah," he says. He finds that he can't really look at her, because it turns out that the major Anya yearning that he'd had going on for the months and months before they'd slept together again was nothing compared to the shiny new and improved Anya yearning.
"You're angry with me," she concludes, catching him off-guard.
"What?"
"You're angry," she repeats sulkily. "You won't even look at me. You're staring at the floor instead, and I know for a fact that you find me far more attractive. My hair is a new colour and this top accentuates my breasts nicely, and you still avoid looking at me instead of finding excuses to."
"I'm not angry, Ahn," he protests, and resists the urge to look up and find out whether this nicely-accentuated-breasts proclamation holds any weight.
"Yes, you are," she counters firmly.
"I'm not angry!"
"Yes, you are!"
"No, I'm not!" Damn it, he's starting to think that the window might make better company.
"Then why won't you look at me, Xander?" Anya demands, her voice taking on that nice note of hysteria that lets him know he's really got her worked up now. "What, would you like me to take my shirt off? Is that what I have to do in order for you to look at me now??"
"No!" he practically shouts, looking up just to prove that he can. And then, because it would simply be unnatural for him not to remark upon it -- "But if you want to, no one's stoppin' ya."
This doesn't exactly go over well.
"Oh, that is just like you, Harris!" she snaps, breaking out the last name. He wonders fleetingly if maybe he should take cover behind the end table. "The end of the world is rapidly approaching, and you're spending all your time thinking about windows and breasts!"
"I AM NOT--" And then he takes a second to calm himself, because he figures that this probably isn't the sort of thing that you're supposed to shout in a house filled with teenage girls, ". . . I am not spending all my time thinking about windows and breasts."
"Well, then what are you thinking about?" she challenges, placing her hands on her hips and staring firmly at him. Her eyes are flashing indignantly and he wishes she wasn't so beautiful.
"You," he says, almost without thinking, and discovers that it's not so bad to get it out into the open.
Anya, predictably, doesn't take it the way it was intended. "My breasts."
"No! Not your breasts." She gives him a look of deepest skepticism. "Well, not just your breasts. You. Us. That . . . thing."
"What thing?" she inquires.
"You know," he says awkwardly. "That thing. On the anniversary. In the basement."
"Ah, yes," she says thoughtfully. "The sex."
"Yeah," he says. "That. I just . . . now it seems like you're avoiding me."
"Avoiding you?" Anya scoffs. "I am not avoiding you!"
"Well, it seems like you are," Xander amends, resisting the urge to argue that she is in fact avoiding him and he knows it so there. Somehow, it just doesn't seem like the most mature approach. "I mean, come on. You're spending all your free time with Andrew."
"Well, yes," Anya says, unperturbed. "He says amusing things. Plus, Buffy told me I could smack him if he starts being stupid."
Huh. Well, that wasn't such a shabby deal, actually. And besides--
"Wait," he says, determined not to be led astray by his own brain. "That doesn't change the fact that you've been avoiding me. I mean, I've barely seen you at all since . . ."
"The sex," Anya supplies readily.
"Exactly." He shoves his hands into his pockets and can't help feeling sheepish as he continues, "And I . . . I guess I was just wondering why that was."
"There's been a lot going on," she says crisply. Maybe too crisply; somehow he can't bring himself to believe her. "I'm very caught up in the whimsy and excitement surrounding our collective soon-to-be inevitable doom. That's all."
"Ah." Disappointment isn't very manly or impressive. He tries to remind himself of this. And besides, it's not like it matters. It's not like he likes her all that much at all, really, aside from the pesky little part where he's crazy about her. And it's not like that's all that important, anyway. And . . .
. . . somewhere in the middle of his silent self-pity fest, she's taken a few steps closer to him, her expression softening slightly.
"In moments of quiet, I'm strangely drawn toward you," she admits almost timidly. "But, well . . . there haven't been any quiet moments!" Aaand she's back to defensive. "And besides, it's not as though you want to have anything to do with me."
"What?" he repeats incredulously. That's definitely one thing he'd never have imagined himself being charged with.
"You seem to be staying away from me lately, and all you do is cast strange glances in my direction," she offers in rather morose explanation.
"That? Oh, come on, that's just me being jealous of Andrew," he says, feeling bizarrely elated, "I don't want nothing to do with you. Anya, I want everything to do with you."
She looks up at him, her eyes shining in a way that would have definitely melted his heart were he not a fine and masculine specimen who would never dream of thinking anything so sensitive. "Really?"
"Yes!" he exclaims, and laughs a little out of sheer relief. "I have for a long time now."
She smiles at him despite herself. He grins back stupidly and figures it's excused on grounds of extreme giddiness.
(Not that he thinks words like 'giddy.')
"You know," she says matter-of-factly, "when I said that I thought we were really over . . ."
"You didn't actually mean it?" he volunteers, smiling.
"Oh, no, I meant it," she says carelessly.
Well, the girl at least knows how to knock a guy off his pedestal.
"It's just," she continues, "that I'm not sure I mean it anymore."
He breathes a mental sigh of relief and breaks out another grin. "I think I can handle that."
Even if it does mean that it looks like he might be spending a lot less quality time with the window.
EEE, I miss writing Xander. Writing him makes me very, very happy. And Anya? And them? Oh my gosh, the fun. I'd forgotten that writing could be fun.
#9. Xander/Anya. Season 7, Post-Storyteller.
The last time they had sex for the last time, it had marked the beginning of their relationship.
So now Xander finds himself almost hopeful, which would be okay, he guesses, if it weren't for the fact that Anya's suddenly paying more attention to Andrew than to him. Not in a sexy way, because that would just be not of the Lord and even a bunny-fearing ex-ex-demon can't conjure up that kind of madness. But in a way where now Andrew's getting all of the terse, stressed out, random, Anya-y comments that should rightfully be his.
Maybe celebrating your one-year-since-I-left-you-at-the-altar anniversary by gettin' it on on a cot technically belonging to a vampire jonesing to be the next Angel isn't the best way to go about resurrecting a deeply damaged romance.
Not that it's even really time for romance resurrection, if you want to be all logical about it. Judging by the crazy-ass primitive vampires and multiple house calls from the source of all evil, the apocalypse may very well be mighty nigh, and stopping that should really be the top priority.
Okay, granted, his role in this is pretty much to fix all windows which may wind up shattered due to all the sinister First Evil-y goings on.
But still.
"Focus, Harris," he tells himself, and obeys by staring with mild interest at the windowframe. Currently, it's all intact, windows and everything, but who really knows the next time he's going to have to replace it? It almost seems like he should be here. Bonding. With the window.
It's a nice window, he guesses. It'll be a shame to see it go. But then again, it's always a shame to see things go. And it's a shame to go, too, if you're, say, going away from your wedding. On your wedding day. And therefore destroying the one lasting, serious, eerily successful relationship you've ever had. He knows that technically it's a good thing that he hadn't married Anya -- she didn't deserve to have to become the victim of his own doubts about whether he was man enough to handle the whole 'till-death-do-us-part deal -- but sometimes, he wishes he'd just sucked it up and gone through with it. How bad could it have gotten, anyway? They'd probably be living in his apartment together right now, making dinner or watching reruns of Friends (which, granted, would prompt Anya's frustrated sitcom commentary, but by now, he's even desperately missing that) or . . . picking out new curtains, or something.
Because that's just the way life is. It all comes back to windows.
And Anya.
When she'd said that thing about one more time, the last time, had she really meant . . . the last time? Ever?
Oh, God. Oh, God. He can't handle that. He's turning into a whiny girl. God help him, he feels a little bit used right now. He's losing his mind and all he's got is the window for company because Buffy's off making inspirational speeches or pretending not to stare longingly at Spike, or something, and Willow's making out with her new girlfriend and how come Willow's so much better at having girlfriends than he is?
"Damn it, Anya," he says aloud, just because he figures that no one's going to hear anyway, except the window. Well, and maybe the couch, but it's not like it's gonna tell anybody. Besides, it feels kinda good to say it.
"What?"
. . . That is, until it comes to his attention that she did just in fact walk into the room. Just call him Xander Master Of Stunningly Bad Timing Harris. If only because even that is catchier than Xander Lavelle.
"Er, nothing," he says, and is suddenly struck by how entirely important it is that he play it cool in this particular scenario. Real cool. "Hey."
"You said 'damn it, Anya,'" she reminds him sharply, and he really shoulda known that she wouldn't let it go. It's just not her way, and really, it's one of the things that he usually loves about her. Except during instances when it makes him look like an idiot. Then the love is somewhat lacking, but the annoyance is all on board. Ready and accounted for. "And you didn't even know I was there. You said it to the window."
"Yeah, I know," he says, figuring he may as well not even try to argue himself out of this one. He's had four years to discover that under no circumstances will he ever win. "I was just . . ."
"I don't know why you're talking to the window," Anya progresses loftily. She crosses her arms in front of her chest. "There's no point in you getting attached to it, you know. It's just going to get broken anyway."
"I'd already assumed as much, yeah," he says. He finds that he can't really look at her, because it turns out that the major Anya yearning that he'd had going on for the months and months before they'd slept together again was nothing compared to the shiny new and improved Anya yearning.
"You're angry with me," she concludes, catching him off-guard.
"What?"
"You're angry," she repeats sulkily. "You won't even look at me. You're staring at the floor instead, and I know for a fact that you find me far more attractive. My hair is a new colour and this top accentuates my breasts nicely, and you still avoid looking at me instead of finding excuses to."
"I'm not angry, Ahn," he protests, and resists the urge to look up and find out whether this nicely-accentuated-breasts proclamation holds any weight.
"Yes, you are," she counters firmly.
"I'm not angry!"
"Yes, you are!"
"No, I'm not!" Damn it, he's starting to think that the window might make better company.
"Then why won't you look at me, Xander?" Anya demands, her voice taking on that nice note of hysteria that lets him know he's really got her worked up now. "What, would you like me to take my shirt off? Is that what I have to do in order for you to look at me now??"
"No!" he practically shouts, looking up just to prove that he can. And then, because it would simply be unnatural for him not to remark upon it -- "But if you want to, no one's stoppin' ya."
This doesn't exactly go over well.
"Oh, that is just like you, Harris!" she snaps, breaking out the last name. He wonders fleetingly if maybe he should take cover behind the end table. "The end of the world is rapidly approaching, and you're spending all your time thinking about windows and breasts!"
"I AM NOT--" And then he takes a second to calm himself, because he figures that this probably isn't the sort of thing that you're supposed to shout in a house filled with teenage girls, ". . . I am not spending all my time thinking about windows and breasts."
"Well, then what are you thinking about?" she challenges, placing her hands on her hips and staring firmly at him. Her eyes are flashing indignantly and he wishes she wasn't so beautiful.
"You," he says, almost without thinking, and discovers that it's not so bad to get it out into the open.
Anya, predictably, doesn't take it the way it was intended. "My breasts."
"No! Not your breasts." She gives him a look of deepest skepticism. "Well, not just your breasts. You. Us. That . . . thing."
"What thing?" she inquires.
"You know," he says awkwardly. "That thing. On the anniversary. In the basement."
"Ah, yes," she says thoughtfully. "The sex."
"Yeah," he says. "That. I just . . . now it seems like you're avoiding me."
"Avoiding you?" Anya scoffs. "I am not avoiding you!"
"Well, it seems like you are," Xander amends, resisting the urge to argue that she is in fact avoiding him and he knows it so there. Somehow, it just doesn't seem like the most mature approach. "I mean, come on. You're spending all your free time with Andrew."
"Well, yes," Anya says, unperturbed. "He says amusing things. Plus, Buffy told me I could smack him if he starts being stupid."
Huh. Well, that wasn't such a shabby deal, actually. And besides--
"Wait," he says, determined not to be led astray by his own brain. "That doesn't change the fact that you've been avoiding me. I mean, I've barely seen you at all since . . ."
"The sex," Anya supplies readily.
"Exactly." He shoves his hands into his pockets and can't help feeling sheepish as he continues, "And I . . . I guess I was just wondering why that was."
"There's been a lot going on," she says crisply. Maybe too crisply; somehow he can't bring himself to believe her. "I'm very caught up in the whimsy and excitement surrounding our collective soon-to-be inevitable doom. That's all."
"Ah." Disappointment isn't very manly or impressive. He tries to remind himself of this. And besides, it's not like it matters. It's not like he likes her all that much at all, really, aside from the pesky little part where he's crazy about her. And it's not like that's all that important, anyway. And . . .
. . . somewhere in the middle of his silent self-pity fest, she's taken a few steps closer to him, her expression softening slightly.
"In moments of quiet, I'm strangely drawn toward you," she admits almost timidly. "But, well . . . there haven't been any quiet moments!" Aaand she's back to defensive. "And besides, it's not as though you want to have anything to do with me."
"What?" he repeats incredulously. That's definitely one thing he'd never have imagined himself being charged with.
"You seem to be staying away from me lately, and all you do is cast strange glances in my direction," she offers in rather morose explanation.
"That? Oh, come on, that's just me being jealous of Andrew," he says, feeling bizarrely elated, "I don't want nothing to do with you. Anya, I want everything to do with you."
She looks up at him, her eyes shining in a way that would have definitely melted his heart were he not a fine and masculine specimen who would never dream of thinking anything so sensitive. "Really?"
"Yes!" he exclaims, and laughs a little out of sheer relief. "I have for a long time now."
She smiles at him despite herself. He grins back stupidly and figures it's excused on grounds of extreme giddiness.
(Not that he thinks words like 'giddy.')
"You know," she says matter-of-factly, "when I said that I thought we were really over . . ."
"You didn't actually mean it?" he volunteers, smiling.
"Oh, no, I meant it," she says carelessly.
Well, the girl at least knows how to knock a guy off his pedestal.
"It's just," she continues, "that I'm not sure I mean it anymore."
He breathes a mental sigh of relief and breaks out another grin. "I think I can handle that."
Even if it does mean that it looks like he might be spending a lot less quality time with the window.