The Storm Before the Calm

The phone rang. And rang. And rang.

On the fourth shrill and unnaturally loud ring, Xander Harris reached an arm out from under the comforter that was covering his body and his head, not bothering to open his eyes as he pulled the receiver under it to his ear.

“Hello?” he managed in a raspy voice, scratchy from the sleep he had been enjoying until about five seconds ago.

There was no reply. He could hear breathing, sharp and quick, could hear the rustle of something, like a hand being placed over the phone, could hear something faint and whimpering in the background.

He was sure he knew that whimpering.

“Will?” he asked down the phone, suddenly fully awake and sitting up in his dark, dark room, the figure beside him turning over with a grunt that was less than lady-like, pulling half of the comforter with her, although that wasn’t really where his thoughts were focussed right now.

“Will?” he asked again, his voice urgent and panicked. “Is that you?” There was a click, followed by a dial tone, and even though he already knew she had hung up, he couldn’t help asking again. “Willow?” he said loudly, like somehow she’d hear him through the distance between them or by some kind of psychic connection that wasn’t entirely out of the realms of possibility when you lived on top of a Hellmouth.

He grabbed the phone unit from the table next to him, pulling it onto the bed, half-shivering in the chill that was permeating the air in his apartment and from the shirt he wasn’t wearing and from the dread that was making his blood run through his veins with ice. He dialled the number without thinking about it, the digits memorised in his mind since probably the second after Buffy had given him it that night when Jesse was taken, the day she started at Sunnydale High, and it occurred to him just how painful some memories were.

He listened as it rang. And rang. And rang.

“Come on…” he said aloud impatiently. “Come on, come on, come on…” It kept ringing, and he kept urging. Finally, someone picked up, but there was no greeting. All there was was the same sound of rapid breathing, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, accompanied by the prickling of his skin, and that was never a good sign.

“Will?” he said down the line. “Willow, it’s me,” he told her. “Please, talk to me. Are you okay?”

“Xand?” was all she managed, quiet and desperate, something forced out.

“It’s me,” he told her, a breath of relief escaping him as he closed his eyes thankfully. “Willow, are you alright? Are you hurt?”

He heard a sound down the phone, like she was shaking her head, probably forgetting he couldn’t see her doing it, even if he had the image in his head. “No…” she said, her voice broken and shakey and catching with her own breath. “No, I’m not hurt.”

“Where’s Buffy, Will?” he asked, trying to sound soothing, even though he kinda thought he was about as subtle and calming as a jackhammer.

“Out…” she whispered, clearing her throat when she knew she sounded small and quiet, but when she spoke again it hadn’t even made a difference. “She went…I think she went patrolling. I’m sorry,” she told him, and he could picture her shaking her head again, this time in frustration with herself.

“Why are you sorry?”

“For calling you,” she told him. “I just… I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Are you okay?” he asked, even if he already knew the answer. Again, there was no reply, and he felt that chill creep over him again. “I’m on my way,” he told her. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He heard her mumble something, something that resembled ‘thanks’ but he couldn’t quite hear over the clatter of the phone and the pounding of his heart and his own eagerness to see her and make sure she was still Willow, and then the line was dead.

“Shit!” He whispered to himself as he replaced the receiver, moving the phone unit back to the table, using the few seconds he had spare to run his hands through his hair and over his face, wondering just what the hell he was supposed to do here.

He decided it didn’t really matter as he threw the comforter from him and peeled himself out of the bed, the trail of cold sweat that had run down his spine and soaked into his pyjama pants making the cotton damp against his skin. He went over to the closet, taking out a sweater and throwing it on in the blackened room, cursing when he realised it was on backwards. He crossed the room as he corrected the sweater, moving to the chest of drawers that sat in a corner, and he searched in the dark for that old pair of jeans that were reserved for late night visits to his best friend, until he realised he hadn’t had a pair of those for years, not since high school. He had good jeans that he wore when he took his fiancée out for dinner, he had work jeans that he wore to the site and had spilt paint and ugly blobs of grey cement on, he had everyday jeans for meeting the girls for coffee on a Sunday morning, and he had his patrolling-doesn’t-matter-if-you-get-slime-on-them jeans. He didn’t have Willow’s-upset-and-it’s-scaring-the-crap-out-of-me-and-I-have-see-her jeans.

He grabbed the first pair that came to hand because he didn’t have time to look for anything else, and he quickly removed the cotton pyjama pants he was wearing, pulling the jeans on without underwear because it would have taken too long, and buttoned them up, wincing when something got caught there that really shouldn’t have.

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to assemble it into something that wouldn’t scare a small child senseless if he happened upon one on the way over to the house as he went to the side of the bed, kneeling next to where the comforter was falling. He reached a hand out to Anya’s shoulder, the girl still sleeping, snoring lightly, and he wondered how she could possibly have slept through the conversation he had just had and the phone ringing. He supposed that was why she had voted for the phone to be on his side of the bed.

He shook her shoulder gently, “Anya…” he whispered. When she didn’t stir, he shook her again, a little harder than before. “Ahn?” he asked, and there was a grunt as she pulled the blankets tighter around her. He shook again, a little harder still, “Anya?” he said loudly, his voice too harsh in this quiet room.

Her eyes flew open and she jumped up. “Where are the bunnies?” she yelled, hair in disarray over her face, nightshirt twisted around her body, and her breathing coming hard and fast. She frantically looked around the room, her eyes wide and searching for something utterly terrifying as she finally found him in the dark. “Where are they?” she demanded.

“It’s okay,” he told her, reaching out and straightening her hair so he could see her. “There are no bunnies.”

“Promise?”

“I swear,” he told her, a smile on his face, even if she couldn’t see it.

She visibly relaxed, wiping her forehead with her palm and smiling, albeit embarrassedly, “Okay…” she said, almost just to herself, before she saw his shirt and jeans that looked nothing like the sleeping clothes he usually wore. “What’s going on?” she asked suspiciously. “You look like you’re going out.”

“I am,” he told her.

“I’ve told you before,” she said, “McDonalds isn’t open this late.”

“I’m not going to McDonalds.”

“Well, neither is Burger King.”

“I’m not going to Burger King.”

“And that chicken place you like so much isn’t—”

“Contrary to popular belief,” he interrupted her. “I leave the house for reasons other than food.” He paused, somehow ashamed in some small way of where and why he was going. “I have to go and see Willow.”

“What?” she asked, a look of anger coming over her pretty features. “Why do you need to go and see her?”

“I just…” he began, unsure of what he should tell her. “I just have to, okay?”

“No, not okay,” she told him, her voice rising in pitch. She grabbed the clock from her bedside table and thrust it in his face, the bright red, digital numbers assaulting his eyes and making him draw back and blink against it. “Three a.m., Xander!” she told him. “It’s three a.m.!”

“It’s hardly the first time I’ve gone out at three a.m.,” he pointed out, standing now, feeling the numbness coming into his legs from the lack of blood rushing through them.

“That was for a good reason,” she told him. “There were vampires before. Are there vampires now?”

“No.”

“Then don’t go.”

“I have to.”

“Right, I forgot,” she said bitterly. “Willow is the centre of the universe and you have to run after her. What, does she need you to go over there and break Dawn’s other arm?”

“She didn’t—”

“Whatever!” Anya said bitterly. “Why do you have to go over there?”

“Because she needs me.”

“And you just love that, don’t you?” Anya accused. “Her needing you?”

“What?” he asked her, somewhere between weary and pissed.

“Don’t think I haven’t seen the way you look at her sometimes,” she said. “Like you’re missing out on something. Like you’re just dying for her to need you.”

“Don’t be silly,” he told her, his head somehow lowering, maybe on its own, maybe because of the blush rising up from his neck to find his cheeks to make them feel like they were on fire.

“Do you love her?” Anya asked bluntly.

“You know I do,” he told her. “She’s my best friend.”

“She’s dangerous, Xander.”

“No, she’s not,” he said, shaking his head. “She’s just…”

“Do you love her more than me?” Anya blurted, crossing her arms over her chest and looking up at him with a stern glare.

“Go back to sleep, okay?” he told her, bending to kiss her on the lips and getting her cheek when she turned her face in defiance.

He didn’t say anything more, just turned and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. He walked through the darkened living room, through to the kitchen, grabbing his jacket from the back of one of the dining room chairs and pulling it on. As he got to the door, he slipped on the sneakers that sat next to the counter, and picked up the keys from the glass bowl that sat atop it, palming them as he walked out of the front door. He went out to the car, guilt hanging over his head like a guillotine ready to come down and decapitate him, more than aware of the fact that he hadn’t answered her question.

Anya always knew when he was lying.