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You got the barest brushing of Giles’ lips against yours and then the nurse was back to check you over, leaving the man blustering and embarrassed at almost getting caught. He’d left a moment later and not returned. 

That had been two days ago. 

Since then, you’ve had a visit from both Buffy and Willow… and your mom – who’d only been told you’d had an accident. It was just lucky for you that she was too wasted to delve further into the truth with the doctors. And, no, it didn’t break your heart, or what’s left of it, when she was more concerned about how your father was going to react at having to pay the hospital bill.  

Nope. Not at all. 

You’ve long since gotten used to the idea that your parents cared not a whit for you and were secretly counting down the days until your eighteenth birthday so they could legally kick you out of the house. The two days away from them had been sheer bliss; you even managed to sleep for eight hours straight each night. A first in you don’t know how long. 

Now, as you stare at the door leading to your house, having snuck out of the hospital rather than wait for someone to get you, you can’t help but think why you stay. Sighing, you wonder if you’ve timed your return so that your parents are too drunk to notice your being there. 

You don’t, of course. It’s like your dad has this ingrained sense where you’re concerned – at least when he needs a punching bag. He catches you at the door, your eye catches his fist, and you drop like a sack of potatoes. 

“Your mother says you’ve gone and gotten hurt. Had to spend a few days at the hospital.”  

His words are a drunken complaint, one you easily recognize. You prepare for the worst, because you know it’s coming – a kick, more of his fists. Thankfully there’s nothing in his hands. 

“How do you expect me to pay for that?” he gripes. And sure enough, his foot lands a blow to your middle. He just barely misses your healing stitches. “I’m not. That’s how.” 

After that sound bit of logic – not! – he walks off, leaving you gasping for breath huddled on the floor just inches from the steps. Your stomach is on fire, and you’ve got your arms wrapped protectively around you, praying that your stitches have held. Please, god, let them have held. 

Getting to your feet is a slow, painstaking process. Nausea threatens to overwhelm you. But you dare not throw up… not if you want to live. 

It takes forever, but you eventually manage to climb the stairs to your room. Only then do you remove your hands from your stomach and look down. Breathe a sigh of relief when you notice the lack of blood. 

The decision to leave is easy. You can’t stay there. If you do, it’s only a matter of time before your father ends up killing you. Or you him. 

Deciding where to go on the other hand…  

Well, you’ll figure that out once you’re out of the house. For now, you pack with all possible haste, listening for the sound of footsteps on the stairs as you shove your meager wardrobe into the duffle bag you unearth from the bottom of your closet. A second bag gets all your other worldly possessions – a comic collection you’ll end up pawning off for some extra cash to add to the money you’ve been hoarding from mowing your neighbor’s lawn the last several years, a few CDs, your portable radio, and a few candid photos of you, Willow, and Jesse. Not a lot, but precious all the same. 

Rather than chance going out the front door and encountering your father again, you escape through the window. The two bags go first, landing with a soft thump on the grass. You use the tree as a makeshift ladder and carefully make your way down to the ground. It hurts like hell, but it’s either this or more of your father’s heavy hand. You suck it up and deal with the pain, which surprisingly gets easier as you grab your bags and walk off. 

If you never see your parents again, it’ll be too soon. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

Finding a job isn’t hard, there being no shortage of employers willing to pay someone under the table and completely ignore the fact that you’re underage. When you prove to be reliable, showing up for two weeks straight and refrain from complaining about the endless sea of dishes you’re stuck with cleaning, you even get a raise, and a bonus. And better yet, the cook shows his appreciation by having a plate of dinner boxed up and ready to go when you leave for the night and a clap on the back with a promise of more where that came from if you keep up the good work. 

You smile, nod enthusiastically – free food is way better than paying for it – and hurry back to the cheap motel room you’re renting on a monthly basis. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s yours – the key in your pocket says as much. You wave to the owner as you walk by the office, a kindly older lady that had taken one look at your bedraggled appearance and the two bags you’d held onto like a lifeline and had refrained from asking questions. 

“Hey, Mrs. O!” 

“Hello, Alex!” A smile and a wave before she turns back to her television and the show she’s watching. 

It warms you, her kindness. She’s the only person beside those at your job that you speak to anymore. You’ve stopped going to school. Kind of hard to do that after the whole running away from home thing. So, too, is calling your friends. You just can’t risk it. 

If you feel lonely, well, it’s a small price to pay to be able to sleep through the night, and bonus, no more bruises you have to hide beneath overly large clothes. Maybe tomorrow you’ll ask Mrs. O. if she’d mind picking up a few books from the library, give you something to do besides watch daytime television as you wait to go to work. 

You scarf down your dinner and take a shower, then wash out your clothes in the sink and hang them over the shower curtain holder to dry. You climb naked into bed and turn on the TV, allow the late late show to lull you to sleep. 

That you dream of Giles is a given – you haven’t stopped, not since the first one you had those many weeks ago. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

Another week goes by. Things are going well at work. In between cleaning dishes, the cook talks to you about his job, the art of making that perfect dish. You listen avidly, even if it’s not your thing, because, hey, someone to talk to. 

Back at the motel, you’ve taken to eating lunch with Mrs. O. She was happy to get you a few books from the library, and confessed to being a grade school teacher prior to retiring and buying the motel. You discuss what you read, a surprise on your part given that you really sucked when it came to school and you had the poor grades to prove it. But, the one on one interaction appears to be just what you needed, the informal conversation a lot easier to understand.  

It’s while you’re talking about the latest book you’ve just finished reading that the bell over the office door rings and Mrs. O gets up from the table to see to her customer. 

You hear her say hello, then freeze when you hear Giles’ voice. 

You’ve got to hand it to Mrs. O. She turns on the faux concern and sympathizes with Giles about his lost “friend”.  

“Good looking young man,” she says, like she’s looking at a picture.  

“His name’s Xander. Xander Harris,” Giles says, and there’s a catch in his voice you don’t recognize. You feel bad about just up and disappearing, but, well, no but…  

You had to leave. Your life really had been depending on it. 

“I haven’t seen him, but I do hope you find him,” you hear Mrs. O. say. 

Giles mumbles something unintelligible and a second later the bell over the door sounds again, signaling his departure.  

Only then do you release the breath you’ve been holding.

Mrs. O comes back and you jump to your feet and throw your trash away. 

“Should probably get going,” you say. “Don’t want to be late for work.” 

“Alright, Alex.” The way she says your name tells you she knows, but she’s allowing you your privacy. 

It’s not until you’re at the door do you turn back and ask her uncertainly, “See you tomorrow?” 

“Sure,” she says, and there’s understanding in her eyes. It almost brings you to tears. You leave before that happens and hurry back to your room to change into what you consider your work clothes – the oldest shirt and pants you own and won’t care if they get dirty. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

Just before you let yourself into your room, the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Being a child of the hellmouth, you glance around nervously. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, and no one is following you, but you don’t dawdle as you pull out your key and slip inside.  

Dinner tonight is spaghetti and meatballs, a huge heaping plateful. Just what a growing boy like you needs. A shower and washing of your work clothes completes your nightly ritual and you fall into bed exhausted.  

The cycle repeats itself for another week –up around noon, lunch with Mrs. O., work, creepy feeling you get just before you let yourself into your room for the night, erotic dream about Giles. 

The next day you leave your room to give Mrs. O. next month’s rent. You still can’t believe you’ve been on your own for an entire month and haven’t had to go crawling back home on your hands and knees. Even more surprising is that you’ve managed to save up some money. Not much, but enough that you haven’t had to pawn your comics like you thought you would. 

You’re already fantasizing about the box of Twinkies you’re going to splurge on at the grocery store that you nearly trip over the person standing just outside your door. 

“Giles?” you stammer. 

“Xander.” 

“What are you doing here? I mean…” 

“How did I find you?” Giles finishes. 

“Uh yeah.” You shift from one foot to the other and glance around to see if Willow and Buffy are nearby. You really don’t want to deal with either one of them. You really don’t want to deal with Giles either. You’ve got this new life, and yeah, it’s not the best, but it’s far better than what you had.  

“Look, I’ve got to go,” you say before Giles can answer you and start to walk off. 

“Xander.” Giles’ hand closes around your arm, stopping you in your tracks. “Please.” 

“I can’t.” Darned if doesn’t sound like you’re on the verge of tears. Dammit! How did he find you? You try to pull free but can’t. Then his hand is gone, and he’s pulling you into his arms. Holding you as he murmurs an apology over and over.

The End...?

Of course not. Here’s the next in the series, called A Lesson In Hope.

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