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Xander likes Giles sad. Lately he looks sadder every day, smaller, collapsing like a snowman in the sun. Xander rubs his back, brushes his arm as casually as forethought can arrange. Giles' tiny skin-flinch every time defies interpretation.

Xander likes Giles bleeding, concussed, tortured, needing comfort. No flinching then; he accepts touch as simply as a bandage or an aspirin.

Xander wants his own concussion, his own liberating pain. He wants to rest an aching head on Giles' shoulder while cradled in his lap. Wants a kiss to make it better.

He wants Giles to notice how badly he's bleeding.