For seven years his job's been clear (besides
The comic role, wherein he eats the bugs):
He gets them out. Whatever Big Bad creeps
To Buffy, bent on taking out the world
Right after midnight snack of helpless fare,
The redshirt passerby chained up by feet,
By wrists, grotesquely dangling, Bosch-like, in
Some undiscovered canyon. Buffy fights,
While Willow magics, Giles finds the truth.
And Xander does his part: He gets them out.
Flubbed once, but once too many. Harvest came
And Xander, chatting with dead Jesse, dropped
His cue. How many died that night who should
Have lived if Xander'd done his job? So now,
Religiously he rescues, the backstage man
Who gets them out while Buffy does the job.
That it took seven years to take him down
Is somewhat flattering, he knows. A troll
Once smashed his hand, but bones can knit. And did.
But eyes, now... Willow, weeping by his bed
Could maybe heal it up, but for her fear --
No. That's not fair. If Willow had the skill
To knit his bones and run new nerves, to send
His capillaries rushing with new blood,
Then Tara'd not be dead. That much was clear.
He wondered if he'd done his duty, blind
Fool though he was. Was Kennedy alive?
If Willow lost another, even just
A crush, would she survive? Would she stay here,
Still weeping by his bedside? Xander thought
Not, rather. Good, then. Seemingly he'd done
his bit: he'd got them out.
Cold Comfort, Xan.