Title: We Have Just Lost Cabin Pressure
Author: Lint
Email: CrashDarby@aol.com
Pairing: Wait and See
Disclaimer: All Buffy folk belong to Joss, Mutant Enemy, and The WB. Tyler Durden and all Fight Club references belong to 20th Century Fox and Chuck Palahniuk.
Rating: R
Summary: Xander gets a Tyler Durden of his very own. Crossover with Fight Club.
Author's Notes: For Bree and Donna, for getting me hooked on the movie (the book was all me), and your constant support.


It's funny how different the world seems from five stories up with a gun pressed into the back of your head and a knife to your throat. When you're in a position like this, the smallest little details of your day suddenly become arbitrary. Remembering if you put on clean socks, if you applied deodorant, if you shaved. Little questions you ask yourself in the morning. You couldn't possibly leave the house if any one of them came up negative.

Do I have a zit? Are my shoes tied? Does my hair look okay? Do I have morning breath? Where are my keys? Am I wearing underwear?

When the sidewalk spins below you like it's doing for me, when you have cold steel kissing your skull, and even more steel tickling your throat. The little things aren't even in the picture. Right now I'm not thinking if I smell funny. I'm not thinking of what I could have said to that guy that cut me off earlier.

Right now I'm thinking that the knife threatening the integrity of my jugular is a little excessive. There isn't any real use for it. Throwing me off the side of the building, or pulling the trigger would kill me just the same. I would tell him this, but I have to be careful not to move my neck muscles. Even swallowing would cut me. My Adam's apple is tickled by the sharp edge, bobbing carefully below as my breath goes in and out in sharp quick intakes. My teeth are gritted together, and I'm not too eager to laugh from the tickle.

I feel the warm trickle of my own blood dripping down my neck and I know that I'm losing the fight with Mr. Knife. A low gargling growl escapes my throat, and I hear him chuckling behind me. He leans closer to my ear and mumbles something about how we're not all-beautiful unique flowers. That we are shit. The same bit of apple core and lettuce leaf in the compost pile of the world. He was always saying things like that. At first I thought he had some self-esteem issues. Or that he had a traumatic childhood.

In time I learned he was serious about it. He believed in the things he said. He wanted me to believe it too. He wanted the world to believe it too.

So here we are.

On the roof of parking garage, a plunge, a bullet, and an edge all waiting to take my life.

"You have to understand man," he says letting up on the knife a little. "You have to let go if you want to change the world. You can't alter anything you keep your hands tied down too. You aren't your job. You aren't your car. You aren't your fucking work boots. You aren't that goddamn jackhammer you pound all day."

I gag out a response of agreement. I just want him to put the knife down so I can breathe.

"You know I'm right Xander," he says. "You know I'm right."

He puts the knife down and I gasp and take in a few big gulps of air. The gun is still pointed at my head, and the sidewalk still looms below, but at least I can breathe. He turns me around so that my lower back is now teetering along the edge, and I see that crazy grin he always has. He puts the gun under my chin.

I don't ask him why he wants to kill me. But he knows that's what I'm thinking.

"I don't want to kill you man," he says moving the gun away. "I want to set you free."

I tell him he has a funny idea of freedom.

He just laughs and itches his forehead with the barrel of the gun.

"Still holding on," he says. "Can't let go if you're chained down."

I tell him I'm not chained to anything.

He laughs again and waves the gun around like a laser pointer.

He points north.

"Your job."

He points south.

"Your car."

He points east.

"Your apartment is taken care of."

He points west.

"Your life."

I ask him what that has to do with anything. He growls in frustration, shoving the gun back under my chin.

"Have you been listening at all?"

I close my eyes and think about the last few months of my life. I think about how a hitchhiker single handedly flipped my world upside down. I think about the gun under my jaw. I think about the sweat beading down my forehead. I think about my new best friend and his finger on the trigger.

I think about how I got into this position.

Let me tell you how I met Tyler Durden.