It wasn't his fault. He knows that. Buffy knows that. Anyone else would know that if they knew what happened. It wasn't his fault. He knows it. He just can't accept it.
She walks him home from the zoo. He shuffles and looks at his feet, and she doesn't say anything, so the walk is awkward and quiet. At home, he manages to get to his room without running into his parents, thank god, so he shuts and locks the door, and collapses on his bed.
He's exhausted. He can't remember having ever been so tired. He can hear muffled yells from his father outside the door, and he folds a pillow over his ears because he doesn't want to hear that right now.
He takes the pillow off when he realizes the yelling is better than his thoughts.
He remembers it. Vividly. He knows it wasn't him, that he probably wasn't even there – he's not quite sure how possession works – but it feels real. It feels vivid in his mind, bleeding into everything.
"Xander, let go of me!"
"Is that what you really want?"
He had known, even as the hyena, that it wasn't. Buffy didn't want something like that, and she wasn't meant to. It was about him, what he wanted, about taking what she wouldn't give.
He feels sick. How could he do that to her? It feels sick and horrible, why should she ever trust him again? More than that, it feels exciting. Intriguing. Dangerous. Titillating.
He starts hating himself at that moment.
It replays in his head, over and over. He doesn't want to see it, and a little bit of him does, but it's showing anyway.
She slams against the wall, eyes wide with fear.
"Now do you want to hurt me?"
He wants to cry, but he can't. What he did was... he hates himself, and he hates the feel of the blood pooling to his cock when the scene plays out in his mind. He tries to shake it away, but he has nowhere near the energy denial requires.
"Come on now, slayer. I like it when you're scared."
His pulse races. No, what he did there was sick and wrong, he wasn't himself, and it's just some leftover hyena thing that's making him think about it and want more. He wouldn't hurt Buffy. He wouldn't like the thought of hurting Buffy. He just wouldn't.
He shuffles a little, because his cock is not listening to his brain. He doesn't want to give in, to enjoy what he did, but he's hard as hell and it hurts.
He grabs his cock and squeezes hard, fast and rough. He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood and whimpers when he comes. He looks down at the mess on his bed.
Then he throws up.