Perched on the couch, Xander remembers the comatose Saturdays of childhood, psychedelic superhero fantasies spawned by sugary cereal overdosage. The adolescent elixir was cappuccino, the adolescent nirvana a blend of lipstick, perfume and girl-sweat. No real sweetness there either, though.

Humming softly, Giles putters, then serves tea in the good, from-England teacups. Xander sips the bitter liquid. Slowly.

"You don't care for it?" Giles asks, unsurprised but vaguely apologetic. "There's sugar--"

Xander pictures a slow honeyed kiss. Giles' mouth would taste of time, rest, care. And tea. "Nah." He drinks deep, washing down dreams. "I got sugar to burn."

[end]