Lilac City

by Nwhepcat

www.echonyc.com/~stax/Buffy/nwhepcat/index.htm

Lilac City 1: the Loner

Summary: After the fall of Sunnydale, Xander resigned as the heart of the Scoobies, creating a solitary life away from the supernatural wars. He manages a supermarket in Spokane, stays sober, keeps to himself. But now, five years later, his quiet life is about to change forever, in ways he can't possibly imagine.
Rating: R
Author Notes: This story began with a drabble that ran away with me, and was originally serialized in Live Journal, Dickens-style. Its structure and flow stems from that, and I've left those alone. Thanks to all the readers who chimed in with support, questions, corrections, meta, arguments and little tidbits that added to the whole -- and sometimes pushed the story in surprising new directions. I never thought this ride would last so long, or that I'd have so many great people traveling with me. Thanks to Luddite Robot for handing me an idea that branched in so many different directions in two different stories and for other helpful tidbits; Malkin Grey for the help in sorting out Ieuan Goch and his history; Moosesal for the Lorca poems; Superplin for Italian help (Xander's butchery of Italian here is his and mine alone). Many thanks to Automatic Badgirl, Herself and Luddite Robot for listening to me work through the story and helping me find my way, one chapter at a time. A huge thank you to my anonymous luthier friend who went above and beyond the call with on-the-spot beta services and many other forms of help. Xander sounds much more like a luthier because of you. Anyone interested in the art of instrument making should check out the Musical Instrument Makers Forum at www.mimf.com, an incredible resource.
Story Notes: Though Spokane is a real city and most places mentioned here are real (plus a couple of people in walk-on roles), this is an imaginary version where a certain grocery is open all night and other anomalies exist. All inaccuracies regarding Spokane and its haunts are mine. Spoilers: All of BtVS and AtS, and early s3 "Alias." (One small joke, not a crossover.) Warnings: language, het, character death, discussion of alcoholism and drug use; much abuse of nicotine, not to mention caffeine and sugar.
Disclaimer: All BtVS and AtS characters belong to Joss, Mutant Enemy and various corporate entities. I'm just having a bit of fun with them. The poems and songs mentioned herein belong to their authors and/or copyright holders; no copyright infringement is intended in any case. All places, people, news organizations and the like from Spokane are used in a purely fictional sense. But guys: you might want to take that big ol' vampire invitation off your tourist map -- some beings you don't want to "just fit right in and make yourself at home."

Xander watches the evening news, not drinking. They're showing a perp walk of a guy they picked up in Portland, suspicion of a series of murders. All prostitutes and meth addicts. Guys like this one always go hunting for women like them. Ones they think no one will miss. Often they're right.

Now it's the obligatory interviews with his neighbors. Quiet, kept to himself, mostly. Always seemed like a nice guy. Straight out of central casting, these neighbors, whether it's Sunnydale or Spokane. With lines scripted by Magic 8-Ball. Well, actually there's less variation.

He suddenly realizes that his neighbors could mouth the pretty much the same lines. Pleasant enough guy, but works third shift, we don't see him much. Keeps to himself. Never see any visitors at his house, male or female. Could be he's shy about the eyepatch.

The people he knows from the rooms don't know that much more about him, and they'd never spill it to a reporter.

His coworkers at Rosauers could add a little. He likes movies, though he usually waits to rent. Has a quiet, sly sense of humor. Never pulls rank, never yells, but he never has a problem getting people to do as he asks. Third doesn't scare him, even after the armed robbery last year.

Xander flips off the TV. Usually he goes to a morning meeting when he gets off work, but tonight feels like a good idea. He can hit the 6:30 if he hurries.

He slips a fresh pack from the carton. Yeah, yeah, he's gonna cut down any day now. But the 6:30 is notoriously smoky. If he can't chain smoke, he'll sit there the whole time wishing he could. He grabs his jacket and keys and heads for the door.

He sits in the back, as he always does, mainlining the nicotine and caffeine. He says his name when the time comes, but passes on the commentary.

Chickenshit. He was going to do something different this time.

So he forces himself to stick around a little while after the meeting breaks up. He nods and responds to the regulars who say hello, but he can't dredge up anything conversational. It's hard to believe he spent his first twenty-two years a complete motormouth.

He's juggling a coffee, a cigarette and an Entenmann's donut, about to polish off 2/3 of them and make his escape, when the girl approaches. He's seen her the last few meetings, but only from a distance. She dresses in vintage-shop stuff -- fingerless lace gloves and the like -- and has choppy red hair about the shade of Willow's. Little silver nose ring. She looks to be twenty, twenty-one.

"Hi Alex."

"Hi -- sorry, I'm bad with names --" Not true. It's just that every time she introduces herself, his mind shoots off on a Willow tangent -- and then the guilt tangent -- and by the time he gets it back on track, her name has come and gone.

Willow, it sounds like she says.

"What?"

"W-I-L-L-A," she says. "As in Cather. Pity the poor child of English professors. Though it could be worse. They could've gone for Eudora. Or George."

Sometimes the universe -- if you like going around claiming the universe does anything but expand in a rush toward its eventual heat death -- likes to make its point with a cartoon anvil. Okay, so he'll call Willow. As soon as he gets home from work in the morning.

"No, it's a nice name," he says. "It's nice to meet you." Nice. This is how colorless his life has become. Not that he notices it very often (it takes other people for that). Lately when it comes to his attention, he realizes he likes it this way. He looks around for a trash can, tosses out his coffee cup and the rest of the donut.

"I mostly see you at the morning meetings," she says in a rush, like it's easier to talk to him when he's turned away.

"Yeah, I work third, so I usually come after." There's also the benefit that your fellow meeting-goers are probably living, breathing citizens. He's not heard much by way of supernatural weirdness in Spokane, but old habits die hard.

"Oh."

This could get more painfully boring. He could describe the route he drives to work. It's actually tempting. Mingling is overrated, he's just decided.

"Listen," she says on another gust, "I was wondering if you'd be my sponsor."

"Me?"

"Yeah."

"Well, that's usually not done. The male-female thing. Sometimes it gets weird --"

She twists her hair between her finger and thumb. "I know, but -- I've kinda paid attention. You've never given off any kind of vibe that you're trolling or anything."

No, it's more the leave-me-the-hell-alone vibe. Which doesn't seem to be working right now. "Yeah, but why me? I never even say anything."

"Yeah, but you're solid. I saw you get your chip the other week. Listen, my whole life has been cluttered with glib guys who have charm out the ass, who love to hear themselves talk. I'm really wary of that. You're just doing it, you're not yapping about it."

"So what is it you're expecting? You call me when you're in trouble and listen to silence on the other end?"

Surprisingly, she laughs. "Bonus. Sense of humor."

"Except for the fact that I'm really not kidding." He softens his tone, just a shade. "Look, it's ... flattering, I guess. But if you've got guy issues especially, you should be asking one of the women."

"Maybe I'll learn a lot more from a man who's different from the kind I usually fall in with."

Xander digs his keys from his pocket. "I wish I could help you. I've got some errands before work --"

"Okay, so what about coffee? Just this one time."

What the hell. This once he won't be Keeps-to-Himself Guy. Just to prove -- well, nothing. Because he's planning to revert to form after one cup.

It's just that she reminds him of Will, that's all.

The diner that took over the old IHOP is the closest restaurant, and they both head there on autopilot. Xander hasn't done this in a long time, the coffee and talking after the coffee and listening. Not since he'd come with his sponsor.

He's no Patrick. He won't know the right thing to say when she's two seconds away from her first drink. He'll tell her that, pay for their coffee and go.

His choice would have been a booth in the farthest corner, but Willa-with-an-A pushes ahead and installs herself at a window table. Xander hates window tables -- a choice has to be made whether he's going to be more aware of what's happening inside, or out in the street. She's left him the side of the booth that means he'll have more of a view outside. He hesitates, wondering if he wants to clue her in, say he'd like to move to another table. Doesn't seem worth it; he slides into the booth.

When did his comfort zone get so fucking small?

She takes the menu the waitress offers. Xander waves his off, hoping Willa-with-an-A will get the point. "We just came for coffee," he tells the waitress.

Willa, apparently, came for corned beef hash and eggs. She turns her attention on him once they're alone again, waiting for pearls.

He gazes out at the street. It's started to rain, and the cars hiss as they pass. It's a busy intersection, cars pulling up to the first stoplight after the I-90 offramp.

"So. What do you do?"

"I work. I come home. I watch television. I don't drink."

"I meant for a living."

He laughs. "What, doesn't that sound like living?" Xander nods his thanks at the waitress when she brings their coffee. "I manage a supermarket."

"I work at a record store."

There's a long pause.

"What happened to your eye?" she asks abruptly. The conversational defibrillator paddles.

"A guy gouged it out with his thumb."

She sucks in her breath, looks a little green. That's the risk of using the electroshock. Sometimes you get a little hit of it yourself. "I'm s--" She bites back the apology, which almost makes Xander want to like her. "I guess that's when you decided to stop drinking."

He opens a little tub of creamer, dumps it into his coffee. "Actually, that's kinda when I decided to start." Not precisely true, but close enough for practical purposes.

The waitress slides Willa's plate in front of her. "Oh," Willa says, regarding the pair of over-easy eggs nestled in with the hash and going a little greener. She pushes the hash over them with her fork, but doesn't take a bite. "Well, I guess the other guy --"

"Sober as a judge, the both of us."

"Wow. What makes someone do something like that?"

"That guy's head is one I don't need to spend any time in. Could we bag this subject now?"

"Sure." She flushes bright red, and now she really reminds him of Will. "Sorry." She ducks her head, gaze on her plate, and tucks into the hash. "So when did you come to Spokane?"

He signals the waitress for a refill, though he's not sure why. He was going to bail after one. "What makes you think I didn't grow up here?"

"Baaaaaag," she says.

"What?"

"That's not how we say it. You said 'Could we baaag this subject.'"

"No I didn't." He doesn't talk like that; she sounds like Spike trying to pass as American: Xanderrrrrr.

"Well that's how it sounds to me. Northwesterners say 'bag.'"

He hears it as beg. Not exactly, but the precise difference is too subtle for him to pin down. He makes her repeat it a few times. Why has he never noticed this in close to five years? He works in a fucking supermarket.

"Where you from originally?"

"California."

"Your car break down?"

Wait. How did he get thrown so off balance in this conversation? He'd been coming out ahead with the eye thing, but now he feels like a boxer just two good shots from hitting the mat. "My car?"

"It's a joke. Californians are always moving to North Idaho. Why would you want to live in Spokane?"

He twitches a smile. "Boo Radley's?"

"Right. The importance of quick access to Devil Duckies and Magic 8-Ball keychains cannot be underestimated."

"For me it's the action figures." Jesus. Six words that sound almost indistinguishable from the old Xander. The Xander who'd had a girl he'd loved (and lost, and still loved), friends he still spoke to, work that meant something to him. Dead Xander.

He scoots out of the booth, digs in his pockets for money and keys. "I just realized, I've gotta get going."

"Alex --"

"Sorry. There's a place. It's going to close, and I forgot --" He drops a ten on the table and leaves.

It's driving him infuckingsane. Beg beg beg beg beg. He made a surreptitious survey of the checkers when he came on, playing distracted: "You sure you have enough ... um ... uh ..."

Begs?

Yeah, those.

Now he can't stop noticing it.

At least some of the time it keeps his mind off whatever the hell was happening earlier. After he'd left Willa, he went home and spent a good ten minutes wishing fervently for a drink to deaden the memories before they got raw and painful again. Then he called Patrick. It had been a long time since they'd had that kind of conversation, but Patrick was as solid as always. Xander got through the longing, chatted a little while (How 'bout those Zags?) then got dressed for work.

How come it's not the Zegs?

Dress pants, white shirt, tie. Nametag.

He thinks about Cordy, her rage (fear) when he'd stumbled on her working as a shopgirl: That's right, I'm a nametag person now.

Nameteg?

The left eye's been watering a lot. Xander locks himself in the washroom, uses his eyedrops. Thinks about Willa's question. Why is he living in Spokane?

Uncle Rory had spent some time here, a couple of decades ago. Xander remembers hearing him talk about it when he'd come around. He doesn't much remember what he said, but Rory hated it here, which had seemed like a high recommendation.

The name had surfaced in his attention again a few years back. Xander had idly picked up a book Willow-with-an-Ow had been reading, about a jazz guy from the big band era who'd settled in Spokane, and when he died the coroner discovered something the guy's five wives hadn't -- he was a woman.

Talk about close to the chest.

Spokane had seemed like a good place to hang onto a secret.

It was a place where none of the Scoobies would just happen to be passing through, where the airfares and schedules were brutal enough to discourage much travel for the sake of meddling. Close enough to Seattle if he felt like getting good and lost in a crowd, closer still to Idaho if he wanted to get some serious aloneness.

He shuts himself in his tiny office with a pile of invoices and some other paperwork, and manages to get through his shift. (He's a manager. It's what he does.) Makes a stop at Rocket Bakery on the way home for decaf and breakfast, drives home.

Xander turns on the television. Matt and Katie are talking about the serial killer they caught in Portland yesterday. He's on a first-name basis with them, would be one of those people, like his mother, who talk about them as if they're acquaintances, except for the fact that he doesn't talk to anyone. That was one of the things that had driven his old man batshit about her. All her opinions about world events or entertainment were filtered through the scripted inanities of television personalities. Though to be fair, why not? They could at least to be relied upon for a civil word in the morning. More than you could ever say for Tony.

He grabs for the remote, silences them. His chest aches -- he supposes he should stop having burritos on his lunch break.

Willow -- he'd promised himself he'd call her when he got in.

She'll be out, he's sure. But he picks up the phone and dials.

She picks up on the first ring. "Xander?" She repeats it like a new vocabulary word in a language she's just started studying. "What's -- Xander, is everything okay?"

"Fine, everything's fine. I'm just returning your call."

Her voice turns wry. "Which one?"

"I know. I decided I'd make it up to you. If this is a bad time, though --"

"It's a perfect time. My first class isn't till 2:30." She's halfway through her five-year doctoral thing.

He winds her up, lets her go: "Tell me what's going on."

Xander listens to Willow's voice, watches Katie's lips move. One of them is loving grad school, is stoked about her research work and the classes she's teaching. Ten years it's taken Will to come full circle to something he could see their junior year. He's never had that kind of certainty about his own life. There's much less, of course, to be certain of.

She fills him in on the others: Buffy's still in London working with Giles, but come summer she's taking off two months to go to New Zealand, Australia and Papua New Guinea. She's got a slayer from PNG, Willow says, who's giving her the grand tour of the jungles. "I know she wants to do Antarctica, too, but there's a lot of red tape involved."

Giles is good, renegade watcher now running the Council with a lot less bullshit, more compassion. Faith is good, slaying now and again, teaching self-defense in one of those serious kick-ass courses. Andrew's Andrew -- Xander tunes out, actually, but dials back in to hear Will's had a recent postcard from Oz, who's been occasionally in touch since he heard about Sunnydale. Willow's dating again, but there's nobody serious.

"What about you, Xander? How are you doing?"

"Managing." It's their joke -- well, his, and it's never been all that funny. "Nothing much that's new." He hates this part. "Work's fine. Still keeping on the straight and narrow, going to meetings."

Willow waits, but that's all he has to report. "That's it, the whole eight months?"

"Well, one of our suppliers went out of business, which means we've been scrambling. And four of us on third are planning to sign up for Hoopfest."

"What's that, the pool for the college basketball thing?"

"That's over. No, it's a tournament. They close down the streets downtown and set up half courts, and there's 8,000 games played in one weekend. It's kind of cool."

"Wow. Neat." Her voice warms a bit; he knows it's because he's showed a little burst of passion about something, but he also knows she's lost. "So, you're into basketball."

"Not especially. We just thought Hoopfest would be fun." Silence descends again.

"Christ, Xander, we used to talk for an hour about the stuff that happened in just one day. And usually after we'd spent most of it together. Is this all you can dredge up for eight months?"

He clicks on the TV's sound again. "What the fuck do you want, Will? This is it. I work, I come home, I go to meetings. I'm not working on developing a new theory of -- whatever the hell it was you were talking about. I'm not saving the world, or even creating the bureaucracy necessary for saving the world."

"Well, why not?"

"What?"

"There's room for you. There always has been."

"What, the Council has an employment program? They need a mailroom guy?"

"You piss me off," she says, her voice clipped and tight.

"Join the fucking club."

"I mean it. Poor Xander, you didn't go to college. You've gone right back to where you were during the Year of Shitty Jobs, except yay you, you've kept the same shitty job for, what four years?"

"Knock it off, Will."

"Your life's going to waste -- you're going to waste, and I hate seeing it."

"Nobody's making you watch."

"Xan, do you think this is what Anya would want? You're not the only one who --"

That's all he hears. He whirls and pitches the phone right through Katie Couric's face.

He sits on the floor a while, hands laced behind his neck, elbows on his knees. Not thinking. He hears the distant ring of the extension in the bedroom, but it doesn't really register as something related to him in any way.

There's no way he's going to sleep after this, so after a while he gets up and drives to Huckleberry's. He might live on frozen dinners and deli takeout, but at least he goes with the organic stuff, except when he's at work. He's pushed his cart down one aisle before he realizes he's still wearing the nametag and slips it into his pocket. He's cruising the third when he runs into Willa-with-an-A. Great. His cup runneth over.

"Alex, hey." Well, here's someone who's glad to see him, though he's not sure why. "God, I'm sorry about yesterday."

"No reason for you to be sorry, Eudora. That was totally me."

She breaks into a grin at Eudora. "Well, I sure didn't mean for you to buy me dinner. Let me get you breakfast." She gestures toward the cafe at the other end of the store.

"Listen, Willa." He makes his voice gentle. "If you're needing someone right now, as a mentor -- you should run."

"Actually, I'm doing good. Morning's always my best time, and I just got out of a meeting. This is strictly as a friend -- which it looks like you could use right now."

"I don't think it's such a good idea."

"I'm telling you. I've got my weaknesses, but sponging up my friends' problems is not one of them. I give great advice. It's just my own life I suck at." She touches his arm. "C'mon. Coffee and a scone, at least."

Friend. There's a word he doesn't hear much in his daily life, and here it is twice in thirty seconds. "Yeah, okay, if you're sure."

She's sure. The omelet bar isn't on since it's a weekday, but they get each get a vegetarian fritatta and find a table.

Her chocolate-raspberry coffee wafts his way. "Flavored coffee," he says. "The umbrella drink of the reformed."

The nose ring quirks up when she grins. "I drink my share of battery acid."

"I bet you do."

"So what's your drama? Why should I run from you?"

Xander pushes some egg around with his fork, considering. "Fight with a friend," he says at last.

Willa's gaze flicks to the eyepatch.

"Argument," he clarifies. "Telephone. Girl."

"Friend?" she says, dubious.

"Lesbian."

"Right." She pops a garnish-grape into her mouth. "What about?"

"On the subtext level, a little 'you don't call,' a little 'you don't talk when you do call.' The main level, I'm wasting my life. She's all fired up about what she does, and since I'm not, I'm living all wrong."

"What does get you fired up?"

"That's the wrong question."

"Why?"

"What I do is what I do. There's no point worrying about whether it excites me. It keeps me on an even keel, keeps me sober."

Willa tweezes another grape between her thumb and forefinger. "You think the only thing that'll do that is a boring crap job?"

Xander sets down his fork. "My best friend for the past twenty years just tried laying this horseshit on me, and I didn't go for it. What the hell makes you think you have some special insight?"

"I don't," she says. "I'm just asking. It's something I'm interested in, what with the English prof parents. My mom teaches a class that explores the whole addiction/creativity thing."

"Why do you assume I'm creative?"

"Because I think almost everyone is. You don't have to write a book or a symphony or paint or choreograph. You can cook for your friends or tell jokes or monkey with engines or start a flower patch. The things that get people going are mostly creative, don't you think?"

"NASCAR racing," he says.

Willa laughs, a startlingly loud sound for such a small girl. "It's creative for somebody. The guys who put those cars together, who keep reworking the safety gear. Those fans who see Dale Earnhardt's number in the markings on a goat. Well, okay, that last one's a stretch. Actually, this is one I'll have to hash over with my mom. If you look at stock car racing as an art, it's one that would never have existed without booze. It started out with a bunch of bootleggers rigging their cars so the cops couldn't catch 'em, then getting together to see whose was fastest."

He finishes his decaf. "This is proof that I need to get home and sleep. I've been up so long I'm having a hallucination about a girl with a nose ring who can talk about NASCAR history. As art. What's frightening is she makes it sound sort of interesting."

She grins again. "There's plenty more scary where that came from."

"Then we'll have to do this again sometime, Eudora."

He considers Willa's question as he drives home with the groceries. Does he believe the life he leads is the only thing between him and the bottle?

Maybe not the only thing.

But it's a thing he knows works.

The landscape and climate here are nothing like Sunnydale; there's little here to remind him of Anya. Nightlife means going out to hear Too Slim and the Taildraggers once in a blue moon, not packing a fistful of stakes on a stroll through the cemetery. No one asks him how Buffy's doing, or looks at him with pity when he shows up alone at another gathering, damn few ask about his eye.

Why change anything?

The memory of working with wood is almost a physical sensation in his hands. (Used to be calluses there, but they've long grown soft.) That used to fire him up.

He'd never expected it, just showed up in shop class because it was required if you were a boy, same as the girls had to do home ec. He'd thought all this had been abolished as medieval, but Principal Snyder was nothing if not a proud upholder of the traditions of the Dark Ages. Xander had walked in planning a dozen ways of subverting the lesson plan, but that first whiff of cut lumber changed everything. It touched some quiet place deep inside him.

He'd loved, as it turned out, the construction work, but even more he'd loved making something with his own hands, something he'd created on his own from start to finish. Dawn's jewelry box. Buffy's weapons chest. He'd made a jewelry box for Anya too, to give her on their wedding night, but --

Jesus.

This is what keeps him in his cocoon, his numbed routine.

Xander rounds the corner onto his street and hits the brake.

A patrol car sits in his drive, and the front door of his house is open.

There's a cop standing in his yard talking to one of the neighbors. (Seems like a nice guy. Quiet. Keeps to himself.)

He pulls along the curb and gets out of the car. Dustin, the neighbor, and the cop turn as he approaches. "Was there a break-in?" This neighborhood's pretty safe, but there's always the possibility of meth heads wandering by looking for extra cash.

"No sir. We had a call, went in to check on you. Said you were on the phone and she heard a loud crash, and that she hasn't been able to reach you since."

"Oh. That. Willow tends to panic sometimes --"

"She must've sounded pretty credible, or we wouldn't be here. My partner's inside -- why don't we move it in there?"

Xander exchanges "see you later" noises with Dustin and accompanies the officer into his house. Glass glitters on the carpet in the trapezoid of light slanting from the doorway. The rest of the room is shadowed, gloomy, and the contrast makes it seem squalid to him. It's a nice house, but something about the combination of dark and cops makes him feel like he's back in his parents' basement with the disco ball, the faint smell of mildew and laundry soap. He tugs the curtain pull to let in more light. "I work third," he says, "so I was pretty much settling in to sleep."

"Hey, partner," the cop -- Worth, his nametag says -- calls out. "We got our homeowner." Worth regards the 27" of scrap electronics hunkering in the corner of the room. "Someone did a number on your set there."

Xander wonders why his worst moments tend to be public events. He scrapes his shoe along the glass scattered on the carpet, trying to gather it into a pile. "That would be me." Briefly he tries to think of a plausibly innocent reason for his phone to be inside the trashed innards of his TV, but he decides it's not worth the effort.

The creak of leather announces the appearance of the other cop from the back of the house. "Mr. Harris?"

"Yes. Sorry you came out for nothing. My friend overreacted a bit."

The cop smiles. He seems vaguely familiar. "We're just as happy not to find a body, generally."

"I guess."

"Your friend apparently said you both worked for a private investigator in California," he says. Well, that's one way of describing it. "She said you sometimes dealt with disgruntled individuals, so she was concerned." He casts an acute glance at Xander's eyepatch.

"Well, that's been a few years. Once in a while I get a shopper who's not happy about having to take a raincheck, but nobody who's willing to torch my house or anything rash."

"That's where I've seen you," he says. "Rosauers, right?"

Xander nods.

"How's everything else going?" The cop -- this one's named Straley -- eyes the jagged cave that used to be the television.

How's everything else? They're in chitchat mode now?

"You making your meetings and all?"

Oh. Fucking great. No doubt Straley saw his copy of the Big Book back in the bedroom. Thanks, Willow, for laying my life open to the scrutiny of the local law. Straley, though, he doesn't seem like such a bad guy.

"Good, it's going pretty good." He gestures at the TV. "That's what I did instead. Old friend, old argument, instant of stupidity. Expensive lessons usually work pretty well on me, so you won't be seeing this again."

Straley shoves his big Maglite into his belt. "Hell, I've been that pissed off, I just didn't know you could get there without kids. We'll just report we looked around, talked to you, and everything was fine."

"Might want to call your friend," Worth says as he follows his partner to the door.

"I'll do that, thanks."

"Take it easy."

"You too, officers. Thanks again." Somehow he manages not to choke on the words. He closes the door behind them, pulls the eyepatch off and heads back to his bedroom.

The bedside phone starts to ring as he's jerking at his tie, loosening his collar. He lets it ring, but so does she. Finally he lifts the receiver.

"The cops just left, Will. Give 'em a call, they'll tell you I'm fine."

He lets the receiver fall back into the cradle, then pulls the cord out of the phone jack.

He works his shift at the market, hits the morning meeting, but slips out before Willa makes her way over. At home he tries having his morning routine, but without a good half-hour to an hour of televised yammer, the sleep thing is not going to happen. Xander rinses out his coffee cup and heads out, to Dutch's.

He hasn't been to Dutch's in years, not since he stopped burning through the insurance money. A good few of his possessions have come and gone through Dutch's doors, some in his company, some leaving with strangers. None of them were that important -- the objects he cares about, that have any memories attached to them, were reduced to rubble years ago.

He parks across Main, in front of the bookstore, and feeds the meter. Crosses against the light toward the marquee sign that always teases a grin from him:

Surly staff
Poor selection
High prices
Terrible quality.

Two electronic tones announce his arrival, and the guy behind the counter looks up. It's no one he recognizes, and he feels a flash of gratitude.

"Help you?"

Xander tells the guy he's looking for a new TV, and they start with the male ritual of discussing features. His head doesn't much care, but his mouth keeps up his part, much the same as he used to recite the Pledge of Allegiance in school while his brain was occupied with elaborate sexual fantasies.

He selects one of the newer but less elephantine models, pays and tells the guy he'll bring his car around. The traffic is heavier now, and he waits at the corner as cars surge by. He thinks he catches a flash of bright red hair just outside Auntie's, but a big panel truck cuts off his view.

As the light changes he crosses, trying to pick up that flash of brilliance, but it's enough of a job keeping track of moving vehicles. He takes another look as he unlocks his car, and sees a glint of coppery red appear and then vanish, into the bar and grill on the next block.

"Shit," he mutters. He's not sure it's Willa, but on the off-chance, he pockets his keys and heads for the bar.

She's inside before he catches up to her, and he makes the plunge from bright sunlight to serious gloom. Blinking, he spots movement, calls after it: "Hey, Eudora."

The movement stops.

There's music playing, but it's not very loud. Xander doesn't have to raise his voice. "What do you want with this place?"

Willa turns, trying to put on a brave face, but it's not working. "Alex," she says. She swipes at her eyes with the back of the hand that's not clutching a paper sack from Auntie's bookstore. "Ah, fuck."

"My friends actually call me Xander Ah Fuck."

This pulls a snort of laughter from her, but this apparently involves snot, because she makes a desperate grab for a bar napkin someone left behind, and wipes her nose.

"I just paid for a new TV across the street. I could use some help getting it loaded and then into my house, if you're free. I'll even buy you a flavored coffee, completely ridicule-free."

Willa hesitates and he wishes she'd get on with it. The mingled smells of stale beer and cigarette smoke are working on cellular memory, making him long for a glass of something amber in one hand, a smoke in the other.

"Sure," she finally says. "I'd be happy to help."

He performs the U-turn/double-park combo, and the guy at Dutch's helps him wrestle the TV to the car. Xander fishes a bungee cord out of the trunk and gets the trunk lid secured.

"I can see I helped a lot," she says as he straightens.

"You will."

He navigates the grid of one-ways to get the car pointed toward home. "Something's happened?"

Willa fumbles with the shoulder harness. "No, not really. It's just -- sometimes I get tired of fighting all the time. There's talk in my head, 24/7, like a crappy talk-radio station. The knob's broken, so I can't change it or shut it off. About all I can manage is drowning it out sometimes, or drinking it into submission."

"We talking kill-the-president sort of voices, or your standard I-hate-myself interior monologue?"

"Monologue's kind of a pale term for it, unless we're talking Eric Bogosian monologues here."

Xander doesn't get the reference, but the intent is clear, and that's enough for him. "Gotcha." He knows that demon well, had his ass kicked by it on a number of occasions and has reached what's more or less an uneasy truce. He sticks to his dull routine, pacifies any remaining vestiges with television and nicotine. It's been working for the past four years, but he's heard some distant rumblings of its possible awakening.

He changes the subject. "Find anything good at Auntie's?"

"I don't know," she says. "I seem to collect recovery books. Got a new one, plus a novel off the remainder pile."

"I don't go for those so much. I hate slogans. It's all that I can do to sit through the one day at a timing. My mother went through this religious phase where she festooned the family car with all these reworked advertising phrases on bumperstickers -- you know: Got Jesus?, stuff like that. If your philosophy can be boiled down to a slogan, I'm thinking it's not so much of a philosophy. Not, I hasten to add, that it's worthless for people who respond to that sort of thing. It's just -- well, the wisest guy I know would pull a dozen books off his shelf, minimum, before he'd answer a question." It's the kindest thought he's had about Giles in years, and it throws him a little. "Speaking of monologues."

"Your father?"

"What?"

"This wise man."

"Oh Jesus no. No, he was a mentor to a friend of mine, and he ended up sort of a friend. He was a librarian. Hence the book thing. Here's my place." Thank god for something to do besides babble.

"Ooh, what a neat house."

"Thanks. I've always liked the Craftsman style." He backs into the drive so they don't have as far to walk the behemoth. She's tiny but strong, and they get the TV set up with no trouble.

"How about that coffee, then?" Xander asks. "Do you have a favorite espresso shack, or will Starbucks do?"

"You don't have to buy me a coffee," Willa says. "Smells like you have something brewing."

Xander's not so sure it's the best idea to hang here alone with her. "It's been sitting there on the heater for a couple of hours. I wouldn't use it for stripping paint."

"I've had urns and urns of bad coffee by now. I really don't care."

"It's decaf."

"Oh. I'll pass. Why on earth would you drink decaf in the -- Christ, I am so stupid. It's nighttime for you. I'm sorry, I'll get out of your hair."

Suddenly the last thing Xander wants is to be alone, good idea or not. "Well, wait. I've got espresso. I can fix you that, or make it into an Americano."

She pauses, clearly trying to read him. "I'd love an espresso. If you're sure."

He leads her into the kitchen. "Sometimes I'm a wild man. Stay up late enough to watch 'All My Children.'" Not that those are good days, by any means.

She perches on a kitchen chair. "I looked at those espresso makers last Christmas for my parents. My god, those can be expensive."

He reaches into the cabinet, pulls down the espresso and a small, dull silver pot shaped something like an hourglass. "I think this was something like seven bucks, but I bought it in Italy." He unscrews the bottom, fills it with cold water, packs the tiny aluminum filter with espresso. Once he reassembles the moka, he sets it on the gas flame.

"What was your favorite thing about Italy?"

"Leaving. No, wait. The wine. My leaving was everyone else's favorite part." The bitterness in his voice surprises even him.

"Who were you with, family?"

"Friends."

"Why would your friends be glad you left?"

Xander retrieves his one espresso cup from the sink where he'd left it last night, washes it. "There's a certain allotted time you get for grieving. If you run over, you'd better keep it to yourself." He rinses and dries the cup, finds its saucer in the cabinet above.

"Who were you grieving?" she asks softly.

The pot makes its characteristic gurgling noise. He turns off the flame, pours her espresso. "Doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters."

He sets the cup and saucer on the table in front of her, turns to pour himself a cup of the decaf. "My fiancee. Well, ex-fiancee. But we were still friends, and sometimes lovers."

"Oh. I'm sorry. What was her name?"

"Anya."

"That's pretty."

"Yeah. So was she." Xander lights a cigarette just so he can stand near the back door to let the smoke drift outside.

"What happened to her?"

"I don't talk about that. Listen, I don't mean to leave you in the lurch or anything, but I can't help you right now. I can drop you back downtown, or your place, wherever."

She wants to protest that he doesn't have to, he can tell, but she's not exactly within walking distance of where she started out. And she doesn't look like she has extra money for things like cabs.

"It's the least I can do, after you came out here to help me," he says. He stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray on the counter, and she drinks the last of her espresso.

"This was great, Al-- Xander," Willa says. "I almost wish I'd gotten one of these for my parents, but I'd never have heard the end of it. Though only in a very passive-aggressive way."

"Well, the first two letters of 'parents' are P and A. Must be a reason for that, don't you think?" She laughs politely, but to him it sounds more like a slogan than a joke.

It's been a long time since Xander dreamed about Anya and Sunnydale.

The first ten days or so had been eerily quiet -- they'd all been so exhausted from the battle that they'd fallen into black silence each night. After that came the storm as he was slammed with images from that day: replays of his frantic search for Anya through a maze of high school hallways, the hot stink of battle as Bringers and vamps swamped him and Dawn, the sight of buildings swallowed up like watching a tablecloth slowly pulled off a formal dining table, taking everything with it, one piece after the other.

Not all the dreams echoed his own experiences. Xander can't count the times he saw Anya fall in battle -- sometimes as heroically as Andrew had said, sometimes in a blaze of meaninglessness. In some of the dreams, he was there kneeling beside her, helpless to stop the blood that poured from her.

Those weren't the worst ones. Anya came to him some nights -- sometimes wounded terribly, others without a mark on her, but always with the same question. Why didn't you wait?

Those were the dreams that sent him deep into the bottle -- anything to make them stop. Today he prays (to whom? He's not sure) for dreamless sleep.

Whoever's listening -- if anyone is -- is far less interested in Xander's peace of mind than his/her/its own amusement.

The dreams, bottled up for so long, fizz out like champagne.

He can't pull himself free of their influence until half an hour before his shift.

Xander tries to keep himself busy. He does a complete makeover on the work schedules he'd set the night before, goes over the paperwork for the morning's deliveries, supervises the reset of the coffee aisle.

In the dead time before the bakers come in, he stands outside the entrance and smokes. Dawn nags him long distance, begging him to quit. He's never told her about nights like this one when, if there weren't a cigarette in his hand, there'd be a glass.

As it is, his mind keeps straying back to the beer case. He misses the taste, way more than the hard stuff. Liquor was for doing a job in the most efficient way possible. But beer -- that's what he liked.

There are some kickass microbrews in this region. Eyes closed, he lets his memory linger over the taste of some of the darker beers, crisp and substantial.

Nice little hobby he's got going here -- if you also enjoy pressing your thumb along the edge of a knife blade. Xander flicks his cigarette into the parking lot, watching showers of sparks cartwheeling in the dark.

Then he heads for the phone in his office, preparing to drag Patrick out of a sound sleep.

Xander makes the morning meeting; Willa doesn't. He hopes she's all right. It feels like he's let her down. He didn't promise her anything, told her he couldn't be her sponsor, but somehow he feels he's left her to drown. A battered life preserver with a slow leak is probably better than none at all, but he's stood by on the shore watching her flail, not even attempting a rescue.

He tells himself not to be ridiculous. These meetings are full of people she could approach, potential sponsors much more appropriate than him. Xander's responsible for himself. How much good can he do her if every conversation with her awakens memories and emotions he'd long laid to rest?

Patrick thinks it's time he dug them up and took a look at them. "You buried all that, yeah," he'd told Xander during their late night conversation. "Good and deep, seems like. But you haven't laid it to rest."

He doesn't stick around after. He heads home, puts on a pot of decaf, throws in a load of laundry. Tries to watch the television, but can't sit still for perky, idiotic chatter. At last he heads for the guest room, reaches for the box on the top shelf in the closet, clear in the back.

Everything he has left from Sunnydale is here. The clothes he'd worn, smeared with grime and stained with streaks of blood. The old eyepatch. The leather wallet Anya had given him, which he'd carried another couple of years before retiring it, torn and scuffed, to this box. Inside the wallet, the detritus of his old life: punchcards from the Espresso Pump, the sandwich shop and the video store, his California driver's license, a couple of expired credit cards. Licenses and union cards for his construction job, outdated insurance cards. And a couple of photos of Anya.

Leaving the box opened on the guest bed, Xander carries the wallet to the kitchen. He warms up his decaf and lights a cigarette, then sits, turning the billfold over and over in his hands. It's worn shiny and smooth with years of use, about a year and a half longer than he normally would have carried it. He'd only given it up because it was falling apart.

His ashtray fills and his coffee grows cold as he sits trying to summon the courage to look at the pictures. The last time he pulled them out, years ago, set him on the binge that landed him in AA. Xander has tried but never been able to determine how many days that drunk had lasted.

Finally he opens the wallet, careful not to let its contents spill onto the table. He lights another cigarette, drinks down his cold coffee. Slides blunt fingers into the yellowed sleeve holding Anya's pictures, teases them out and puts them on the table.

He's not quite prepared for the ache that blossoms in his chest.

She looks so young (not a day over 942), her face so shiny. Anya with her goofy Farrah Fawcett hair and hot pants, all done up as one of Charlie's Angels for Halloween. Dawn had made a total pest of herself with the camera that night. He'd trimmed this shot down so it would fit in the picture sleeve -- cut himself off, with his wide-eyed what the fuck have I done? look. She'd been so happy.

He wishes he could have seen the future. If he'd known she wouldn't live long enough for him to make her miserable, Xander could have --

Grief rumbles up through him, slow and painful like steam in those clanking old radiators in the place in Florence. Damn marble floors -- beautiful, but never warm. The cold had seeped inside him there, into his friendships. Florence was where he'd asked Buffy the question he could never take back. And asked it and asked it.

Take me through it again. What was your thinking? Why Anya and Andrew together? Neither one of them --

The sound of the doorbell makes him jump. Ash falls onto his hand, dusts the surface of the photo. He brushes it off.

Everything's caught high in his chest, just below the throat. All that grief and rage. Part of him wants to shove it back down, keep things the way they have been these past few years. But the other part --

Pounding.

Surely not the cops again.

Xander stubs out his smoke and walks partway into the living room. More doorbell, more pounding.

Go away.

Whoever it is doesn't, and clearly won't. The car's in the drive, so he can't exactly pretend he's gone. He walks a little closer, sees coppery hair in the small pane of clear in the stained glass of the door. Shit. Bringing her here yesterday had been a huge mistake.

He strides toward the door, opens it a crack. Makes his voice patient as he can. "Listen, Eu--"

But it's not her.

"Willow."

Last thing he needs right now is Willow surging through the doorway and giving him shit. "Will. I don't know that this is the best --"

Then she's inside and she's saying his name and her arms are around him. "Oh god, Xander, I just -- I needed to see you."

Xander blinks in surprise, then without conscious thought his arms enfold her. He hasn't realized, not until now, how much his body has hungered for the simple touch of another person. It's been years since he's slept with anyone. His first year of sobriety he followed the recommendation to remain celibate, and since then it's been nothing but a few awkward dates. The hunger isn't about sex, just a physical sense of being acknowledged by someone else. He's content to stand in the doorway holding Willow, for as long as she'll stand there.

A sob shakes her small frame, and he withdraws, looking into her face. "Will, what's happened, what's wrong?" Everyone was fine a couple of days ago -- what could have happened? Dawn -- Willow hadn't updated him on her, and it's been maybe a week since he heard from Dawn herself. God, not her, please --

"No, no, nothing's -- it's nothing like that." Tears still spill down her cheeks.

Xander crooks a finger, gently knuckles away one of the tear tracks. "Then what?" he asks softly.

"I've been so sad." Her face crumples as she dissolves into sobs. He hasn't seen her like this since that day on Kingman's Bluff, once the rage drained away and she finally let herself mourn Tara.

It tears him apart; it always has to see Willow distraught. "Will, honey. About what?"

"You."

This pierces him in a whole new way. "Me? I'm sorry I was so surly the other day. Mornings are never my best time." Like now, he manages not to say.

She shakes her head, says something he can't understand, she's crying so hard.

"Honey, I didn't understand you."

"I miss you so much." Willow palms away her tears and looks up at him. "It feels like you died."

He takes an involuntary step backward. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. There's nothing he can say.

"I've lost so many people I love, Xander. Jesse and Joyce and Tara. I won't lose you too. Not without a fight."

"So you're going to bring me back." His voice cracks as if he's still working on puberty. "Like Buffy."

She offers a quavering smile. "This one should be a little easier."

"Jesus Christ, you're still the most arrogant person I know."

It's her turn now to be speechless.

"Maybe I feel the same way Buffy did. Maybe you need to check with me before you decide to drag me back to whatever form of life you think I'm lacking."

Willow bristles. "I didn't act alone. You can't pretend you weren't involved."

"No. Trust me, I'll never forget. But you can't pretend I didn't have reservations. I wasn't the only --"

She cuts in, and he knows it's so he won't bring up Tara. "It's already done." Funny how it's okay for her to bring up the theoretical disapproval of his dead lover, but she doesn't want to be reminded of Tara's misgivings about bringing Buffy back.

"I know," he says quietly. "But didn't you learn anything from it?" He pulls the drapes open. "At least take a look at what you're rescuing me from."

She blinks in the sudden light, then follows his suggestion. Xander sees the surprise on her face at his living room: nice furniture -- matching, even -- arranged on the Berber carpeting, gas fireplace, big new(ish) television with the home theater speaker system, a few books and magazines and DVDs scattered neatly near the chairs and sofa. For the first time, though, he notices the bareness of the walls.

"I'll put on some coffee, then I'll take you on the tour."

She trails him into the kitchen. "You don't need to make fresh for me."

"This is decaf," he says as he dumps out the pot.

She crosses behind him, peers into the back yard as he puts on the hi-test. As she's still gazing outside, he sweeps the pictures off the table, snatches up the wallet, stuffs them with some difficulty into his back pocket.

"It's nice," she says, turning back toward him.

"I like it. It's a good neighborhood, nice people. Who are now probably wondering about me, since the police were parading through my house the other day."

"What was that crash?" No apologies, he notices. "I've never heard anything like that."

"Me throwing the phone through the television."

There's a pause. Finally: "I guess that explains why I couldn't reach you for the rest of the morning."

He shows her the rest of the place, hastily replacing the lid on the Sunnydale box when they get to the guest room, carrying it to his own bedroom. "So what is it makes you feel like I died?"

"It's just ... I can't find any trace at all of the old Xander. When we talk you just seem ... flat."

"I'm not entertaining anymore, so it's time to put the toe tag on me."

"That's not what I meant at all."

Xander ushers her back into the kitchen. "Bullshit," he says, his tone still conversational. "This is Italy all over again. Xander's a problem, so let's have an intervention." He pours her some coffee, sets out the milk and sugar. "But I'm not drinking. It's not what I'm doing that's the problem, but who I am."

"Xander, no --"

"You want me to be someone familiar, comfortable. You just said so. I'm not who I was in high school, so I must be dead. Jesus, you're like one of those people who signs everyone's yearbook with 'Never change!' We've got one of those where I work. We all signed a card for the day manager when he had a triple bypass, and Damon, who's pushing forty now, writes 'Never change!' That's what death is, Will. I'm sorry I'm not comfortable and familiar anymore, but it's not my job to fix it."

A shadow passes over her face, and tears start slipping down her cheeks again as she cradles her coffee cup. He stays where he is, leaning against the counter, drinking the real stuff, knowing he'll regret it when he tries to sleep.

Still gazing into her cup, Willow asks, "Is there a hotel you'd recommend?"

He's tempted to tell her a name, give her directions or the number of a cab company. But he summons his energy. "That's crazy talk. No best friend of mine is staying in a hotel."

"Even when you're pissed off at me?"

"Especially when I'm pissed off at you." He reaches a hand toward her. "We work through this stuff. Right?"

She nods, takes his hand, allowing him to pull her to her feet, into his arms.

"We'll be all right," he murmurs into her hair.

He hopes he's telling the truth.

He tells her he needs to sleep for a while, gets her set up first in the guest room, shows her the video library and orients her in the kitchen. "Back yard's nice this time of year, too, but a little cooler than you'd think. Grab a jacket by the door if you didn't bring one. I'll set my alarm for five, show you around town a while before I have to go in to work."

She flashes that quick, nervous smile he remembers so well. "Wild. This is kind of like staying with a vampire except for the being dead par--" Will winces.

Xander tries to make a joke of it. "Guess I've convinced you, then." It falls about as flat as hers.

They hug again before he retreats to his bedroom. He wants to say "I'm glad you're here," but he's not sure he is. He won't start making with the social lies, not with Willow. A quick kiss on her forehead, and he heads for bed.

The box sits on the coverlet, right where he left it. Xander flips the wallet inside and quickly shuts the lid. He's too tired to rearrange the closet to find it a new home, so he sets it on the valet chair, tosses his clothing on top.

His routine has been disrupted just enough that it takes him almost an hour to fall asleep, and when he does the dreams are bad. The battle flashbacks, the slo-mo destruction of his town. Xander thrusts and parries at a seemingly endless horde of vamps and Bringers, turning to say something encouraging to Dawn, but instead it's Anya fighting alongside him. Now he has a chance to save her. He renews the attack, and then Willow's hacking her way through a knot of Bringers. When the last one falls, he sees she's wearing black leather. She grins in that way she has, but it turns all yellow eyes and pointy teeth. She thrusts with her short sword and runs Anya through.

He falls to his knees beside her, but she's gone already. He looks up at Willow, standing in the shaft of light where he'd torn down the curtain. Between the sunlight and his tears, he can't really see her face, but she's wearing that fuzzy pink sweater she used to love. "Will, how could --"

"Get over it already," she says, her voice hard.

Then they're sitting on the floor together in her bedroom, crayons scattered on the carpet between them. Scabby knees peep from below the hem of her plaid school dress. They both reach for the yellow at the same time. Will breaks the crayon in half, offers him the pointy end in a hand that's bathed in blood, dripping it onto the carpet. "You know I never liked that bitch."

Xander thrashes his way from beneath the covers, his heart hammering.

This was a mistake. He should never have let her in.

The television plays softly in the living room. Though Xander has nearly an hour before the alarm rings, he knows his chances of slipping back into sleep aren't looking good. He's not particularly sure he wants to.

Not that he much wants to join Willow in the other room.

He raises one of the blackout shades, just enough to bring a little light into the room. Reaching into the Sunnydale box, he pulls out the red plaid shirt, far too big for him now. He sits on the edge of the bed with it bunched in his hands. There's nothing he has of Anya's that he can hold. No piece of clothing that retains her scent (not that it still would, after all these years). No piece of jewelry, lock of her hair, no love letter carried into battle. If he'd given it any thought at all, he'd have believed any of these things would be safer left at home. How could he have known he'd lose not only Anya but all trace of her beyond a couple of pictures?

Xander tries to summon the memory of her voice, but he can't be sure his imagination is offering a true rendering. He'd never known anyone who spoke with quite those rushing rhythms, her bright and brittle tones.

He misses the sight of her making eggs in the morning, sometimes wearing his pajama shirt and nothing else. She'd loved the cooking breakfast thing -- he didn't even like eggs that much, but for some reason this was the task that made her feel like she'd managed that Pinocchio transformation, become a real girl. He can see that in his mind's eye if he tries hard, but with the image always comes the nagging feeling that some part of it is subtly off.

Somewhere along the line he's lost the last words he ever spoke to her. Were they loving? Had they meant something, or were they just another joke, more whistling in the dark? He no longer remembers what she said to him, either. How could a person forget something like that?

He's not sure he remembers the particular feeling of her kisses, how she tasted. It's all slipping away from him or already gone, not really because he's moved on, found something to replace these things, but because he's not strong enough, not steadfast enough, to hold on.

Back when he was drinking, there was not a single person he knew whose life he wouldn't have traded for one object that had belonged to Anya. And to have Anya herself, alive and whole? He'd have given up everyone, even his oldest and best friend. He hadn't kept it much of a secret, which was one of many reasons he had so few friends left.

But what about now, he wondered. What if one of Anya's colleagues made an appearance and offered him a wish?

He doesn't know anymore, and that feels almost like a failure.

He takes her to the Steam Plant Grill. In deference to her body clock, still set to East Coast time, it's a little on the Early Bird Special side of things.

The food's good here, he tells Willow, but he mainly likes it for the interior. The architect who converted the place preserved many of the original fixtures of the old plant, designing the dining areas around its massive heart and ribs and circulatory system. It's not some bogus Spaghetti Factory theme park of a restaurant, but a brilliant reclamation of the space. He shows her around the inside after they place their order, and he turns and catches her beaming at him.

"What?"

Tears glitter in her eyes. "I knew you were in there."

"Ah, Christ." He turns away, walks her through the rest of the place without comment.

She leans across the table, unrepentant, once they've retaken their seats. "I'm sorry, but I came out here on two days' notice for a reason. I needed to see how you're doing, not just hear you tell me how you are."

"So what now? Stick around and fix me? Go back and write up a report?"

"I thought I'd stay a while so you could be snotty to me. That work for you?" She glances up at the waitress, who has managed to return at just this moment with their plates, and she reddens. "Thanks. Holy cats, this is huge."

"That's kind of a trademark here, yeah," he says.

"Xander, you know how much I hate fighting with you."

"But--"

"No buts. I came out here because I love you. I've been worried about you. If everything is fine, just let me see you being fine. I'm not here to put you on trial or anything, I promise."

Just let me see you being fine. That's a pretty tall order -- I'm going to stare at you now; just do what you normally do. What he normally does is eat in silence, so he does.

"Has anyone else been out here to see you?" She must know the answer to that already.

"Dawn's been, a couple of times. And I've gone to New York to see her a few."

"So how do you show a girl a hot time in Spokane?"

"Well, there's the carousel and the garbage-eating goat in the park. Then a movie on the IMAX screen, followed by hot dogs and cotton candy till she throws up."

She lets her fork clatter against her plate. "Why are you so damn defensive?"

"You're here to evaluate me, Will, to see if I'm doing okay. You try being on the other end of that sometime."

"I have been," she says softly. "It's not fun, I know that. But that's not -- Xander, we used to be able to talk to each other. The hard part was getting stopped. I miss that. I miss us." She lets that sit there awhile.

"So do I," he finally says.

"Then tell me something. Anything."

He tells her about Dawn's last visit, during summer break. How they'd watched almost every movie in town, done some hiking in Idaho, driven up to B.C. on his days off to a hot springs. The weather had been too warm up there to do anything but wilt, though. "Last time we talked on the phone she said she'd been cut off at Kiehl's. That mean anything to you?"

Willow laughs. "It's this old apothecary. They sell skin care stuff and you can get free samples. She made me go with her my last visit so she could get double the gimmes. She seems happy, far as I can tell."

"Yeah, I think so. For a glowy green ball of energy, she's turned out good."

The conversation flags after this. Willow asks some questions about Spokane and his job, but everything that's unspoken about Buffy and Giles -- along with peripheral others -- obscures what they do say. They give it up and start planning on a movie binge for tomorrow, and things are on a safe but superficial level when the waitress returns with the dessert he ordered for them both, an upright puff pastry horn with whipped cream spurting out the top.

"Behold the Smokestack," Xander says.

She rolls her eyes. "Phallic much?"

"If that doesn't turn you, noth--"

"Nothing will."

"It's all chocolatey inside."

"Oh, well then. I'm cured." She leans across the table to slug him on the arm.

This stuff, the talking about nothing, is the easy part. They go back to haggling about tomorrow's movies, joking about each other's taste, indulging in exaggerated rants about the worst films they've seen recently. He almost starts to feel -- not that everything is going to be okay between them, but that it is.

They ignore the check for a while, but finally Xander reaches for it and pulls out his wallet.

He knows before he even flips it open what he's done.

"What's the matter?" Will asks.

It takes a moment before he can get the words out. "Wrong wallet."

"No big, I've got cards with me." She peers at him closely. "It is a big, isn't it?" When he doesn't answer she reaches both hands across the table. Gently takes the billfold in one, closes the other around his hand. A quick look inside -- Anya, two-eyed guy on the drivers license, the corner of the Espresso Pump punchcard -- and she gets it. Both her hands enfold his. "I know, Xander. God, I know."

"You never could stand her."

"I still know what grief is." She laces her fingers through his. "But you're right. I never liked her. She spoke her mind too bluntly, she had no sense of politics in that respect." Xander tries to withdraw his hand, but she won't turn it loose. "If she'd been someone else, I probably would've liked her for that very quality. But you know, I had a blind spot about her. I like to think I'd have outgrown it, if I'd had the chance. Noticed how hard she tried, how much she loved you. It will get better, Xander. Give yourself permission to mourn, and after a while the pain won't feel so sharp."

"Can we go now?"

"Sure." Willow slides the wallet across the table to him, and after another moment releases his hand.

By the time his shift begins, he's grateful for somewhere else to be. Though Willow already conked out on the drive up the hill for the grand sunset view. He drove her home, steered her to the guest room and tucked her in. "I'll be more with-it tomorrow," she murmured. "Promise." Then she was out. He stood there in the dimly lit room, watching her settle into sleep.

He couldn't help remembering another time standing over her bed. That time in the hospital when they hadn't known if she'd ever wake up. He'd declared his love then, just before she'd roused and called for Oz.

"I still do," he said, and closed the door.

Since it's a Saturday night, he hovers near the registers for the rash of beer and cigarette runs. He was the proud possessor of a fake I.D. in his own day, and is pretty good at spotting them. The "one-eyed bastard" has a pretty fierce rep with the local kids, but he likes to maintain a presence.

Not long after shift change he sees the cop, Straley, in his street clothes. His cart contains milk, eggs, bread, macaroni and cheese, an assortment of cereal. "Hey, how's it going?" Xander asks.

Straley shakes his head. "First day on second shift. I'd just gotten used to first again. They make you rotate shifts, or you steady?"

"This is it. Glad I don't have to keep adjusting. I've always been kind of a night owl." Since high school, anyway.

"It's kickin' my ass." Straley yawns. "My cousin happened to call the other day. He lost an eye a while back. The one got diseased, and then he started to go blind in the good eye. Sympathetic reaction, they told him. Did you ever hear of that?"

"No, can't say I have."

"They had to remove the bad one to save the good. He got a hell of a prosthesis, an implant. Realest looking thing I ever saw -- it's even got little blood vessels painted on it."

"No kidding."

"While I had him on the phone I got the name of the place he used." He tweezes a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket with two fingers, offers it. "Thought I'd pass it on, for whatever it's worth."

Xander doesn't even have the energy to wonder why this cop is spending his time on this. Or to bristle. "Thanks." He slips it into his own shirt pocket without looking. "I'll think about it."

"Well, hey. I'd better drag ass home."

"You have a good night." Reflexively he straightens the National Enquirers in their rack. Everyone wants to read 'em while they wait in line, but no one wants to be seen plunking down their cash. It's the quick, furtive peeks that are hell on the merch.

Straley makes a pleasant joke to the cashier and Xander moves on to the next magazine rack. Weird. There was nothing offhand about this visit, much less about the conversation with the cousin. No such thing as a coincidence -- this he learned living on a hellmouth.

During each of his smoke breaks, he finds his hand straying to the piece of paper, unfolding it.

San Diego.

The thought enters his mind that Southwest has pretty frequent sales on flights to San Diego.

What's the point, though? He'll be just as blind, just a little more cosmetically acceptable. Besides, the dark and menacing look has its uses, for more than just scaring off underage beer buyers.

No reason to change things now.

He always takes a cigarette break at sunrise. Once in a while one of the cashiers comes out too, sharing the moment in silence, but usually he's alone. It means something different these days, now that night isn't filled with such danger. He doesn't have to release some metaphorical breath he's been holding, just enjoy the sight of the sky lightening, the sound of birds staking their claim on the morning.

It's Sunday, so the streets are even quieter than usual. He doesn't mind working Saturday nights partly because it gives him Sunday morning. Not that he's Mr. Saturday Night Excitement; not that he's ever been that in any real way. Watching the shoppers load up on beer on weekend nights, he's not so sorry to be off the roads. Still, there's something about the hush of Sunday morning that makes everything feel more settled within him. It's as close as he comes to going to church -- well, the meetings, actually, are as close as he gets to that. Sunday dawns are as close as he gets to feeling it inside.

He crushes his cigarette butt in the sand of the big ashtray by the doors, then heads inside for the last hour of his shift. Peggy in Lane 3 looks up from the Martha Stewart magazine she's reading. "Did it come up?" She's got a voice like a wiseacre secretary in a screwball comedy, flat and brassy, making everything she says seem funny. Usually it is.

"Yeah, it did."

"That's a relief." This is their running joke, and he always wonders what she'd say if he told her there are a few times he knows of that it almost didn't. He chats with her for a few minutes about how her kid's doing in college, then finishes readying things for the morning shift and clearing the decks for his two days off.

Willow's up when he gets home, three hours ahead of him and vibrating with energy. She wants to make him breakfast and it's easier to let her. "I brought the paper in, if you want to look at it," she says, but she keeps talking. It's all right. Anya used to bustle around in the kitchen while he read the paper, and he doesn't feel up to an exact replay. He leaves the paper where it is. "I made some coffee, too," she adds, "but it came out terrible. You could stand a spoon up in it."

"What'd you use?"

She opens the cabinet, points out the can.

"It's espresso, that's why."

"Ouch, I probably just wasted a month's supply."

He tells her not to worry and dumps out the pot, makes some decaf for himself and an Americano for Willow. It's easy to chatter while they're both moving around the kitchen, somehow not stumbling over one another even though it's been a long time since he's shared kitchen space with anyone this way. He reports on his night, Willow on how well she slept. They negotiate some sack time for Xander before they head out to Spokane's hotspots.

He drags himself up in the early afternoon, fuels up with a couple of espressos, then heads downtown with Will. They binge on movies at the downtown bazillionplex, running across the street to the park when there's a few minutes between showtimes. He falls asleep during the Vin Diesel action flick, but Willow assures him the plot makes no more sense awake.

"You are so in the doghouse, mister," she says during their half-hour break afterward. She leans on the railing of the pedestrian bridge over the falls, letting the mist settle on her face. "Dragging me to see that piece of crap and then falling asleep through it. You abandoned me!"

"Hey, who's running on four hours of sleep here? I'm usually just getting up about now."

"Xander, you should've said--"

"I'm teasing. It's true, but I'm teasing. I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't want to."

"Kinda like old times," she says, her voice almost lost under the sound of the rushing water.

"Kinda," he echoes. He settles an arm across her shoulders as they walk back toward River Park Square.

A storm front moves in during the night, and by the time Willow begins to stir, there's the steady hiss of an all-day downpour. Xander puts aside his book and pads into the kitchen to make breakfast for her. She's a slow riser, and always wants to have her hair under control before she puts in an appearance, so he has time to throw together a fritatta with potato and asparagus and green onions. He does know how to cook a few things; he just doesn't bother most of the time.

He leaves the television off, and is amazed how much better he feels. No suicide bombings this morning, no good ol' American killing sprees, no natural disasters that make him wonder why God has it in for poor people in faraway places. No inane chatter, no in-depth reporting on an important issue that just happens to tie in with a movie opening this weekend. No fake company.

When he hears the bathroom door open, he pours her Americano, doses it with a splash of milk, and hands it to her as she walks into the kitchen. "Wow, it smells great in here. Can I give you a hand with anything?"

"Nope. It's all under control. Be about ten minutes before the food's ready."

"How long have you been -- not all night?"

"I'm always up all night, Will."

She perches on the counter as he unloads the dishwasher. "What do you do on your nights off?"

"Watch whatever TiVo caught for me on the nights I was working, or rent a DVD. Read. Spend some time on the Internet."

"So what geek newsgroups are eating up your life these days?"

He plucks the silver out of the basket a handful at a time, sorts each piece into its proper slot. "Actually, I've been tracking down all the Tony Harrises in the U.S. In case they might've made it out. Jessica Harrises, too, just in case they split since then." Xander doesn't mention the artificial eye website he checked out too; he's not ready to talk about it yet.

"Whoa," she says softly. "Have you been looking all this time?"

"No, not very long. I wasn't ready until recently." He closes the drawer, replaces the basket in the dishwasher. "Really, I don't think I'll find them. You know Tony. Never met a sign of impending doom he couldn't ignore. He wouldn't care if the whole neighborhood had emptied out." Xander smiles. "My aunt used to say, 'You can always tell a Harris man, but you can't tell him much.'"

"And your mother?"

"She might have joined some wildassed women's group and learned how to stand up to him in the last days of Sunnydale. I mean, there were reports of hell freezage and flying pigs, weren't there?"

Willow reaches out, rubs his arm. "Ah, Xander. I hope--" She stops dead.

Xander grins, a quick flash and it's gone. "I don't know how to finish that sentence either." He puts a couple of slices of bread in the toaster. "So, how are your folks?"

"They're good. They're gearing up for one of their Earthwatch expeditions. Elephants in Uganda, piranha in the Amazon -- something needs saving, I don't remember which. They ask about you whenever we talk."

He's finally registered on their radar screen, now that Will never sees him at all. "That's sweet. Tell 'em I said hello."

The timer beeps and Xander starts to turn toward the oven, but Willow slides off the counter and throws her arms around him. "I love you so much. Never doubt that."

He's taken aback for a split second, but recovers, hugs her back. "Me too, Will."

Over breakfast they salvage their plans for the day. Hiking's out, pizza or Chinese and DVDs is in. "Ooh, I've got a suggestion," Willow says. "You probably even have the boxed sets here already. Let's do a Lord of the Rings marathon. We never got to see the last one together."

He jumps up to put in more toast. "I don't have them."

"Oh. Well, we can be pioneers, I guess. Slog in the rain to the rental place."

"Will, I can't watch them. I'm sorry."

"I don't get --"

"I don't watch movies with battle scenes. Not the sword and sorcery stuff. They give me dreams." He hasn't even seen Return of the King, probably never will.

"Oh. Oh, well sure." She'd been well away from it in that last battle, doing her mojo. She'd put her life on the line too, but in a wholly different way. He can't begin to make her understand this.

They decide on a comedy marathon. Groundhog Day, the South Park movie, a couple of Mystery Science Theater 3000 tapes, a handful of others. They start off on the sofa, but it's not that comfortable for longterm seating, so they move it to his bedroom, even though the TV's a couple of inches smaller. Surrounded by 2-liter bottles of soda and assorted bags of junk food, they end up piled together on the bed like puppies, the way they used to do before puberty made everything so complicated.

"Oh god," Willow moans after one of the tapes has flipped into automatic rewind. "I have to pee. Would you mind going and doing that for me? I'll catch next time, I promise."

"Sorry. I'd like to help."

She moans again and pushes off the bed, shambling to the master bath. It's only late afternoon, but the light's been this same level of murky all day, and it feels later. When she comes back he takes his turn, then steps out onto the back porch for a cigarette. Once he's settled back on the bed, she snuggles up to him again.

"Ready for the next one?" he asks. He'd slipped the next DVD in the player while she'd been using the toilet. The Producers, which he plans to follow with Young Frankenstein, then Blazing Saddles, if they both hold up.

"In a little while. This is nice, just by itself."

"Yeah, it is." So why does he feel like there's something lurking around the corner of "by itself"?

She's silent for a moment, but he's already tensed. Finally she speaks. "When things got so bad." She laces her fingers through his. "What you did was so important. You brought me back from -- well, I don't want to think what from."

He can't think what to say in response. Gee, you're welcome? Glad I could help? Don't mention it -- that one he means. "It's okay," he says.

"I -- I just want to return the favor. Be there for you."

He has to stop himself from groaning. "You are here. This is good."

"Yeah, but I meant--"

"I know what you meant." There's a hint of steel that's come into his voice, unbidden. "You want me to cry so you can hold me until I become recognizable again. Until I'm all cured. That's movie bullshit, Willow. You of all people should know that. Life ain't Good Will Hunting. People don't walk around all fucked up until the first time they cry in front of a shrink, then, hey, cured!" He could easily launch into a rant here, blah blah The Prince of Tides, yadda yadda even The Singing Detective, but it would let them both off the hook and he's not willing to do that. "I'm glad you came out here, I really am. But you came on your own timetable, not mine, and you can't expect some kind of command performance just so you feel better about where I am."

"That's exactly what Oz said," Willow says in a small, quavering voice. God, he hopes she isn't going to cry. Xander knows it would make him irrationally pissed off.

"Oz?"

"Long time ago. Back when you and I -- I kept trying to get him to talk it through, and he finally said he needed time alone to sort things out, and if I couldn't let him have that, it was about me, not him."

"Well, yeah."

"I don't know what to say."

"That's kind of the point. Words don't solve everything. You don't need to throw them at every problem."

"Which is one way of telling me to shut up."

This is weird, having this fight while still cuddled together on the bed. Every fight he ever had with Anya, or even Cordelia, made them fly apart -- physically as well as metaphorically. This one goes bone deep, but neither pulls away.

"Will, that's not --"

"No, that's okay. Let's stop hammering at this. Why don't you start the next movie?"

Part of him wants to protest, but that would be all about smoothing things over for his own convenience. He suppresses a sigh, picks up the remote and fires up The Producers.

They watch the whole thing without making a sound.

Willow's flight is in the morning, so they both keep going through the motions. They want to preserve the structure of their friendship, even if right now it's mostly hollow. If they can remember the shape, maybe they can build it up someday to what it was. So after the movie they call for a pizza and head into the kitchen to put together a big salad.

"Eat it now, or wait until the pie gets here?" Xander asks.

"Let's start. Then we won't have to juggle forks and bowls along with the slices."

"Not to mention we'll have gotten the healthy part out of the way, so the pizza's essentially calorie free."

"You are still the king of rationalization." She cuts him a quick look, as if she's not sure that'll be taken as a joke.

"It's an art," he affirms.

She pulls a slender book off the cheap bookrack by the telephone. "Mastodon, 80% Complete," she reads. It's not what she's expecting. "So how come there's a collection of poetry books in your kitchen?"

"Because the kitchen's where I read poems."

"Sentences I Never Thought I'd Hear from the Mouth of Xander Harris, Number -- well, I've kinda lost track."

He goes to readings at Auntie's sometimes, whatever sounds interesting -- or sometimes anything that doesn't sound like it'll suck too hard. There are times he can't take all the Higher Power stuff, evenings he'd rather meet Caleb again than feel compelled to say so much as his name. That's when he'll skip a meeting if there's something happening in the bookstore, just to sit silently in a room with some other people, listen to some quiet voices talking about anything but booze.

"I've been writing some too."

Her eyes go a little wide. "Well, that's great."

"Some of 'em are short," he says. "Oh -- here's a good one, not too long:

"Note from Mrs. Williams

"Shithead,
you ate my plums."

She rolls her eyes. "Shithead yourself."

"Had you worried, though."

By the time the pizza comes, they've found their groove again. He wonders if it's possible for a groove to become shallower with wear -- it seems to be true in this case. Old jokes and safe memories, but better than fighting. As they tackle the pizza, they riff large chunks of dialogue from Young Frankenstein.

"Oh god," Willow says, "remember that time we all had demon slime all over our hair and clothes and we accidentally burned down that old ramshackle house, and as we staggered outside you said, 'At least it's not rainin'" -- she does it as he had, in Marty Feldman's accent -- "and Giles just looked at you like 'Who is this person?'"

The corner of his mouth quirks up. "Yeah, I remember." He tugs a sundried tomato off his slice, flicks it aside. "I was pretty skunked that night." Skunked is one of Patrick's words, which found its way into Xander's vocabulary.

"Skunked--? No, Xander, this was in high school. It was back when Faith was kind of a probationary Scooby again."

"I know. You think I didn't drink then?" Especially after Faith.

"What, you're gonna tell me you drank all through school?"

"No. But I did sometimes. It's not like it was hard to find."

"How could I not know that?"

"I kept a lid on it. And I never got staggeringly, cursing drunk. Not till Italy." He hates watching her face when he's shifted the ground beneath her feet, rewritten history. "Let's forget about it. Put a couple of slices on your plate and let's go back and watch."

After the pizza and the breadsticks (and who decided the world needed breadsticks with pizza?) and the sleep deprivation, he falls asleep before Igor even grabs the wrong brain. Bits of dialogue and spooky sound effects filter into his subconscious, along with quiet laughter from the woman beside him. He drifts in and out, eventually noticing there's no sound but the television.

He reaches across her, puts his hand on her hip. "Ahn? Ahn, are you still watching that?"

Her hand covers his. "Xander, it's me. It's Willow."

He sucks in one of those deep, emerging-from-sleep breaths. "Oh, sure. That's what I said, isn't it?" He feels for the eyepatch before he raises his head, makes sure it's positioned properly.

"You said Ahn." Willow touches his face. "Do you dream about her a lot?"

"I wasn't at all for a long time. Not until just lately." Xander makes it as pointed as he can, but she lets it gloss right over her.

"I still dream about Tara. Not often, really, but they kind of come in waves. Nothing at all for a while, then a bunch in a row."

"What time is it?"

There's a little pause as she reacts to the rebuff. "Almost nine."

"I'm getting all screwed up."

She gets off the bed. "I'll be gone tomorrow." She walks out of the bedroom and Xander falls back against the pillows.

Shit. He's glad she'll be gone, and he's sorry she can't stay.

He hates this.

There've been a lot of times in their friendship when things were rocky. They've never had good timing on their side, much less good sense. But it's never felt this fucking hard. Standing on the edge of the abyss with veiny, scary Willow ready to push him in -- in a way that felt less hard than this.

He rolls out of bed, heads down the hall to look for her. She's in the guest room, her carry-on spread open on the bed, her coppery hair shielding her face as she bends it to her task.

Xander leans a shoulder against the door jamb. "Will --"

She looks up. "Look, I'm sick of pushing you. Sick of being the bad guy. Have it your way. Forever, if that makes you happy."

Heat rises in his face. "Oh hey, thanks for that. One last memento of Anya to leave with me. That was her favorite argument-ender, too. 'I'm sick of being the bad guy' -- which of course means exactly the opposite. Fine. I have years of experience being the no-good shit that some saint has to suffer, I'm fine with it. Next time you get an urge to visit, why don't you call first, see if I'm ready to open a vein for you. It must've been such a disappointment to come all this way for nothing."

The reaction comes like a punch to the chest. Not for the anger expressed to Willow, but the vitriol he's splashed on Anya's memory as well. He stumbles back out of the doorway, fingers splayed across his shirt front, unable to catch his breath.

"Don't be such a -- Xander?"

"Forget it," he says, and closes himself in his room.

The tears Willow's been hoping for finally come, but there's no magic cure-all in them. They're bitter and solitary and they burn on their way out.

The fun never stops. One last fight on the way to the airport.

"I never did say what I came out here to say," Willow says.

Oh, fuckin' great. It's six in the morning, and he's kept himself awake most of the night so he has some hope of getting his sleep schedule back on track. "Terrific, let's have it."

"I wish you'd come back to us, that's all. Come home."

"Home's gone."

"Home to your friends. We need you."

"Where would that be, exactly? You're scattered between the East Coast and London."

"Wherever feels comfortable and right. Wherever you can do what you were meant to."

"Spokane feels plenty comfortable. More than anywhere else I've ever been. I can't live the way you want me to, Will. Not anymore. I don't miss the bimonthly apocalypse, the adrenaline rush. I weaned myself off that juice, too."

There's a pause. "You're saying that's an addiction too?"

"I'm saying it wasn't easy to kick. I can't afford to be pulled back in." He rolls up to the parking garage gate, takes a ticket.

"So the rest of us are addicts."

"I'm just speaking for myself," he says mildly.

"Bullshit."

Xander shrugs. "Well, you seem pretty damn affronted that I'm not doing it anymore." He glides the car into a parking space.

"AA's a cult," she says as she jerks her door open. "It's making you see addiction in everyone."

He lifts her suitcase out of the trunk, remotes all the locks. Neither has anything to say as they walk to the terminal. Check-in takes no time at all, and there's no line at security yet. Just a man ahead of them with a young girl's hand in his, a Hello Kitty kid-size suitcase in the other. The man pauses to get his I.D. out, and a boy with a backpack, just working on his growth spurt, turns from where he's walking ahead. "You don't need to come to the gate with us."

"It's not a problem," he says. "I'm sure Casey would like--"

"It's okay, Dad." She lets go of his hand, takes the boy's. "Tim takes good care of me."

Poor bastard.

Xander's attention is pulled away then as Willow rummages through her purse. "I do this every time. Put it all away, and I just have to get it out again."

"Can I hold something for you?"

"No, I'm good." She's all ready now, and one of the security guards is standing ready to check her boarding pass and I.D. An awkwardness descends over them both. "I wish--" She sighs, slides her arms around him. "I love you. Not that I couldn't smack you just now."

He hears muffled sniffles against his shirt. "I love you and want to smack you, too, Will," he says softly. "Don't be a strangler, ya hear?" They'd both thought this was the height of wit around sixth grade.

Abruptly she pulls away and hustles through the security checkpoints. He climbs several stairs leading to the airport cafe to get a better view of her as she threads her way through. A poem comes to mind, one Patrick passed on to him, that always tightens his chest: Eliot's "Journey of the Magi."

...this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.

He wants to leave off the last line, so bleak, but it wouldn't be true without it.

I should be glad of another death.

Willow passes through security, never turns back to look. The two kids trail behind her, backpack and Hello Kitty bag bumping along behind.

Xander looks at the father below him, surprised to find himself meeting the gaze of the cop Straley.

"Bon voyages sure as hell aren't what they used to be, are they?"

Xander twitches a smile. "Nothing's what it used to be." He suspects he looks much the way Straley does, hollowed out, haunted -- only with half the number of red-rimmed eyes.

"Live a few years longer, and you'll come around to the view that nothing ever was what it used to be." Straley emits a sudden, sharp laugh. "Listen to me. It's the Old Farts Smackdown -- I guess I'd be on the juniors tour." He climbs the steps toward Xander. "They do a pretty good breakfast at this place. I'd welcome the company if you want to join me."

He considers what's awaiting him at home: an empty house, an empty bed, newly raised ghosts that he'd done such a careful job of laying to rest. "Sure. That'd be great."

They put in their orders at the counter, then Straley finds a table that affords him a wide view of the cafe itself and the security area below. Xander angles his chair so he can see who comes and goes as well. The cop gives him an appraising look.

"Habit," Xander says. "Always keeping an eye on the shoplifters."

"Sure, of course."

"Those are great-looking kids. Where do they live?"

"Boise." He says it the way people do around here, Boy-see, not Boy-zee.

"I hear that's a nice city. Livable." And he's never heard any rumors of supernatural unpleasantness there.

"Yeah. I don't have to worry about them there. And it's a short hop on Southwest between here and there." The cook calls out their numbers, and Straley says, "I'll get it."

When he comes back with their breakfasts and plastic forks and napkins, he says, "He just turned twelve. I thought I'd have a while before the teenaged crap started."

"No, I think the prickliness sets in like an aura, then there's the years-long headache."

Straley laughs. "I'm gonna have to steal that line. But you're not old enough to have teenagers." He's been eying Xander, trying to assess his age, but Xander's been doing the same, so he doesn't mind. Straley's hard to pin down. Nudging the underside of forty, Xander suspects, but he easily passes for older.

"No."

"Any kids at all?"

"Not yet."

"Nice-looking girl you were seeing off. Girlfriend?"

"A friend. We go way back."

"Sometimes I think it's smarter to have 'em as friends than marry 'em, but I never really learned the knack of making friends with 'em, either. What's your secret?"

Xander shrugs. "Lost to the mists of time. We've known each other since before kindergarten."

"That might've been the last time I understood 'em." Straley shovels in a forkful of potatoes -- which, as he promised, are damn good. "Aah, I'm full of shit. Sometimes I hear myself saying the same crap that the other guys on the job say all the time. Truth is, I don't think my ex-wife is some kind of alien. I understood her pretty well, and I still do. I even like her. We just couldn't make it. The job's a bitch, you know?"

"I can believe that."

"You ever been married?"

"Engaged. We split before the wedding." Sounds much nicer than at the wedding.

"Probably saved yourselves a lot a heartache."

"I don't know about that." He gazes out the window, watching a plane taxi and then rise in the air. It doesn't seem possible, when you think about it. Metal behemoths, yet so fragile.

"Sometimes I'm amazed at how hard it is to figure out what we want," Straley says. "Should be the easiest thing in the world, right?"

"All I want--" Xander directs a sharp glance back at Straley. Funny how the conversation's turned in this direction. He thinks what a perfect cover police work would be for a vengeance demon. All the domestic misery he sees, lives fucked up on drugs, people cheated and screwed over -- a demon in Anya's line of work wouldn't have to work his clients; they'd be all primed and ready.

But Xander's already been tested by a vengeance demon, that waitress during the road trip summer. She made the offer and he turned it down -- they wouldn't send another demon to try again, would they?

Why not? D'Hoffryn's not exactly his number one fan. He'd probably love to bag himself a Xander Harris wish.

"What'd I say?" Straley asks rhetorically. "Harder than you think, isn't it?"

Fuck it. Xander's skin prickles all over. He doesn't give a shit. "All I want," he begins again, "is to have a good life without hurting anybody."

Nothing happens, except Straley keeps talking. He doesn't go all freaky-faced, and no giant worm monsters rear up out of the ground to snack on the baggage handlers. People keep moving around them -- businessmen abandoning their breakfasts to hurry to their gates, families settling in for a breather with their whole caravan of stuffed animals, juice boxes, diapers and cell phones.

Is that what he means by a good life? Xander doesn't know.

He dials back into the conversation, which couldn't be more normal. Well, less superficial than normal. Straley asks Xander some pretty probing questions, but nothing he's not willing to answer himself. The conversation runs to women and kids and how the world keeps moving faster and faster without seeming to get anywhere. Straley talks about the barrier he feels rising up between himself and the people he serves, the habit of dividing the world into stand-up guys and scumbags. Nobody he works with even tries to resist categorizing people this way. Xander talks about getting sober, and without quite knowing how it happened, tells Straley about Willow and this chasm that's opened between them.

Xander tries to remember the last time he had a discussion like this, serious and wide-ranging, adult. The closest he comes is the talk he had with Giles the night he and Anya announced the engagement. He wouldn't say he felt like an adult then -- everything Giles said scared the living shit out of him. And the night after Tito's wife packed up their baby and moved to Chicago. Though he had to admit booze played a large role in that conversation. It's been a long time.

They're in the middle of sorting out the whole world when the sports update comes on the TV overhead, and both men swivel their heads to face the screen as the Ms are mentioned. They both break out laughing, then put in a good while hashing over Seattle's chances this season. "I like that new kid," Xander says. "Grimaldi."

"She's a gimmick. Pump up attendance before the pennant races heat up. She'll be back in the minors long before the All-Star game."

"She might get sent down," he concedes. "It's an adjustment. But she'll be back up. I was watching some of those spring games on the tube. She's got something." He's had a faint suspicion what it is, but there's no way they'll ever know. He supposes there's a bunch of girls out there, slayers without a calling.

"The Indians' season starts soon. I used to go with my kids, but I didn't make any games at all last year. When it warms up some we should get to the ballpark."

"Absolutely." Xander hasn't been to a minor league game since beer stopped being the main attraction. "That'd be great."

They suddenly become aware of the time and gather up their trays and trash. The clouds have started to break up as they walk out of the terminal building to their parking spaces. Xander fires up a smoke and takes a deep, grateful drag.

"Been nice talking to you," Straley says, sticking out his hand. "And I mean it about that ballgame."

"So do I, um..."

"Oh. Kevin. Kevin Straley. Alex, right?" He gestures at his chest. "I remember the nametag."

"Actually, my friends call me Xander."

That's the second time he's said this in the last couple of weeks. It's also the second time in the four-plus years he's lived here. Some Sunnydale-imprinted part of him wonders if either time was a wise move.

He slides back into his regular routine, but it all somehow feels askew.

His sleep pattern suffers the most disruption. Something there is that doesn't love third shift, either, and any slight crack in his carefully constructed habit of sleeping in daytime brings it all tumbling down for a few days. Xander notices every trickle of light that leaks in around the blackout shades, hears every dog's bark or kid's shriek.

There are also the dreams.

He makes the meetings in the mornings and the evenings, but he's restless with the stories, the automatic responses certain people make to them, the Higher Power stuff. It feels so bound in convention to him after a few days away that it seems something has died and been entombed in all this ritual. It feels like church with bad coffee and cigarettes as sacraments. He knows this stems from Willow's accusations, which have amplified his own doubts. He chafes at sitting in the rooms twice daily, but he's looking for Willa-with-an-A, just to make sure she's all right.

She hasn't appeared for days.

The transition back to work is the easiest to make, but things feel unsettled even there. In the hour before dawn his third night back, Mrs. Priestley hobbles in wearing her thin nightgown and no slippers.

Xander's catching up on paperwork in the office, but everyone follows the drill just as they're supposed to. His phone rings and Peggy says, "It's Mrs. P.," then hangs up. He grabs the jar on the shelf above his desk and hurries out past the checkout stands, calling out to Damon. Peggy's already easing her onto the bench by the automatic doors. "It's sure nice to see you, hon," she croons, "but aren't you chilly?"

"Mama said I could get some penny candy," Mrs. Priestley tells her. Her hair is a wispy white cloud around her head.

"Sure you can, doll. Alex is bringing the jar right now."

Xander kneels in front of her. "We just got some root beer barrels for you," he tells her. "We were running low."

"I like those," she says. Her gaze sharpens on his eyepatch. "My Charlie got hurt in the war, too."

"I know, Mrs. P."

"Do you know him, Allie?"

"Sure I do. Everyone still talks about how brave he was in battle."

Damon comes with the microfleece throw and the slippers they keep on hand, and drapes the throw around her as Peggy snugs the slippers on her pale feet.

"I'll call," Peggy says, and retreats to her checkout station and the phone there. Mrs. Priestley's daughter's number is posted at each stand, but they haven't had to use it in a while.

She looks at the candy in both hands, confused.

"You forgot to wear your pockets, Mrs. P.," Damon says. "Here's a sack." He opens a little brown bag, tilts it toward her to dump the candy inside. Everyone on third brings in the tiny paper sacks they get since the store doesn't stock them. Plastic grocery bags upset her.

"Do you feel like taking a walk over home?" Xander asks. "Pam's waiting to see you."

"Okay."

He helps her up, adjusts the throw around her shoulders. He offers to carry her little bag, and she hands it over. Xander takes her hand.

"Careful crossing those streets, now," Peggy says.

It's getting light out, which seems to inspire her to chatter. Some of what she says makes sense, though he doesn't know the people she's talking about, but sometimes she makes up words and slips into gibberish. He responds whether he understands her or not, trying to keep her engaged. It doesn't take long, even at their slow pace, to deliver her home to her grateful daughter.

As he walks back to the store, carrying the slippers wrapped in the throw, he still feels the warmth of her dry, papery hand, and thinks of Tara. How confused and lost she'd been after Glory had fucked with her mind, how much smaller it had made her seem. He misses her now with a fierceness he wouldn't have believed. She had the softest eyes of anyone he's ever known. Xander often wishes he'd gotten to know her better; there was a weird little territorial edge that underlay most of their interactions. Stupid thing to have a tug of war over, somebody's love. He wishes he could talk to her now, bask in her empathy.

He reaches the entrance of the store, but stops to light a cigarette and watch the day come on, as tears prickle behind his eyelids.

Xander skips both meetings, his emotions still too raw. Instead of the 6:30, he decides to head for Auntie's for the Sherman Alexie reading. Spokane is Alexie's old stomping grounds, and the place will be packed, so he arrives early.

A sudden impulse takes him through the recovery section, which Willa had said she haunted. Not surprisingly, she's not here now, so he climbs the stairs to the second floor. The spot he'd wanted, the far back corner, is already taken by a walking anachronism so complete Xander's stomach lurches. His hand automatically seeks out his jacket pocket for the stake he still carries on the chance this night would come.

Well, "walking" anachronism may be an exaggeration, considering the heels she's wearing -- more like tenpenny nails with pituitary problems. Powder blue Jackie Kennedy suit and a flip of blonde hair that has no relation to anything found in nature. He changes his plan and drapes his jacket over a chair on the aisle so he can slip out whenever she leaves. He slips back onto the selling floor to find some books to browse as he waits, and to work his way around for a closer look at the blonde.

Grabbing a couple of poetry books, he works his way forward again, gauging with a vampire's eye who she might choose as a likely victim. He pulls a couple of short story collections too, and circles around to her side of the seating area. As he gets a good view of her profile, he slams into another browser on his blind side and the books spill out of his hand.

He doesn't even hear the profuse apologies from the guy he clipped. "Holy god," he says. "Eudora. What did you do to yourself?"

Willa's skin looks sallow with the new blond hair. She tilts her face up toward him and he sees the bruises then, clustered around her eye and around the split in her lower lip.

Without thought he reaches to touch the skin below the fading purple and green. (Her skin is warm, thank god for that.) She flinches slightly from the movement.

"Jesus, Willa. Who did this to you?"

Willa can't meet his eyes. "Xander, I appreciate your concern --"

"There's a 'but piss off' if ever I didn't hear one." He slides past her into her row, sits next to her. "Unfortunately, I've never been that good at following directions," he says lightly. This sounds almost like his high school self, and he wonders where it came from. "Particularly the nonverbal kind. Anyone can tell you." He's sitting on her right, which means he has to angle his body toward her and twist his neck uncomfortably. "I haven't seen you around lately."

"I've been busy."

He smells alcohol on her breath. "Want to tell me about it?"

Tears swim in her eyes. "If I wanted to tell you about it, then I'd be telling you about it. What I want is to sit here and be left alone."

A couple of people sitting nearby take notice of them then, and one burly guy shifts in his chair. Despite his earlier claim, this is the sort of nonverbal cue he understands extremely well. "All right. But Willa, you don't have to take this shit from anyone. Get yourself somewhere safe. Promise me you'll do that."

"Go away!"

The burly guy rises from his chair, and Xander reluctantly stands. "No guy on this earth is worth that," he tells her, then makes a hey, I'm harmless gesture at Willa's protector as he moves away. When he comes to the seat with his jacket draped over the back, he hesitates a moment, then he lifts it off the chair and goes.

Xander walks the downtown streets, a curious mix of lively and quiet. It's early enough that a good number of stores are still open, though not all. Some restaurants are jumping, some are fairly deserted. Kids sit outside the Rite Aid, panhandling passersby.

The only person who can straighten out Willa is Willa. He knows that. But he can't help feeling responsible. She'd asked him for help and he'd told her to go find someone else, someone who could be bothered. So she probably hasn't -- why should she try again, after the first person she'd asked slapped her down? That's Xander Harris pretty much to a T: willing to give himself to a cause, but not enough of himself to make an actual difference.

He hates this itchy feeling, self-loathing and smashed plans. Every storefront he walks past seems to have a beer sign, neon barbs that pull at him, aiming to reel him inside. An impulse takes him instead into a music store with a set of metallic red drums in the window. Johnny Cash's unmistakable voice greets him as he walks in:

Now I taught the weeping willow how to cry, cry, cry
And I showed the clouds how to cover up a clear blue sky
And the tears that I cried for that woman are gonna flood you, big river
And I'm gonna sit right here until I die...

The storekeeper is absorbed in a transaction over a huge catalog, giving Xander time to look around. He doesn't know what brought him here; there's not a single musical instrument he knows how to play. He'd briefly picked up the flugelhorn in school and had owned a guitar, but his old man had never had any patience for the painful squawks of noise you had to make to get proficient at playing. Neither did Xander, for that matter. He'd absorbed the family philosophy: Why bother playing badly when there are professionals out there who've already done it for you? And they'll play it note for note perfect, as many times as you want.

The warm gleam of wood catches his eye just as he's about to bolt for the door. A row of acoustic guitars, some used, some new. He finds himself drawn to one in particular, with intricate wooden inlay around the soundhole. Crouching before it, Xander traces his fingertips on its face. It makes him think not of music but the scent of planed wood, the silky feel of its sanded surface. When was the last time he'd lost himself in these sensations? Before the wedding, he thinks. The jewelry box he'd made for Anya, which he'd never given her. Well, she's buried with it now.

He'd gotten in a lot of time with hammer and saw the year after that, patching things up after Bringers, demons and rambunctious slayers-in-training. But there'd been nothing satisfying about it, nothing lasting or beautiful. Nothing that made him feel the way looking at this guitar did.

"Don't be bashful," says a voice. Xander hadn't even noticed when the other customer left. The shopkeeper turns down the music. "I made it to play."

"Actually, I never learned." He takes the guitar in his hands anyway, turning it over, taking in the natural markings of the dark wood. "Used to do some woodworking." Suddenly he looks up, really noticing the shopkeeper for the first time. He's tall and lanky, wearing black jeans and a black Western pearl-snap shirt. Hair's black too, threaded with gray. "You said you made these?"

"I made that one. And the one on the far end of the row."

"This is amazing. The back and sides are walnut?"

He nods. "California. It's a nice wood to work with."

"How long does it take to do something like this?"

"Starting out, it takes a while. Maybe a couple hundred hours of actual building time, not counting time for your glue and your finish to dry. After a couple of dozen, it's more like fifty, seventy hours. This one, though, took me around three hundred." He holds up his hands, bent and gnarled. "Arthritis. I probably won't make another until I can get this back under control." He picks up the guitar from the end of the row, the other he'd made, fingers the frets but doesn't actually play it. "Why'd you stop? The woodworking, I mean."

"I lost all my tools. House fire." That's the story he gives these days. It takes a lot less explaining than "natural disaster." "Then I moved here, went on to other things."

"I had something similar once. Only not a fire, but an ex-wife."

Xander smiles at the joke. It feels to him like the smile he gave Jack O'Toole, down in the school basement when everything was at stake. "I'd really like to learn. Would you be interested in teaching me?"

"To play?"

"To make these."

The shopkeeper -- Evan, his name is -- says he'll think on it, and gives Xander an assignment. Evan tells him to bring something he's made, anything.

"Then I'll have to make something. All that's gone, too."

"I can wait. Guitar-making will teach you that." He has Xander write down the titles of a couple of books and the names of some websites he says will be useful.

Xander's not sure if he's being jerked around or not. He decides he doesn't care -- he's got time, same as Evan. "I'll see you when it's done, then." Xander offers his hand, letting Evan take the lead on how strong a grip they use to shake. His cool, dry touch makes him seem almost as tenuous a presence as Mrs. Priestley, but in a completely different way.

Xander walks back to the bookstore, so intent on his mission that he forgets about the Alexie reading until he sees how deserted the main floor is. He finds the books Evan recommended and a couple other interesting ones on the mezzanine, sits in a chair and leafs through the pages, distantly aware of the waves of laughter wafting from upstairs. Finally he rises and takes a small stack down to the register, just as swarms of people start coming down from the reading. The sound of excited chatter surrounds him as he hands over the books and his debit card. Running on autopilot, he exchanges pleasantries with the clerk, takes his purchase and card and turns to find Willa standing in his way. The blond hair jolts him anew.

"Xander, it's not what you're thinking."

"Oh, you walked into a door? Because those look entirely consistent with walking into a door." He hates himself as soon as it's out of his mouth, and he reaches out to catch her arm as she spins away. "Willa. Willa, wait. I'm sorry. My best friend was just here for a few days, and we fought the whole time. I've forgotten how to do anything else. I have some time before work. Buy you a latte, whatever--"

She regards him for a moment, weighing the offer.

"I'm sorry," he says again.

"Tea would be nice."

They settle in at a window table at the bookstore's cafe, Xander with a double espresso, Willa with a decaf Earl Gray.

"What'd you think of that?" she asks. "That was some performance. A little TMI for a couple of old ladies near me, but that's Alexie for you."

"What? Oh -- I left before he got started. It was good?"

"He's always -- shit. You didn't leave because of me?"

"No."

"You did. God, I made a scene, didn't I?"

"Not by my standards, it wasn't. Seriously, Eudora. I've been thinking through a lot of things, and I decided I'd rather be doing that at the moment. That's all."

The steamed-milk nozzle screeches as the barista makes someone a cappuccino.

"Everything's fallen completely to shit," she says. She pushes her fingers through her hair, making an expression of distaste. Suddenly tears are spilling down her cheeks. "It doesn't even feel like hair anymore. I look like hell. Of course I was drunk when I did this."

"It's just hair," he says. "So you condition it within an inch of its life, maybe cut off the fried parts, do a tintback and start again."

Willa gives him a dubious look, palming the tears away.

"I nearly married a girl who had every hair color known to man. And a few additional. I know the drill. Tell me what happened."

"I went out with a couple of friends to see a band. They aren't that great to be around, they're always, 'Oh have one drink, what's it gonna hurt?' I was feeling sorry for myself, so I let them talk me into it. They got bored and left after a couple, and I stayed." She tugs the little napkin from beneath her tea and roughly mops her cheeks.

"Hey, easy," he says softly.

"I was barely able to walk when I left, and I cut through an alley. I got mugged. There were two of them. I'm so fucking stupid."

"Hey, c'mon." He reaches across and pushes her hair out of her eyes. She's right; it feels like straw. "It's not your fault."

"I fought them off and ran away, but it's a miracle I didn't get raped or killed."

"Did the cops find these guys?"

"I didn't call the police."

"Willa --"

"I was so drunk."

"They have to help drunk people too. These guys are predators. The cops need to know about them."

"And I could give them real valuable assistance." She raises her voice above the noise of another cappuccino. "Let's see, officer, about 5'9" and 6'1", both average weight. Oh, and their faces were all fucked up." She touches a shaky hand to her brow. "And they had yellow eyes and fangs." The steamer cuts off abruptly, leaving the cafe nearly quiet as she shouts the last several words. "That'd be fantastic," she hisses. "Another trip to the Sacred Heart psych ward."

Xander feels like the air has been kicked out of him. He blinks, trying to think of something to say.

"Oh yeah," Willa says. "Your face says it all." She pushes back from the table, rises to go.

Xander peels off after her, catching her arm. "Believe me, my face says very damn little. We need to go somewhere private to talk, but I'll tell you this: You're not the slightest bit crazy."

"My car's around the corner. Would you let me drive you to where it happened?"

"You're kidding."

"If you don't want to go back, you can just tell me where. I'd like to see it, though. Sounds crazy, but --" Xander shrugs.

"No, I'll go." She keeps stealing glances at him as they walk, puzzled at this sudden change in his manner.

"Can you tell me what they looked like? The heights you mentioned -- were those a for-example, or is that about what they were?"

"It's my best guess. Which isn't all that good -- everyone's taller than me, so I don't think I figure all that accurately. Average build, seemed like."

"Coloring?"

"White, both of 'em." Not surprising, since it's a predominantly white town. "One dark haired, the other reddish brown hair, as far as I could tell in the street light."

He chirps the car open. "Do you remember anything about what they were wearing? Anything that seemed dated or weird in any way?"

She gets in the car, waits for him to enter. "How can you tell dated in Spokane?" Willa eyes him as he fastens his seatbelt. "I thought you worked at a grocery store."

"I do."

"Uh-huh. They were just metal guys. Mullets, black rock band t-shirts, black leather and silvery studs kind of guys."

Could be anytime in the last thirty years. "What bands?"

"Jesus, I was getting the crap kicked out of me, I didn't ask their favorite songs."

Xander pays the parking attendant and says, "Which way?"

"Down near the Onion. What is this about?"

He's wanted to spend the rest of his life without giving the vampires-are-real speech. Maybe he isn't obliged this time. Could be they're just passing through. "Anything about them give you the sense they weren't local?"

"Like I said, I didn't bother with 'Where you guys from?' I was trying not to die."

He softens his voice. "I know. Sometimes you get an intuition, you know? That counts for a lot more than people think. Tell me how everything happened. How'd you fight them?"

"Knees, elbows, fists, feet. I screamed a lot, and a car stopped and honked. They stopped running after me, so I took off. There." She points down an alley, and he pulls the car into it and stops.

"Want to come show me, or stay here?"

"I'll come. Maybe I can find my shoes." He waits for her, and together they walk between the brick buildings.

"You think you know where they came from?"

"They were already out here, I think. Maybe from behind that Dumpster. Hey, there's one of them." Xander's heart thuds until he realizes she means her shoe. She retrieves a pastel pump from beside a doorway.

"Willa, you might want to ditch those pointy heeled shoes. Or save 'em for day, if you have to wear them. I don't know yet what the story is here, but nighttime just got a whole lot iffier. If you're going to drink, do it at home. Stay out of places like this, and watch where you are after dark."

"Come on. They're just a couple of inbred meth-heads." Click. There it goes. Sunnydale Denial Syndrome, just kicking in.

"I've got news for you. These guys --" Here it is. That moment when you change somebody's worldview. Enlighten them and usher them into the darkness, all in the same breath. Xander lets out a sigh. He is not going to be that guy for Willa. "Inbred meth-heads can fuck you up pretty bad. Please. There are changes going on in this town. Do those things for me."

"Hey, there's the other -- shit. Somebody must've run over it." She inspects the broken shoe, then slings the pair into the Dumpster. "I loved this pair."

"You came out lucky," he says harshly. "If you want to be safe, listen to me."

"All right. Christ."

"Show me where everything happened."

She points out where she was walking when the first one tackled her, which way she ran.

"Did you use anything besides your body to fight? Sticks? Anything?"

"I threw some stuff at them, that's all. Just crap lying in the alley. An old shirt. Oh, and my shoes. Threw 'em and ran. I've never motored so fast in my fucking life. That car came and I ran into the bar across the street there and called a cab home."

"Smart tactic. Stay where other people are, that's always a good move. But still don't let your guard down." They get back into his car and he makes a slow circuit of the block, checking out all the businesses that open onto the alley.

"Supermarket manager," she says again.

"I wasn't always," he snaps. "I have to be at work. Where can I drop you?"

He drives her home, hoping he's impressed her with some sense of the danger of repeating the other night. He knows he's impressed her with the fact that hey, weirdo. Can't be helped.

Xander begins his shift, marking time until lunch break when he can head out in his car to look for these two vamps.

He goes out for his cigarette at dawn, into a Saturday morning that promises to be chilly and raw. It fits his mood -- he'd gone out around last-call to check the streets around the place Willa was attacked, but had no luck. Morning's gone back to what it used to be in Sunnydale. Xander can't believe how much this depresses him.

"Everything okay, Alex?" Peggy knows something's up. In his whole history at Rosauers, he's never left the premises for lunch break. What would you do at 2 a.m., run errands at Home Depot? (Though now that he thinks of it, he does need to make a tool run.)

He starts to lie, but then doesn't. "A friend of mine got hurt the other night. Mugged. She's okay, but it could have been bad."

"I'm sorry. Did they catch the guys?"

He shakes his head. "She wouldn't go to the police. She was embarrassed."

Peggy makes a noise of disgust. "Why is it that women get embarrassed when men behave like animals?"

"Beats me." But it's why vengeance demons always have work, he wants to say. "Listen, Peggy. I want you to be careful at night. Those guys are still out there, and there are other changes happening here that I'm not so sure about. Pay attention after dark. If your intuition tells you something's off about somebody, listen to it. If anyone ever comes into the store who creeps you out, get me out there." There's already a code they have in case of trouble. "If it turns out you're wrong, it doesn't matter."

"Sure."

As he turns to stub out his cigarette, he's aware of her careful scrutiny. He's been getting a lot of that lately.

"You're a sweet guy, Alex," she says. "'Never change.'" She winks at him.

Xander smiles. "You never change too. Either. Whichever."

They both laugh and head back into the store, and he feels slightly better, although he's not sure why.

Just a few minutes left of his shift. He's itching for a cigarette, or a meeting -- but there isn't a meeting for the problem he's got. I'm Xander, and I'm a vampire hunter.

Hi, Xander.

He's been trying to focus on the classifieds, find a yard sale with some woodworking tools for cheap, but his attention span is shot. "Hey, Peg. Are you hitting the sales this morning?" She's a general when it comes to yard sales, sitting down with the want ads and circling the ones she's interested in, categorizing them by neighborhood.

"You bet. Why?"

"Would you keep an eye out for woodworking equipment? Hand tools, not the power stuff. Call me if you spot a good collection somewhere, if you would."

"Alex, they could sell me an eggbeater for a jigsaw, and I wouldn't know the difference. Why don't you come along, look things over yourself. We'll draw up a new plan."

This is something he's never done, gone on a spur-of-the-moment social outing with a coworker. "That's okay. You've already decided where you want to head."

"I don't care where I go, the point is just to do it. C'mon, rookie, I'll show you how it's done."

"It's early yet."

"Well, we go have breakfast at Frank's, and work out our strategy. Then we start with the eight o'clock sales, and work our way to the nines."

He's drawing breath to say "yeah, okay" when the automatic door opens and in walks Willa. She's wearing jeans and an old school jacket. No makeup, her hair flat and unstyled, dripping with rain. She looks a lot like a half-drowned cat.

"Wow," she says. "You really do work in a supermarket."

"I really do. Uh, Peg, my friend Willa. Willa, this is Peggy."

"Nice to meet you," Peggy says. She closes out her cash register and slips out the drawer as the morning cashier steps in with hers. "Alex, let's plan this for next Friday morning. That's the best day anyway; things won't be so picked over."

"You're on, thanks." He turns back to Willa as Peggy slips on her jacket and goes.

"Can we go to your house?"

So not a good idea. It's full of Willow, of intimacy and arguments and the casual entanglement of their limbs and the resulting hunger in his skin to be touched. So full of these things that there's no room for two people. He starts to say this, but Willa speaks first.

"I can't go back to my place. Maybe I can move back with my parents, but it's too early to call them. I need to talk to you, but I can't, not in public." He sees that -- her hands are jammed so far into the pockets of her jacket that he can see the stitches straining. She's almost vibrating, ready to fly apart.

"Let's go." He lightly touches her elbow, and she jumps. "Easy, it's okay now."

Neither speaks as he drives her to his house up the hill. When he shuts off the car engine, he has to help her from the car like an invalid. Xander takes her into the kitchen and sits her down, then detours to the bathroom for a towel. Handing it to her, he turns to fill the kettle and set it on the stove, but when he turns back the towel is still bunched in her hands, unused. Gently he takes it from her and dries her hair.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"Those things came. Tried to get in. They shrieked and banged at my windows all night long." She folds in on herself then, keening.

Xander pulls up a chair, drawing her to him and stroking her hair. "It's all right. You're safe now. It's okay."

The kettle squeals and he reaches over to shut off the gas, goes back to rocking her, crooning softly that she's safe now, nothing can get her. He hopes it's true.

After a long time she pulls herself together, withdrawing from his arms. "God, I am so sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry about. Are you ready for some tea now?"

She nods. "Could I have a Kleenex?"

Instead he pulls a soft kitchen towel from a drawer. "Use that. I'm doing laundry later anyway." Xander puts fresh water on to boil, then turns back to her. He waits through a couple of nose-honks then asks, "What can you tell me about last night? Were they the same two vampires?"

Willa stares up at him. "Vampires?"

Shit. Scooby autopilot -- there goes the carefully-laid foundation of logic he was planning to build. Not that he'd had the first idea how to start. "I was planning to work up to that, but I forgot to tell my mouth. So yeah. Vampires are real. Sounds crazy, but you get used to the idea after seven years. I used to fight them."

"The way you said that." She's still completely pole-axed; he's not even sure she's heard anything he's said after the first "vampires." "So offhand. Just another everyday noun, like Kleenex, or dishtowel."

"Back in the day, I saw them a lot more often than I ever saw a dishtowel, believe me."

"You're a vampire killer."

"More of a sidekick, really. Kind of like Robin, without any of the disturbing elements. And that's was, not am. And the term is actually Slayer. There used to be one in the world at any given time, by the way, but now there's a whole bunch of them." He gauges her expression. "This amount of detail is really not helping me out, is it? I just sound like a lunatic with an elaborate worldview."

"No," she says, a little too quickly. "Not at all."

"Come on. I remember the first time I heard this stuff. I thought I'd stumbled into a nutjob convention. But you've got an advantage I didn't have. You've already seen them."

"I'm not sure what I saw."

"You saw fangs and yellow eyes and fucked-up faces. That's what you said to me last night. You can go ahead and unsee them -- people did that in Sunnydale all the time. But a lot of those people got dead."

The kettle shrieks again and he turns away, grateful for a little break in the intensity. "Earl Gray's good, right?"

"Fine, yes."

He breaks out two tea bags and pours a cup for each of them. No teapot -- he hasn't had any need for one. The scent makes him think of Giles. Xander almost wishes he was here to guide him through this -- or better yet, take over.

"I can't remember about milk or sugar."

"No on both, thanks." She cradles her hands around the mug he sets in front of her. "So you're telling me this shit goes on all the time in Spokane."

"I don't have a clue what's going on in Spokane. Two days ago I'd have said this city is a big fat supernatural goose egg." He sits across from her. "This shit does go on all the time in some places. It did in the town where I grew up."

"California, you said."

"Yeah. A town called Sunnydale. It got famous about five years ago for falling into a sinkhole. The whole town, here today and gone tomorrow, only it was more like five minutes."

"I think I heard about that."

This is why he so rarely mentions where he's from -- his whole life, the loss of everything he ever knew, is just a vague piece of trivia to most people. Dawn had called him when it made the latest edition of Trivial Pursuit.

"I can't figure out why they're going after you. Why are they showing up at your place instead of going after the next prey that comes along?"

"Maybe they found out we went back there to look."

"I don't know." He sips at the tea. Apparently tea has nothing to do with Giles's brain capacity, because it does squat for him. What the fuck are they doing here? Is it just those two, or is this the symptom of a serious infestation? It pisses him off that they're in his town.

"Maybe they were watching us, saw you take me home. That's probably it, they think you're a detective, and that I'm willing to testify if you catch them and --"

"Willa. These guys don't give a shit about the cops. I know it takes a few times to sink in -- it did with me. They're vampires. The police don't know how to deal with things like this."

"You don't know that."

A surge of irritation washes over him. "We can try. Want to try? I've got a friend I can call. 'Hey, Straley, got a girl here who's being harassed by vampires. Could you get someone to send a squad car?'"

"Stop."

He summons his patience. "I've had some experience with this. The Slayer got more negative attention from the Sunnydale P.D. than the vampires ever did."

"The Slayer," Willa repeats.

"Yeah." Xander rises, takes a cheap snapshot album from the top of the fridge. Willow had brought it as a gift, full of updated pictures of everyone. He's barely been able to look at it. He flips to a picture of Buffy out playing tour guide in London. "That's her. Buffy."

"She's the Slayer."

"One of, now."

"Is she one too?" She points out Willow, mugging, wild-eyed for the camera, clutching a tiny book. Her Little Book of Calm riff.

"No. That's my best friend."

"The one who was just here, fighting with you?"

Yeah, that one.

She flips the page. "Who's the couple?"

People he refuses to see. Giles and the wife he's never acknowledged. Gently he teases the book from her hands. "I'm sorry. I can't do this right now." He feels bad -- the pictures were providing a distraction, calming her down, but the price is too high.

"Oh. Are they people who died?"

"No." He tosses the album back onto the fridge. "They're the ones who lived."

That's what he can't forgive.

"Look," he says. "I have to stick to my schedule or I'll never get to sleep. You're welcome to stay until it's late enough to call your parents. You could probably use some sleep yourself. I have a guest room." She follows him down the hall and he shows her the bathroom and the spare room, invites her to help herself to towels if she wants to shower. Then he closes himself in his room.

The truth is, he's usually up for another hour or two, but he's on overload right now. Willa and her drama layered over Willa and her legitimate problems. (What the hell kind of parents do you have to wait to call until they're awake to tell them you've been terrorized all night? Oh wait, he knows that one.) Willa and the questions she raises.

He resents her. He's had his life all arranged, in balance. Violence -- except the armed robbery last year -- is just something that filters in through the television. He hasn't had to worry that someone he loves might not be around when the sun comes up. Of course, that's in part because he hasn't let himself love anyone.

Willa's changed everything. Xander realizes he's indulging in a little kill the messenger here, but fuck it, he doesn't have to be fair. She brought this to his doorstep.

What are vampires doing in his town? Willow still crackles with power though she's brought it under control -- were they drawn here by her visit? Is there Slayer activity, some other kind of force, that has demons on the move on a larger level? Willow tried to fill him in on the Great Work while she was here, but he told her he wasn't interested.

He's not.

He just wants to kill these two and be done with it.

After half an hour of thrashing, he rises and shambles out into the garage in his sweatpants and tee. In the yellowy light of the bare bulb he regards the workbench the previous owner had set up, currently scattered with cans of motor oil, a few boxes. He'd never had space for his own workshop before he lived here, and now he uses it as a place to set things.

The cement floor is clammy against his bare feet as he crosses to the bench. He pulls one of the boxes toward him. Del Monte green beans, according to the printing on the side. Inside is the only woodworking he's done since he moved here: some two hundred obsessively whittled stakes, carved out when he'd first been trying to get sober. Back when he was the poster boy for post-traumatic stress. Good thing Straley and his partner hadn't run across these when they were checking out the house.

He takes two handfuls and heads back into the house. Willa could use a few, and he wants to have some within easy reach in the house and his car. He hits the light switch with his elbow and kicks the garage door closed.

All the layers of history scattered there on the kitchen table like so many pick-up sticks. The nights of carving so he'd have something in his hands other than a drink. Some movie with numerals after the title -- Die Hard 3, Lethal Weapon 4 -- filling the room with noise and light so he wouldn't notice that he was alone. The whittling worked better than the movies did.

He fits one in the palm of his hand, remembering all the times he'd patrolled clutching one of these. The February night he'd walked alone with Buffy, asking her advice about the silver heart he wanted to give to Cordelia. Patrols with Cordy at his side; others, years later, with Anya. Near misses and nights when nothing was shaking, dead or alive. The five months they carried on without Buffy, feeling hollow, scraped out. He thinks of the first time he ever felt the solid connection of wood to flesh and then the sudden absence of resistance. Thinks of Jesse.

Odd to feel this weight in his hand again, stranger still by light of day. It turns everything on its head. He realizes he's been living his life in a graveyard, giving more consideration to the dead than the living. Distancing himself from Willow and Giles and Buffy for the crime of surviving. Hating himself for outliving Anya.

He puts down the stake and retrieves the photo album from the top of the refrigerator. Turns to the photo he's found it hardest to look at. Giles and Catarina, from Willow's visit last fall. Will has them posed in front of the British Museum -- tourist site, Giles's old haunt -- but really the picture's all about love. Both look directly at the camera, laughing, Giles standing behind his wife, arms wrapped around her. He seems to be aging in reverse: The years those last months in Sunnydale piled on him -- especially the abuse Willow dealt him on her wild magic binge -- have fallen away.

Xander had seen it coming before any of them, even Giles. She was the last woman any of the Scoobies would have picked as a likely match for him. She talked and laughed a little too loud, and was fond of ripping off a string of Italian curses at cars and scooters clipping by on the narrow streets. She was also smarter than almost anyone Xander knew, possibly including Giles. It was watching Catarina bring Giles to life again that had spun Xander out of control, pushed him to a place where the desire to be drunk was stronger than his revulsion at the smell of wine. And through all that, it was Giles whose patience with him lasted the longest.

Giles knew what grief was, knew how it encased you, held you apart from everyone around you. Xander hadn't seen that when it was Giles grieving for Jenny Calendar, but he felt that recognition through those months in Florence.

Shame courses through him for begrudging Giles the one thing he deserved most.

Though it was not precisely that he begrudged him his happiness.

Xander just didn't want to see it. Especially couldn't stand to see him in the first flush of love.

Looking at them now, he takes them in three years after the wedding he refused to attend. She's as lovely as he remembers, stylish in a way he recalls in all the Florentine women. Her hand folded over his sports an absolute rock of a diamond -- he can't imagine Giles buying such a thing. It makes him smile.

He rubs at a tickle on his face, surprised when his hand comes away wet.

He closes the album, taking it with him as he walks down the hall back to his bedroom.

The house is quiet when he awakens. Once he'd finally managed to sleep, he hadn't even heard Willa's parents come for her. He heads out to the kitchen, fills the espresso pot and sets it on the burner. The sight of the stakes on the table makes his stomach sour.

She's gone without taking any, and he knows he's let her leave completely unprepared. He hasn't told her what he knows about vampires, how to fight them, how to kill them. If something happens to her --

Xander heads down the hall to strip the sheets off her bed. He opens the door and is halfway in the room before he sees that the tight little heap of covers in the center of the bed is actually Willa, curled in on herself. All he sees peeping out from the coverlet is an outflung hand, the inside of her wrist, delicate and pale as old china. She's so vulnerable, even without the self-destruct impulse. He'll at least give her the basic seminar before he lets her walk out of here. Backing out of the room, he gently closes the door.

Gathering the rest of the linens, he leaves them piled on the washer then returns to the kitchen to finish making his Americano. He finds himself drawn back to the garage, standing for a moment with coffee cup in hand, regarding the workbench. Gauging the light sources, storage possibilities, potential work areas. A guitar, he imagines, takes up a serious amount of space, particularly when it's in pieces. He sets his coffee down and crosses to the bench, clears away the oil cans and the boxes, examining the work surface. No stains or spills, just a lot of dust. Xander finds a rag and wipes everything down.

"Hey."

Xander whirls, his heart hammering. He'd forgotten about Willa.

"I'm so sorry. I meant to be gone a long time ago."

"You needed sleep."

"I've been abusing your hospitality. I'll call the 'rents."

"Don't." He wipes his hands on the rag, tosses it aside. "I should talk you through some things first."

"Like what?"

He gestures at the doorway she's leaning in. "Like, this is the door to your apartment. You just opened it tonight and here I stand, a nice, clean-cut young man wearing a tie who'd like more than anything to give you some religious literature. Do you let me in?"

"Nope, thanks, already got plans for goin' to Hell."

"Um, good. I guess. Say I'm a tattooed freak who eats meth like breath mints -- except for the actual eating of breath mints. 'Lady, my rig broke down. Can I come in and use your phone?'"

"God no. Cause I'm not planning to go there tonight."

Xander laughs. "Okay, same sitch, only I'm a sweet young girl, maybe seventeen. You've never seen me before. Can I come in, call my parents?"

"Sure." She steps back out of the doorway.

"Wrong. No. Okay, same girl, only I'm scared. The tattooed biker guy is coming after me. Maybe the missionary too. Please let me in, please."

"Hurry, yeah, come in."

Xander steps inside his kitchen. "Wrong answer. You could be dead. You're safe inside your home if you or someone else doesn't invite them in. If it's after dark, you don't invite in anybody you don't know. Be careful about people you do. You can step aside if you think this girl's legit, and if she is, she'll come in. A vamp needs an express invitation. They can travel during the day, too, if they stay out of direct sun. Never let down your guard."

"That's a shitty way to live," she says, her tone accusing.

"I never said it wasn't." He fills her in on the rest of what he knows: how they're made, how they're killed, what they can do and what's just Hollywood bull. "Your first, best line of defense with these things is to run like hell. A public place is okay if there are a lot of people around, but just being inside won't save you. If the general public has an open invitation, so does a vamp." Xander picks up one of the stakes, hands it to her. "If you can't get away, you'll have to fight."

Willa reacts as if he's handed her a red-hot spike, slapping it down on the table. "Why are you telling me this shit?"

"Because being ignorant isn't going to change things. Because I don't want to lose another one of my friends."

She lowers herself into a chair, giving him the Frodo eyes. "How many have you lost?"

"You can't do numbers, not in a place like Sunnydale. It's like tracking the body count in a Bruce Willis movie -- eventually there's a big carnage scene, and there goes the whole tally. You have to set up filters, criteria: that girl in seventh grade who was always nice when you were at your lockers at the same time, does she count? Or just the friends you'd split your last Twinkie with, or tell about your most excruciating high school crush? Whichever set of numbers you go by, it's a lot." He can't have this conversation with her looking at him like that. He turns to the cupboard, drags out a bowl. "French toast and bacon work for you?"

"Sure, I guess. I mean, only if you're already going to."

Grateful to be moving, making some noise, Xander pulls out two skillets. "Well, there was Jesse. He's the first one I knew exactly what was what. He got turned." He shoots her a quick glance, sees she's not following. "Made into a vampire. Jesse was the first one I ever dusted." That's another term he has to explain to her. "We'd been friends ever since I could remember. Then there was Jenny Calendar. She was a teacher, but she was also our friend. Buffy, the Slayer, she had kind of a mentor, Giles. Jenny was the woman he loved. She got killed by a particularly vicious vampire, just to screw with Buffy's head. Tara, she was a special case. Garden-variety gunshot wound, no mojo involved. Jonathan -- well, not so much a friend, but significant. Ritual sacrifice. My parents -- swallowed in the Sunnydale sinkhole. Anya, my ex-fiancee. She died in battle." The eggs and milk are already frothy, but he can't seem to stop whisking them.

"Battle? That sounds ... big."

"It was."

"Against vampires?"

"Not like the ones you've seen. Ancient proto-vampires. And these priests of the First Evil, the Bringers."

Her voice is so soft that he barely hears when she asks, "Do you have pictures of them? Your friends. Could I see?"

"Everything's gone," he tells her. "Lost in the cave-in. I came out of Sunnydale with the clothes I was wearing, that's all."

"Oh," she breathes. "That's so sad."

The stainless steel bowl slips on the counter and tumbles to the floor, sending the egg and milk mixture everywhere. "Shit!" He reaches for a dishtowel. "Shit!"

Willa's on her feet, blocking his grasp. "No don't. Where's your salt?"

"The table."

"No, not the shaker. The box."

Xander reaches into the cabinet, hands her the salt. He feels overwhelmed, incapable of figuring out what to do about this on his own.

She sprinkles salt all over the floor. "This works really well for plain egg. I hope it's as good for milk and egg. Just leave it sit for a while."

"Dinner's ruined," Xander says. He suddenly realizes he's shaking.

"It doesn't matter." Willa steps into the gritty ooze on the kitchen tile, touching a hand to his chest. "It doesn't matter."

Xander can't tell who makes the first move. Heat flashes between them and then his lips are on hers (or hers are on his) and there are hands and tongues, everything moving, and he bangs into the counter, sending a spear of pain into his hip. He shouldn't be doing this with her, she's too unstable, too new at sobriety and he's not so steady himself, he'll only fuck her up worse. But this skin hunger that's awakened in him makes its own demands, drives the urgency of his hands and mouth.

Willa pulls him away from the counter, leading him toward the hallway. They only get as far as the living room floor.

Xander wakes up alone, in his own bed, to two realizations. He's late for work for the first time in his Rosauers career, and he's had himself another Slayer.

He remembers on a deep cellular level the feeling of a Woman of Steel, Man of Kleenex morning-after. Everything hurts in a way it hasn't since he last got his ass kicked by the demon-of-the-week.

This changes everything. All his advice to run whenever possible -- great plan for a civilian, but not for Willa. And a handful of stakes is just a bare beginning. She needs the whole arsenal: stakes, swords, axes, holy water. She needs someone to show her what to do, to tell her how this all works.

Christ, this just gets worse and worse.

He reaches for the phone, gets Peggy. "Peg, it's Xa -- Alex. I'm running late, but I'm on my way. I think I had a mild case of food poisoning, and I fell asleep after. I just now woke up."

"Hon, if you're sick, stay home. You're long overdue." It's true; he hasn't missed a day since he got this job. But he needs a little space, an immersion into everyday routine. He needs to figure this out. (Though what really needs figuring, beyond Horrendously Stupid Idea?)

"No, I'm fine now. I need a few minutes to get myself together, but I'll be there soon."

After he hangs up, he calls out, "Hey, Willa," and shambles out into the hallway. The guest room is empty, the bed made up. "Willa, are you --"

Gone. The sofa cushions are rearranged, the kitchen floor cleaned up. Several of the stakes he'd left on the kitchen table are missing. That's one good thing, anyway. There's a note next to the remaining ones, saying she called her parents, thanks for everything. No phone number, not even a last name. Fuck. Could he have screwed things up any worse?

He heads to the bathroom for a quick clean-up. Well, at least his cover story will hold up -- he looks like shit on a stick. He pulls on his khakis, white shirt, adds the tie and nametag. Lights a cigarette on his way out the door.

Though it's not on the way to work, he swings by Willa's apartment, just to make sure she hasn't lied and gone back there. He breathes a sigh of relief to see her lights off, then heads on in to the store.

He clocks in and starts his nightly routine as Damon empathizes with his illness in great and unwanted detail, trailing him down the aisles. Xander attempts to fling a pickle jar off a shelf two aisles away by telekinesis, but no luck. "You know," he finally says, "I'm still a little queasy. Maybe we should change the subject. How 'bout that J.J.? She hit one out of the park last night."

"She hit three! One right after the other. I saw it."

"No, bud, that was the replays. It was just the one."

"Oh." He's maybe not so impressed now with J.J. Grimaldi.

Peggy has a torn-out classified for him. One of the yard sales she visited. "This lady has a whole set of woodworking tools she didn't have marked for sale. She was widowed last year and they were his, and she wants them to go to a good home. You can look at 'em tomorrow if you go anytime after church."

"That's great, Peg, thanks."

It's a quiet night. He spends much of his shift sketching designs for the woodworking project he'll take to Evan, thinking about different kinds of wood he might use.

That and thinking about Willa, her strong little fingers kneading the muscles of his arms and his back, the satiny heat of her mouth and her --

There's this famous set of rules he remembers hearing, though he can't recall who was supposed to have said them. They went:

Never eat at a place called Mom's.
Never play cards with a man named Doc.
And never fuck anyone who's crazier than you.

The hell of it is, he can't tell which one of them it was who broke Rule #3.

This Sunday dawn is pretty much wasted on Xander. He can't quiet his mind; there are too many thoughts running on too many different tracks.

He's lost another night -- or at least his lunch hour -- to search for the vamps who attacked Willa. He felt compelled to stay and work through, make up for being late. Now he's got two full nights to take up the search, though. He runs through likely places to search as he smokes.

He wonders how Willa fared last night. Whether the vamps found her at her parents' place, or if she had a peaceful night. Or as peaceful as it gets with Willa. How many of her problems stem from being one of the Chosen But Abandoned? She'd have been something like sixteen when she came into her power. What did that entail -- dreams, a changing body and a restless sense that there's something she must do or find or remember? Xander remembers hearing about a psychotic Slayer -- more wacko than Faith, if you can picture that. The few details he knows are radically different from Willa's situation, but still, to have this destiny dumped on you with no guidance at all -- he's rarely thought of Buffy as lucky, but he sees now that she is.

At shift change he drives past Willa's place again. Though he doesn't know the apartment number, he can take down the names over all the buzzers, then narrow it down with the phone book. It's a start, anyway. Her building has only eight units, but he sees when he examines the bank of buzzers that the name over one of them has been removed, the little white card pried out with a key or something. The scratches on the metal frame are fresh, silver streaks on brass.

A man comes out of the building. "Help you?" His tone makes it clear it's not a Mother Teresa kind of help he's offering.

"I'm looking for my friend. Willa. But I'm not sure which apartment number she's in."

"She's not here."

"Could you tell me --"

"I can tell you she's not interested." The way the pugnacious fuck stares at Xander, takes in the eyepatch, he knows the guy's been told about him specifically.

"Okay then," Xander says mildly. "Thanks." He gets back in his car and pulls away, aware of the man's scrutiny the entire time.

Yeah. He's screwed this up good.

Xander's too keyed up to sleep, he knows that without even trying. He heads to the lumber yard, gets a nice deal on some high-quality scraps, then makes a stop at the MegaloMart for a few other supplies.

Bringing his coffee and his cordless phone into the garage, he begins setting up his work area. How could he have forgotten this? The way working with his hands calms his mind, helps him order his thoughts. Some things are measurable, definable -- you might not have any more room for screwing up, but at least you know if you measure and cut with care, you'll generally be okay. He finds comfort in this small certainty.

As he sorts nails and bolts and screws into their bins, he mulls over the situation with Willa. It eats at him to be treated like a stalker, but he gets why. What he did was completely out of line. She'd come to him for help -- first as a sponsor and then with all this inexplicable shit happening to her. At least he'd had the sense not to sponsor her, but since she didn't have anyone else, he was still the closest thing she had. And he'd let his own physical desires, his own loneliness become more important than what she needed. God, he used to be a better person than that. Even when he was a dumb high school kid screwing around with magic to get back at Cordelia, he'd had the integrity not to take advantage of someone who was vulnerable.

And what does he do about the slayer issue? He can just see himself calling Giles, telling him "hey, I found one, then I scared the bejeezus out of her, then I slept with her, then I lost her, and no, I don't know anything but her first name." That would be a great introduction after four years. What Willa needs, anyway, is time. There's a lot she has to process, from the whole new worldview he laid on her to their screamingly unwise fling. If he can just wait for her to work through things, let her make the approach instead of tracking her down, this will go better.

He just wonders if he has time.

It's sometime after noon when he finishes setting up the space the way he wants it. Sleep still seems like it's somewhere on a distant horizon, so he finds the yard sale ad Peg circled and heads out in search of tools.

He finds the house on the South Hill, a Craftsman with huge glacial rocks and spiky native grasses stabbing up from the ground. The woman who comes to the door is much younger than he'd expected, maybe in her mid-thirties. "I guess I'm looking for your mother. Mrs. Paciorek. I'm here about some tools -- Alexander Harris."

"Actually, you're looking for me. I'm Trina. Come on in." She opens the screen door and he steps inside.

"Sorry. Peggy said widow, and I automatically --" Way to remind her her husband's dead, Harris. "I'm sorry," he says again.

"It's all right. She said you're looking for a whole set of woodworking tools." She leads him out to the garage.

"Yeah, I lost it all in a fire a few years back. Lost interest, too, for a while, but I'm getting back into -- Wow. This is amazing." Xander wishes he had a picture of this workshop, everything logically and neatly arranged. He picks up a hand plane. "These are beautiful tools. He took great care of them."

"It was kind of a religion with him." She names a figure for the whole shebang that rocks him back on his heels.

"Trina, no kidding, I couldn't pay that. It's way too low. This is quality stuff -- it must've cost a mint."

"It did, I know. But what is it worth if it's not being used? Greg would've liked knowing it went to someone who appreciates it."

"He was a young man, I guess."

Trina nods. "Thirty six. He went to his best friend's bachelor party. He didn't even really want to go. He left when it started getting rowdy, and some psycho stabbed him out in the parking lot. Stabbed him in the neck with an icepick. Can you think of anything stupider?"

An icy hand squeezes Xander's heart, and he nearly drops the plane. "That's unbelievable. Trina, I'm sorry, that's terrible."

"The police haven't found the killer yet."

"When did this happen?"

She snugs her arms close around her body, clutching her sweater sleeves. "Just over two months ago."

Jesus. They're not just passing through, then. "Much as I'd love to own these things, I don't think you should get rid of them. Not yet."

"What do you mean?"

"My fiancee died several years ago. Everything of hers -- all gone too."

"The fire," Trina murmurs.

A brief hesitation, then: "Yeah. You should have things of his. Especially the things he cared about."

"I do," she says. "I've got a houseful. And it would mean a lot to me knowing someone was creating something beautiful with his tools."

"I can't guarantee beautiful. It's been a long while."

"You'll pick it up again. There's time." Not that different from what Evan said. She pulls out a stash of grocery boxes and starts packing up his tools, and Xander follows her lead. They load everything into the car, then he writes her a check for a hundred dollars more than she asked, leaving before she can argue him out of it.

Xander falls into bed without even unloading his new treasures. Once night falls, he's got some vampire hunting to do.

He wonders if this first night, unless a perfect opportunity presents itself, he should stick to recon. Stakes are the only weapons he has -- he should have spent the day looking into finding more. Would have been a good day for getting some holy water, though probably the Spokane Broadswords R Us is closed on Sundays. Where did Giles get all this stuff, anyway? How'd he amass so much weaponry without getting on some FBI list?

Xander doesn't love the hand-to-hand, and he never caught the hang of swords and battle axes. No one had ever thought to train him, and he's not sure why. Sure, Giles had to concentrate on the Slayer, but maybe Xander would have been more of an asset if he'd learned to handle himself better. It had never occurred to him to ask. You didn't go to adults and demand any more of their time and attention than they'd shown themselves willing to give -- that was one of the first rules he'd learned in life.

That last couple of years in Sunnydale he'd gotten pretty handy with a crossbow. He hasn't picked one up since he lost the eye. He'd probably be a menace now, even though it's his dominant eye that remains.

Screw it, he decides. There's only so much weaponry he can take with him anyway, and only two nights a week that he's free. He finds any vamps, he'll fight them, so Trina doesn't find herself with a whole lot more company.

He cruises the area where Willa was attacked, the bar where Greg Paciorek died, a handful of other places that seem likely to him. As he drives he formulates a plan -- see what he can find on murders and attacks in the Spokesman-Review online, check the obits to narrow his cemetery patrol territory.

His score for the night: 27 cigarettes, 4 aspirins, 0 vamps.

About 5:30 it gets light enough that he packs it in and goes home.

Before he turns in, he finds four more overtly suspicious deaths in the past two months, and two obits he plans to check out tomorrow night. He cuts his finger trying to do some inlay work.

No word from Willa.

The next night Xander actually catches a vamp in the act of rising, and dusts him before he even fights his way out of the grave. A little on the shooting-fish-in-a-barrel side, but sportsmanship won't matter to the people this one won't have a chance to kill. Xander still can't find two who hurt Willa -- they're cagey. (Or he's hopeless; he'd rather think they're cagey.)

He slips into the morning meeting just long enough to look for Willa, but she's not there. Mr. Give-Her-Space has left the building after two tense nights hunting on his own. Why hadn't he gotten a phone number, at least a full name? It makes him angry with himself that he could have sex with her without even knowing that much.

So what can he do now? Call around to the English departments at Eastern and Gonzaga and Wazoo until he finds one of the profs who named their kid after Willa Cather? What then? "Hi, I'm one of your daughter's AA friends, and..."

Yeah, sure.

That thought sparks an idea though. When he gets home he looks on the websites for all three schools, writes down the last names of all the English instructors, then cross-references against the phone book. W is a pretty damn common first initial, it turns out. Some of his matches have addresses nowhere near Willa's place, so he scratches those names from the list. Several list their numbers only, no addresses. A good chance they're women, then. If she's still staying away from home she won't answer, but he can at least eliminate some of the wrong ones. He'll call. But later -- when he's not tired to the point of incoherence.

He sleeps late, haunted by bad dreams.

The usual assortment, with some new added in. Now he can see Willa die in Technicolor, Panavision and slow-motion, along with everyone else he ever cared about.

Finally he pulls himself awake, lights his first and drags himself out of bed. As he waits for the espresso, he looks over the list. Five potentials -- the word quirks his lips into something like a smile. He calls the first.

"May I speak to Willa please? Oh. I'm very sorry to bother you." He repeats this twice more, gets two machines. Neither sounds like her, but that's cheap machines for you. Xander leaves his name and number on both.

He makes another Americano and carries it to his workbench.

Another three days, and no word. Xander heads out for an abbreviated patrol during each lunch hour. Not surprisingly, he finds nothing. He wonders if he's going to have to request a transfer off nights. The idea seems beyond bad. He likes third shift, likes his crew. Someone's going to have to train this girl, though, if she doesn't get herself killed before he gets to her. If not him, who?

He relies on his hands to make that solution clarify itself, working on his audition project for Evan. The morning he puts the finishing touches on it, he heads inside, pages through the phone book until he finds the home number of the two English professors still on his list of potential Willa-parents.

The first number kicks into voice mail, and he hangs up without speaking. The second gets him a live human being, a woman.

"Is Willa there, please?"

There's a pause, not excessively warm. "Who's calling?"

Not good. He's sure he's on the screening list. "My name's Xander Harris." He rushes on before she can give him the brush-off. "I gave her some information the other night, but I didn't have everything she needed. I wanted to make sure she got the rest."

"She's not here now, but if you'd like to leave a number, I can get it to her."

It sounds like a standard polite kiss-my-ass to him, but he gives her his work and home numbers. He hangs up feeling so disheartened he can't even take any satisfaction from the completion of his project. He mashes his cigarette out in the ashtray and takes himself off to bed.

Evan barely looks like he's moved from where Xander last left him when he returns to the music store. He's wearing the black pearl-snap shirt, the black jeans, same black cowboy boots. He looks up from an order form as Xander enters. Setting down down his pen, his left hand automatically moves to massage the right. "You made it."

"I made this." He sets a plastic grocery bag on the counter.

Evan reaches inside, brings out the picture frame. Bloodwood, set with Art Deco chevrons of maple inlay at the corners. Red and blonde, like Will and Buffy, whose picture he slipped behind the glass. Evan examines the it, silent for so long that Xander can scarcely stand still. "This is beautiful work," he finally says.

Freed to demur, Xander points out a flaw. "There's a nick. The close work takes some getting used to."

"Most people wouldn't spot it," he says. Evan looks up from the frame, scrutinizing Xander as carefully as his handiwork. "You hang your tools on pegboard?"

Xander nods. "Just got everything set up again. I found some nice used tools."

"You'll want to store 'em some other way. Or else set up a workbench away from your pegboard. That eye throws off your aim and you miss a peg, you could put a ding in a pretty expensive piece of work."

"Good thinking. Thanks, I'll do that."

Evan rubs a crooked finger over the nick. "There'll be flaws in your first guitar. In your first five or ten. If that's likely to ruin it for you, stick to picture frames. Every guitar you work on will teach you something new. That doesn't mean the first one you build won't look and sound beautiful. But you've gotta have patience with process. That make any sense to you?"

His whole life is process. He's not sure he has patience, exactly, but tolerance he can manage. "All kinds of sense. So I'm in?"

"If you want it."

"How does this apprentice thing work?"

"You start building it. Call or come in if you run into a problem or a question."

"That's it?"

"You're a woodworker. You don't need me to show you how to build a box. If you want advice on some of the trickier aspects -- bending the sides or attaching the neck -- I'm here. C'mon, I'll walk you through some of the different woods and what effect they have on the tone of your instrument." Evan takes him on a tour of every guitar in the store, and some of his personal collection in the back, training Xander's ear in the distinctions in fundamental and harmonics created by wood and steel or nylon. He tutors him in sources for wood especially for instrument making, and unrolls layers on layers of plans.

They talk so late that Xander barely makes it to work on time.

Peg suspects Xander's in love, he thinks. Over the next couple of nights she catches him deep in thought about soundboard and body materials, and she notices his agitation when anxieties about Willa surface. When he gets back from his lunch hours out, flushed and slightly disheveled, she smiles. She's asked a couple of neutral questions about Willa, so he knows that's the scenario she's working up in her head.

Still nothing from Willa. He finds comfort in the fact that her parents haven't sent the cops after him, takes that as a hopeful sign that she's not missing or dead. She just wants nothing to do with him. That he's got experience with. That he knows how to handle.

Early into his shift Saturday night, Straley comes in. He has a cart, so he must be gearing up for a visit from the kids. Xander runs into him at the end of the beer and wine aisle. They shoot the shit for a while, about Straley's kids, the Mariners and Xander's guitar-building project.

"I bought a nice set of woodworking tools from a woman up on the South Hill. Her husband was murdered a couple of months ago. Greg Paciorek. You remem--" He doesn't even need to finish the question -- the answer's on Straley's face.

"Oh hell yeah." He shakes his head. "That one made no sense at all. I mean, even for a senseless murder, that didn't add up."

Xander could make it add up for him. He wonders what Straley would say if he told him what he knows. "Has there been anything else like this recently?"

A woman turns her cart into the aisle and they shift to let her pass.

"Nobody's making any statements about it, but there's been another couple of these icepick-in-the-neck stabbings. Another attack where the woman didn't die, but it was a near thing. She couldn't remember any of it. The weird thing is, the physical evidence doesn't add up to one killer."

From the corner of his eye, Xander sees movement, the woman straining to reach for a wine bottle on the high shelf. He'd be moving to help if he weren't focused on what Straley's saying.

"Tall or short, right-handed or left," Straley goes on, "it doesn't match up every time. So, what, we've got two or three icepick killers running around Spokane? This is just between you and--"

The woman cries out and two bottles tip off the shelf. They seem to fall in slow motion, then they crash and everything speeds up to real time, red and glass exploding everywhere and the earthy smell of red wine blossoming in the air. Xander's stomach lurches, his eye socket throbbing with the memory of Caleb, and he spins away from the mess, yelling for Damon. "Aisle seven -- now!" he shouts as he heads for the office, nearly on a run. He slams the door behind him.

Xander falls into his chair, breathing hard, sweat beading his forehead. He can feel Caleb's grip on his face, unyielding as steel, smells the scent of cloves on the breath riding that malicious voice. Feels the ghost of pressure and then pain like nothing he'd encountered before. Hears chaos around him, girls hurt, terrified, running for their lives. Remembers the feeling of his knees giving way, Spike half-walking, half-dragging him, then Buffy coming up on his other side. All this slams back as if it were yesterday. Time at once stretches and collapses, until he's not sure how long he's been in the office when Peg comes in.

"You didn't have to --" She catches sight of Xander. "Alex. What's happening? Do you need an ambulance?"

"No," he says quickly. "Just give me a few minutes."

Peg sits on the desk, brushes the hair back from his eyes. He wonders if she can smell his fear in the air, sour and stale.

"You're shaking. What's wrong? What can I do for you?"

"Just stay a minute." He reaches for her hand, and she grips his in both hers.

"Sure. Damon's keeping an eye on things."

He's still struggling to even out his breath. "Oh Christ. Is he all right?"

"He's afraid you're angry. He'll be okay."

"How about the woman?"

"Rattled, but fine. Your friend got her calmed down."

Friend -- right, Straley. Nice moment for him to witness. He'd already seen Xander's living room littered with shattered glass from an earlier performance.

"What about you?" Peg asks. "What happened?"

There's a light knock at the door and Straley pokes his head in. "Hey, you all right?"

He slides his hand out of Peg's. "Working on it."

Straley nods, says to Peggy, "Mind if I talk to him a moment?"

Shit, here it comes. Peg looks at Xander and he nods. "Go tell Damon everything's okay. I'll be out in a little while and we'll talk."

Peg leaves, closes the door behind her.

Straley takes her place on the desk. "That was pretty textbook."

"Textbook?"

"Post-traumatic flashback. I went through that a couple of years ago, after a shooting I was involved in. It took a while to shake. I'd hear a loud bang, just about piss myself. Was that it, the noise?"

Xander hesitates, not sure he wants to give this up. But Straley's not asking for anything he hasn't already given up himself. He shakes his head. "The smell. The wine. Night I lost the eye, we were in this winery." He doesn't know how to make this sound plausible or reasonable, but somehow he doesn't much care. "There were casks getting smashed left and right, and the smell -- holy god, I can't describe what it was like. It made me want to gag even before --" He squeezes his good eye shut for a moment, breathes deep. "It was a cluster-fuck. We had wounded, and I went back. Got caught."

Straley looks at him, trying to puzzle it all out. "This wasn't the Gulf. I mean, they're pretty strict about alcohol."

"No, no. God, no. I'm not a vet. This was out in California."

Straley makes a sudden noise in his throat, like he's got it figured now. "I was thinking this before. You were on the job, right? Before the private investigator gig."

On the job -- cop slang for one of them. Xander's not sure how he knows this, but he does. He laughs. "No. It's a long story. If I ever think of a way to make it believable, maybe I'll tell you." He finger-combs his hair back into place. "Well, I've got a shift to get through."

"Like I said, I've been through the same thing." He grabs a pad of rain checks and a pen, scrawls his number. "You need somebody to talk to about the PTSD, I'm around."

Xander shakes the offered hand and follows Straley out of the office. Damon's lingering around Peggy's check stand, looking agitated though she's using her best soothing voice. He sees Xander coming and shifts his feet.

"Hey, buddy. Sorry about the yelling."

"Did I do something?"

"No, Damon. The noise scared me, is all, and I freaked out a little. I shouldn't have yelled."

"I thought you were mad."

"I know, but I'm not. Are we good?"

Damon's answer is about what Xander expected, a rib-cracking hug, with a side of back-thumping.

"I'm gonna go have a smoke now, okay?"

"You shouldn't smoke."

"I know, bud. But this one's medicinal." He pats Damon on the shoulder and breaks away. Stands just outside the square of light from the windows and looks out into the dark night.

Funny how little it takes to bring it all flooding back.

Maybe the vivid reminder of how fast things can go south wasn't such a bad thing. This is what he's thinking as he limps into his bathroom the next night to draw a hot bath. He'd finally engaged with one of the metal-head vamps who'd hurt Willa, and it had turned nasty. He'd managed to get home alive by using a technique ancient even in the time of the Romans -- running like hell.

He can't do this alone.

He's not so sure he can do this partnered with a Slayer, since her training will be up to him.

For the first time in years, Xander drags himself off to bed while it's still dark. Finds himself carrying on the fight even in his dreams.

The phone is ringing when he claws his way to wakefulness. Xander has a distant feeling it's been ringing for a while. Reaching for it sends a flare of pain shooting across his shoulder and down into his lower back. "Yeah."

"Oh god, I woke you up. I thought you'd still be up."

"Doesn't matter. Willa?"

"Yeah. Sorry for disappearing on you. It's kind of a post-coital habit I have. It wasn't you."

He fumbles for his cigarettes on the bedside table. "Listen, I never should have --"

She cuts in. "I can't talk long. I just wanted you to know I'm in rehab. So it'll be a while before you see me around."

Part of him thinks this is a great idea. The rest of him thinks the timing could hardly suck more. "Willa, there's more I need to talk to you about. It's important."

"I know. I got your message. But I'm in lockdown for another three weeks."

Three weeks. Jesus. "Do you feel safe?"

"I do. I'm fine. No more freakouts, no weird hallucinations."

Xander's heart sinks. Sunnydale Denial Syndrome's got her in full grip. "If at any time you don't feel safe, call me. You promise?"

"I will. But I'll be fine. I'll see you in the rooms in a few weeks. I have to go." True to her word, she's gone.

Well, he could take comfort in the fact she's probably in a fortress. Maybe. But it's designed more for keeping her in than keeping something else out. If those two fuckers ever got in....

Xander will just have to find them again tonight. And this time he'll have to finish the job.

He changes tactics. These two have seen him now, and he's not exactly a master of disguise with the eyepatch. He sets himself up in an urban duckblind, a fire escape above the alley where they attacked Willa, with a crossbow he bought that afternoon. Could be he'll take one out before he gives his position away, then he'll have reduced their number by half.

They won't expect him here tonight, he thinks. It's where he fought them last night, and he's sure they'll assume he won't anticipate their return. A lot of he-thinks-they-think-he-thinks, yeah, but he'd bet that he's right. If he's wrong, a cold ass is all he gets out of it. It's being right that might get him killed.

Xander wishes he had a confederate, someone inside the bar to play drunk and oblivious and lure them outside. Instead he has to trust to chance.

Chance, for once, does him a favor, and one of the vamps walks out of the bar with his arm slung over a girl's shoulders. A few minutes later, the other slips outside too, alone. He hangs back as his pal stops to indulge in a little groping with the girl. Xander lines up his shot, telling himself it's really no different from closing his left eye to take aim. He lets the bolt go, and in a heartbeat the vamp trailing behind is a Kansas song.

"Hey, not here," the girl says, covering the soft clatter of the bolt as it falls to the asphalt. "Gross." She pulls her shirt back down.

"Sorry, honey," says the first vamp. "You just make me crazy, you're so hot." He starts nuzzling her again, and turns his back to Xander. It's a good shot, if he'd just stop moving.

Xander lets the next bolt fly, but the shot goes wide, hits the vamp in the shoulder. He shrieks and is turning to see where the assault came from, and Xander scrambles up as quickly as he can with sore, cold-stiffened muscles. He's throwing himself over the parapet edging the roof when he feels fingers scrabble against his boot. His own fingers fumble their way to a stake in his breast pocket, but then the vamp is on him, pinning his hand between them.

"You again." His hands close around Xander's neck, inhumanly strong. (But not as strong as a Slayer's.)

Xander jabs at the eyes (can't say he doesn't learn from the masters) and the vamp rolls off, howling. Both try to gain their feet but it's the vamp who makes it first, uncorking a vicious kick at Xander's ribs. His vision goes white with the pain, and he collapses onto the birdshit-covered roof.

The girl below is on her cellphone, explaining in barely-coherent terms to a 911 operator. Some kind of sniper, she thinks he got her date.

Xander rises to his hands and knees only to receive another kick, this one in the belly. He pukes, and the pain from his ribs goes white-hot again. The vamp lifts him by the hair, baring his neck, and Xander smells the vamp's rank breath as he lowers his fangs and then sinks them into soft flesh.

A gray curtain obscures Xander's vision and he tries to think of a prayer, but Christ is all he can dredge up.

Then a siren wails nearby, growing closer, and the vamp drops him, delivering one last kick before he runs. Running not such a bad idea, but it's more a fantasy than a possibility. Xander staggers to his feet, looking over the parapet. The girl has moved into the street to wait for the cops, leaving the fire escape free. It's not the best escape route, but action flick-inspired moves like jumping to another building are out of the question. He finds his crossbow and hustles down the fire escape the best he can. As the siren noise builds, he breaks into a near run for his car. He glides out the other end of the alley, lights off, before the cop car pulls up at the other end.

Miraculously he makes it into his driveway without passing out. He shuts off the engine, collapses across the front seat, and his last conscious thought is he's amazed not to be dead.

When he wakes up it's nearly dawn, and he is thoroughly fucked. His joints are locked, his muscles stretched tight as guitar strings, and when he moves it feels like there's broken glass somewhere inside. It takes him maybe ten minutes to make it out of the car and into the house.

God, would he like a drink. Or six.

Maybe washing down a big fistful of pills, in one of those fatal cocktails you read about. Death is underrated, he's beginning to think.

Xander limps back to the bathroom to assess the damage. He unbuttons his shirt, but trying to remove it sends him to his knees, bathed in a cold sweat. Should he get himself to Sacred Heart? He tries to remember if they do anything for broken ribs, seems to remember they don't, not even wrapping them. He's breathing, so he hasn't punctured a lung. He's lost blood, but he doesn't think it's a dangerous amount. Fine, good. He'll stay home.

Xander sits on the bathmat, tipping his head back against the side of the tub. Does shivering mean you're in shock? It hurts like hell, that's all he knows. The cold porcelain isn't helping, so he carefully scoots away from the tub and curls up on the rug, slipping out of awareness once more.

Every time he does this, it gets harder and harder to move. Xander considers crawling to the bedroom, but the attempt hurts worse than he could have imagined. Slowly he hauls himself to his feet, takes a piss -- no blood, the best news, really, that he's had all day -- and creeps down the hall to bed. Doesn't so much fall asleep as faint.

This time when he wakes up, he's sorer than ever, if that's even possible, but he feels slightly less broken. He's not sure he could explain that if he had to, but it doesn't matter. He carefully gets to his feet and does an old man's shuffle to the kitchen. He gets the espresso pot going, steps out into the garage to look at the wood that came by express delivery yesterday. Runs his hand along the length of Sitka spruce that will make up the soundboard. It helps him breathe better, somehow, to touch its surface.

Xander returns to the kitchen to rescue his espresso before the pot boils dry, drinks it without bastardizing it. There's a reason they put caffeine in pain pills. Retrieving the cordless phone from the living room, he steps back into his workshop, dials a number.

Someone he doesn't know answers, and he identifies himself, asks for the person he wants to speak to. He waits through a silence, his gaze on the picture of Buffy and Willow that he's placed on the shelf above his bench. Then there's the muffled sound of the phone being passed hand to hand, a murmured exchange including his name.

"You're shittin' me," says the other voice. Then, louder: "Harris?"

"Hi, Faith. How've you been?"

"Can't complain. Well, I could, but no one would give a shit. You?"

"Can't complain." As long as he doesn't try to move or breathe. "I heard you're teaching martial arts these days."

She laughs. "I teach women to kick mugger ass. Nothing arty about it."

"Sounds satisfying."

There's a pause. "It is. It's important, and it's good work, and I'm bored out of my skull. Which probably comes as no surprise to anyone who knew me when. I heard --" Another pause, laden with significance -- "I heard you work in a grocery store."

"It pays the mortgage."

"Why Spokane?" She pronounces it to rhyme with "cocaine."

"Spo-can," he corrects. "It's quiet. Supernaturally, I mean. A good place to retire from the wars. Or it was. Some vamps have moved in over the last few months. At least two, maybe more."

"There goes the neighborhood."

"No kidding. I killed one of them last night, came close with the other." Came close to dying, too, but he sees no need to mention that part. "That's not exactly why I'm calling. There's something else in town."

"Something bigger than vamps?"

"Yeah. I stumbled across a slayer." He hears the hiss of her breath down the phone line. "I haven't had a chance to talk to her yet about that. She's fragile, Faith. She's young, twenty-one, twenty-two, already an alcoholic. I suspect part of that comes out of being a lost slayer. All those dreams, all that preternatural energy, nowhere to put it and no way to understand it. Like I said, I haven't talked to her about this. I figured it out about a week ago, right when she disappeared. She's safe -- she's in rehab. She'll be in for another three weeks, but when she gets out, she's going to need some training. I can do some of it, but the actual slaying part -- I don't want to get her killed."

"You know Giles is a better choice than me."

"I don't know that. This girl needs someone who's experienced the worst of this curse, but come out of it whole. Giles can tell her she'll be okay. You can show her."

"You really think it's a curse?"

"Yeah. In a way I do. Much the same way Angel's having a soul is a curse."

She's silent for a long moment. "I'll have to see what I can arrange, but yeah. I'll come. Let me make some calls, and I'll get back to you."

"That's great, Faith. I appreciate it." Thumbing off the phone, he reaches for one of the tools on his pegboard to straighten it out. Everything swims and goes black, and he crashes to the floor.

He wonders if he's bleeding internally without knowing it. The garage floor would be a stupid place to die, wouldn't it? The bright side is, at least he has coworkers to miss him -- he wouldn't lie there dead for two weeks until the smell made the neighborhood dogs crazy.

Xander looks around for the phone, tries it and gets a dial tone. Hooray for good old-fashioned Chinese craftsmanship. He thinks about calling Peggy to get him to the hospital, but she's a small woman. No way she could hoist him up and get him into her car if he can't go on his own steam. Damon's not Mr. Cool-in-a-Crisis, and he can't drive anyway -- Xander gets a picture of himself perched on Damon's handlebars, and the laugh that image produces nearly makes him faint again.

Straley's phone number is where he's taken to putting everything he wants to think about -- on top of the spare workbench, the one with the pegboard. It takes an enormous amount of effort to retrieve it and focus long enough to dial seven numbers, and then it rings a long time. Straley finally answers, hoarse and muzzy-sounding.

"Kevin, man, sorry to wake you. It's Xander Harris."

"No problem. I'd be getting up soon anyway. What's up?"

"I could use a favor, and I don't think any of my work friends can handle it. I need a ride to the emergency room."

That wakes him up. "Where are you?"

"Right now, on the floor of my garage. But I'll try to make it to the door in time to let you in."

"Maybe you need an ambulance. What happened?"

"Nah, no ambulance. Got the shit kicked out of me. Just busted ribs, I think, but I figure I should make sure."

Xander hears a muffled commotion in the background, as if Straley's struggling to pull on his pants and hang onto the phone. "Be right there. Is there a window or door I can get into if I have to?"

He directs Straley to a back door with a small pane he could break out to reach the lock, if necessary. "Try the front first. I'm not even sure if I locked the door when I came in."

Somehow it seems extremely important that Xander get his shirt buttoned by the time Straley arrives. He accomplishes that, then works on getting himself into the living room to answer the door. Xander makes it as far as the kitchen, where he sinks into a chair for a breather, when Straley arrives.

The door turns out to be unlatched (There's something to watch, next time he comes in semi-dead from vamp-fighting.), so Straley lets himself in, calls out for Xander. "In the kitchen," he answers. "There's progress. I'm sitting up."

Straley takes in the bloodstained shirt and grime-caked jeans, the bruises on Xander's face that he doesn't remember getting -- maybe from one of the times he fainted. "Jesus. Bad night?"

Xander laughs, and immediately regrets it. "Not that kind."

He doesn't look all that convinced, but makes no comment. "All right. Let's get you on your feet."

"Watch the ribs."

They make it to the car after what feels like a half hour or so, and only three excruciating knee-bucklings. The ride to Sacred Heart isn't a lot better; the roads are for shit after the long winter.

"That does it," Xander says, "tomorrow I write a strongly-worded letter to the Spokesman about these goddamn potholes."

"Maybe wait till you've changed those studded tires," Straley says.

"Details."

"You gonna tell me what happened?"

"Not just yet. If they ask you what you know, you want to be able to say I haven't told you a thing. I will go so far as to say I'm planning to lie like a bastard in there. Would you flip down my visor?"

Straley reaches across and adjusts it so Xander can see in the mirror. Despite the pain of raising his arm, Xander lifts a hand to adjust the eyepatch.

"If you're in some kind of trouble --"

"Nothing that's going to screw you up, I promise."

"Not what I meant. I'm just sayin', talking about this might make it better rather than worse." He pulls the car under the emergency portico. "Don't move. I'll come around and get the door."

As Straley leans in to help him out of the car, Xander reaches up to his own collar. "I'll tell you after I'm done in there. Here's a preview." He pulls the collar away from his neck. "See this? Not an icepick."

After a few hundred insurance forms, some x-rays and several thousand repetitions of I fell down the stairs and I don't know (Spokane medical staff don't have the don't-ask-don't-tell -- or at least don't-ask-twice -- mentality Sunnydale doctors did), Xander limps out of the hospital pharmacy with a scrip for hydrocodone. He pauses at the water fountain to down a dose, then heads to the entrance where Straley's bringing the car.

"I swung by the sub shop while they were looking you over. I'll need to eat before I go on duty. Got an extra, if you want."

"Yeah, that sounds great, thanks."

Straley points the car back toward Xander's house. "So you've seen our not-an-icepick killer."

"I saw two of 'em, but one won't be troubling you anymore."

"How's that?"

"I killed him."

Straley nearly runs a red light, slamming on the brakes when he's already into the intersection. "Shit, buddy, if you go telling me stuff like this, I've got to do something about it."

"I don't think I broke any laws. Guy was already dead."

"How many of those happy pills did you take?"

"I'm going to tell you something you're not going to believe. But I came from a town where the cops closed their eyes to this all the time, and a lot of them got themselves killed. Things are going on in this town now that you need to know about. You can decide whether or not you pass it on, but if you listen to me, you'll be safer."

Straley pulls the car up in front of Xander's house and helps him inside. "You said you killed someone."

"It's a long story. Get the sandwiches."

Once Straley's returned with the subs and gotten them both set up with plates and cans of soda, Xander says, "You asked if I was a veteran or a cop. I'm neither. And in a way, I'm both. Twelve years ago, when I was still in high school, I found myself in the middle of a war most people don't know anything about. The place I lived in California was a hotbed of nasty mystical energies -- and before you dismiss me as a new age wackjob, you can look up one thing. Sunnydale was swallowed whole five years ago. The whole town just disappeared. The newscasters called it a sinkhole, but there are others who say the mouth of hell opened up and choked on the town. I was there when it happened, and I was one of a handful of people who got out. And, bad as that was, there were a whole lot worse things that could have happened that day."

"Okay. I think I'm following."

"A lot of weird shit came out of the Hellmouth throughout the history of this town. It attracted other things to it. One of the things this place had in spades was vampires."

"Aw, for shit's sakes."

For some reason, this reaction makes Xander like him even more. "Pretty close to my reaction, first time I heard this story. I thought these people were wackaloons with extra loon on the side. But I ended up on the side of the believers, and I fought vampires for seven years until the end of Sunnydale."

"You're saying Spokane's overrun by vampires, too?"

"Overrun, I don't know. I know nothing at all was going on here for a good four years since I moved here. That's why I've stayed. I was retired, out of the business. But something's going on now. I know there were two, at least. A girl I know got attacked by them, knocked around but not bitten."

"Well, if she wasn't bitten, how do you know they were vampires?"

"Good question. Good sub, too, by the way. Good going on the sweet peppers." It's official, he thinks. The hydrocodone has made him a touch loopy. He's got to focus, if he's going to make this sound believable at all. "She described what they looked like. 'Faces all fucked up,' she said, and yellow eyes." Xander raises his hand to his brow, wincing. "When they vamp out, they get all ridgy along here. Some are like that all the time, some vampires can slide in and out of it, pass as human sometimes. The yellow eyes thing is a giveaway, too. But only when they're in game face."

"Where do I find this girl?"

"She's --" Oh, great. She's in Dipso Gardens, drying out from her hallucinatory alcohol problem. "She left town. She's due back in about three weeks."

Straley raises two fingers, touches his own neck. "How'd you make these?"

He twitches a smile. "I got stupid and let myself get bitten by a vampire. Like I was saying, I killed one. I don't know yet how many that leaves."

"When was the last time you had a drink?"

"Four years ago, about." He reaches into his jeans pocket, and the shifting of his ribs makes a cold sweat spring to his upper lip. He puts his AA chip on the table, flicks it with a finger across the wood tabletop toward Straley. "I was carrying that as a good luck charm. Can't tell if it didn't work, or it did."

"Shiny and new," Straley says. "Was it the basement stairs you fell down?"

"Got beat up." Xander takes a sip of his soda. Store brand cola, not so bad. "There was a 911 call last night. A girl, saying there was a sniper on one of the rooftops downtown. She said she thought her date was hit, but I'm guessing you never found the date. I know your guys didn't find the sniper."

"How do you know that? You have a scanner?"

"I know what they did find. A wooden crossbow bolt. Or should have, if their heads weren't up their asses. Her date -- which is a charitable way of putting it, he was a pickup from a bar -- was the vamp that kicked my ass. I hit him with a bolt, too, but my aim was off. The first bolt, the one your guys would've found, hit its mark, killed the vamp's cohort."

"You're saying you're our sniper."

"If you can snipe with a crossbow, I guess I am."

"So tell me, did they find the body?"

"Of course not. He dusted. They all do, when you stake 'em in the heart. By the way, useful info to know, you can also cut their heads off, light them on fire, or get them in direct sunlight somehow, but you'll mostly see them at night."

Interesting how all this strange news isn't slowing down Straley's appetite. And being thought to be a raving nutcase isn't affecting Xander's, either. Straley chews thoughtfully for a moment. "Your eye, that was a vampire did that to you?"

"Nope. Plain old evil human-type person."

"Evil."

"Yeah. Sometimes it is as simple as 'us' and 'them.'"

The muffled sound of the phone carries from the garage. "Hell," Xander says. "Would you mind? It's out there."

Straley looks a little relieved for the break. "Sure thing." He disappears into the garage, and the phone stops ringing. Shit. But then he comes back in, saying, "Hang on a sec," and holds the phone up. "It's Faith. You up to it?"

He nods, and Straley hands him the phone. "Hey."

"Ooh, wicked. 'Are you up to it?' Sorry to interrupt."

"No, it's a good time. Here, tell Kevin here what you and Buffy do. About your calling."

"You kidding me?"

"No, I'm not kidding. Just tell him the truth. Hang on." He hands the phone back to Straley.

"Uh, hi." A pause, then he repeats, "Vampire slayer. Did you guys set this up?" Another pause, and then he holds the phone back out for Xander. "She, uh, says tell you she called to give her fuckin' flight information, not to dick around playing games."

Xander can't help laughing, which hurts less through the haze but still isn't fun. "Could you hand me a pen and paper? Yeah, Faith."

"I tried calling a shitload of times. Where the hell were you?"

"Popped off to the emergency room," he says merrily. "Sorry."

"Emergency room? What for?"

Damn. He hadn't planned to let her in on that. He's seriously too loopy to talk anymore. "Nothing. Little action last night, like I said before. It got a bit rough."

"You're all right?"

"All my original parts. Except the one."

"Well, get a goddamn answering machine. You ready for this, or not?"

"Okay, go." He scrawls her arrival information. About a week before Willa gets out, to get things set up. "I'll meet your flight," he tells her. He thumbs the off button. "I gotta crash, Kev."

Straley helps him back to his bed, setting him up with the phone, a fresh pack of cigarettes, water and pill bottle in easy reach. "You need me to call your job?"

"No. I'm good. I'm going in."

"Are you sure that's a great idea?"

"I'm fine. Go." He settles back into a fine, fuzzy warmth, and everything goes dark.

Xander sleeps until the phone rings, fumbling to answer, blinking at the light leaking around the edges of the blackout curtains. There isn't supposed to be light -- it makes no sense to him.

It's Peggy on the line. "I'm bringing some take-out. Is there anything special you want?"

"What time is it?"

"Almost shift change. 6:50."

"Shit! I missed work!"

"No you didn't. I mean, it was a sick day. Your friend came by sometime during second shift to say he doubted you'd make it. Alex, my god, you could've been killed."

He wonders what the now-official story is. "I know. I need to watch where I'm walking."

"Where were you?"

"Um. Basement stairs?"

"You were mugged on the basement stairs?"

"Oh. No. I'm sorry, these pain meds are making me stupid."

"Well, what would you like? Breakfast burrito, steak and eggs?"

He gropes for his cigarettes, gets one lit. "I'd kill for some fried dumplings. The pork."

"It's seven a.m., they'll have to be the frozen ones."

"That's fine. I'm fading, Peg. Call from your cell when you get here. If I'm asleep I won't hear the bell." He drifts back to sleep, but wakes when Peg calls from his doorstep. "Give me a couple of minutes, I'm slow."

She comes in, takes charge. She gets him out of his ruined clothes, the same ones he's slept in two nights in a row. He'd have thought this would mortify him -- he's her supervisor, after all -- but she's so efficient and briskly gentle that it doesn't bother him. Once he's cleaned up and in fresh clothes, they sit on the sofa together watching a DVD and eating breakfast burritos and dumplings. Xander drifts in and out, shoulder to shoulder with Peg, head tipped back.

Briefly it crosses his mind to wonder what Straley's decided to make of everything. He decides he doesn't care.

He feels safe.

Xander misses work Wednesday night, too. Straley calls in the evening to say he'll be over when his shift is up. He arrives shortly after eleven with Chinese food and a sampler pack of Thomas Kemper artisan sodas -- microbrews for the sober.

"Feeling any better?"

"Working on it. I should make it back to work tomorrow."

"Sounds a little optimistic to me." Straley moves all the guitar-making books off the table and sets out the food and the twelve pack. "You get hurt much in your line of work?"

"My line of work? Supermarket managing? Or being a nutcase?"

"I haven't decided you're a nutcase." He rummages in the cabinet for plates.

"You haven't decided I'm not."

"I did a little researching. Chopsticks, or fork?"

"Chopsticks. So what'd you dig up?"

"I read some news reports on Sunnydale. The end, and before. That town had a high death rate."

Xander opens the cartons. Sesame noodles, cashew chicken, Mongolian beef. He scoops out a pile of rice and then some of each of the entrees. "Yeah. Mostly the clueless, but a good number of people who knew enough to be careful. I lost a lot of friends. I like it when my friends have at least a fighting chance."

"I also looked at the files on the so-called icepick stabbings. Always two punctures, right into the carotid. Wounds a consistent distance apart, about where a person's canines would be. As I said before, not so much consistency on other physical evidence, like the attacker's apparent height or weight."

"Does it look like two? Or more?"

"Could be more." He dumps some rice and beef onto his plate.

"So you're still undecided. That's good. That's more than I expected." Xander rises to his feet, moving carefully.

"What do you need?"

"I'm good." He doesn't want Straley getting a look at his stash of wooden stakes. Xander goes into the garage and selects a couple, adds a longer one with a leather cord through a hole drilled in its handle, then returns to the kitchen. "Here's a pair of chopsticks for you. Until you finish making up your mind." He hands over the big one. "And a modified Tire Thumper. If you can get away with keeping that in your cruiser, it could be a good thing to have."

He's not sure he likes the way Straley's eying him as he eases back into his chair.

"You never said. Did you get hurt a lot doing this sort of thing?"

"Broken arm, a couple of times. A lot of bruises. The eye was the worst of it. I didn't get dead, and that's what ended up mattering most."

Xander starts spacing out the pain meds so he can make sense of his second reading of the Cumpiano manual on guitar-making. By Friday when he returns to work, he's down to one just before he goes to bed.

During his off hours, he begins his work with the neck blank. He's grateful to have something to do with his hands, something that eases the restlessness of biding his time. There's nothing he can do right now: Willa's tucked away in rehab, Faith's on her way. She's shipping an assortment of weapons, so he doesn't even have to worry about that. He's not in any shape to go hunting vamps -- getting himself killed will do no one any good. Xander's never had any talent for sitting on his hands; he'd rather make something happen.

He loses himself in the wood, in the feel of having something take shape beneath his hands, slowly emerging as its true self. He's glad he chose the European maple instead of settling for something cheaper for his first effort. The curly figure of the grain flows beneath his fingers -- already he can envision its beauty once the finish is applied. The smell of cut wood is like a distant dream, tickling at his memory and then returning full force after a long period of forgetting.

He mulls over things as he moves on to each step. Thinks about Faith as he applies heat to a steel rod and bends it into shape as a truss rod. The pressure of hands squeezing his throat has featured in his dreams the last few nights. Sometimes it's the vamp, sometimes Faith. Those nights the scent of the cheap perfume she favored invades his dreams -- he used to think it smelled nice, even though Cordelia scoffed that it was drugstore crap.

They pretty much had kept their distance after she broke out of prison to join the fight against the First. He works at the rod with the threading die, turning it forward and then back, forward and back, kissing the new threads with a bead of oil. His run-in with Caleb made a difference -- Faith still kept herself apart, but he could sense her newfound respect whenever he happened to catch her gaze. She parted from the survivors even before he did. Xander suspects she never felt comfortable in a country where she didn't speak the language, where Buffy's blond hair drew stares and comments from the men on the street, and Faith's dark hair and eyes made her blend in with all the other women. She'd stayed in touch with them, though, which was more than he had done. What will it be like to work in close quarters with her after so much time has passed? He can't say.

The steel doesn't give him much. Xander's grateful when he can get back to working with wood, shaping the tenon, the peghead, the heel. His thoughts move to a subject he's shoved to a distant part of his mind for the last couple of weeks -- the ocularist Straley had mentioned after their first meeting. He can't imagine after all this time they'll be able to make him look the way he did before. (Xander remembers the brochures they gave him in the hospital, touting the close matches with the natural eye a custom prosthesis could offer.) The first couple of years after Sunnydale, he wasn't interested in blending in. He wanted visible evidence of his losses to remind himself and everyone around him. By the time he dragged himself out of that pit, he just didn't mind. This is how he looks now -- it isn't even easy to imagine himself the way he used to look. (Though he still didn't let Willow take pictures of him this past visit, asks Peggy not to whenever their crew gets together for a birthday or a picnic.) But now there are different considerations. The eyepatch makes him stand out where he used to blend in, it calls attention to his weakness. It's become a strategic liability.

As he joints the bookmatched plates he wonders about Willa. Xander hopes the rehab takes, but also that she doesn't settle so deeply into the embrace of normalcy that she forgets what she knows. He hopes when he tells her about her destiny it answers her questions, calms some fears she never understood. He hopes he doesn't destroy her.

This part he'll do alone. There's a lot Faith can teach her, but he wants to take that responsibility on himself, for better or worse. It should be someone she trusts who cracks her world open, shapes it anew.

Xander strokes the curly maple sides, thinking about the process ahead: working the sides over the bending iron to shape their curves. He can practice on scrap, but there'll come a time when he has to risk his good wood, more apt to fracture at the curls if handled badly.

He hopes he knows what he's doing.

Xander works each morning and evening until his back and legs ache from standing on concrete. It's not all he does during the twelve days before Faith's arrival. He goes to his job, he smokes (though less than he has in a long while), he drops by Evan's shop to talk about how the work is going. He makes a morning meeting, mostly to reassure Patrick that he's not gone off the deep end. "Got an old friend arriving in town later tonight, so I'm not sure how much I'll be around," he says.

"All the more reason to stick to the program," Patrick says, as Xander knew he would. He's aware that Patrick has noticed his lingering discomfort with the broken ribs -- the man misses nothing. "You don't want to fall into old patterns."

"She mostly predates that," he says, knowing it's more lie than truth.

"Still."

Xander nods, says nothing.

"Well. You know where to find me if you need me."

"I appreciate it." He goes home, turns on the television as he brews some decaf. Morning tv hasn't gotten any more intelligent since last time he watched. Drifting into the garage, he fingers clamps and saws and skew knives, too restless to settle his attention into work. He gauges the progress of his work: not too bad, for a novice. Out of habit, he whisks off the top of his workbench, then flicks off the lights and heads in to try to sleep.

Xander can locate the exact place in his body where the longing for a cigarette lives. Not his lungs or his bloodstream or his brain, but his fingers. They twitch with the desire to be tapping the pack against the butt of his hand, slipping one cigarette from where it nests with the others, the whole dance of flame and indrawn breath and smoke-filled sighs. But there's a no-smoking sign almost everywhere he looks, and airports are not places to display your disinterest in following the rules, not anymore. He jams his hands into his pockets, standing halfway up the cafe stairs just outside the security checkpoint.

It's like watching the ocean. Waves come surging toward him, some bigger than others, then they subside. He watches the little human dramas around him during the quiet moments -- baby-faced soldiers returning to their families, couples parting just outside the checkpoint -- and feels unaccountably lonely. His hand wanders toward his shirt pocket; he catches himself, rakes it through his hair instead. About the twelve-thousandth time for this two-part action.

Another wave spills down the concourse ramp, and he spots Faith at its front. Moving at a fast clip, loose-limbed, as always like she's listening to some music no one else can hear. She looks the same, long hair worn loose, denim jacket and jeans and a black top marginally less tight than the ones she used to wear. A scarred leather satchel bounces against one hip. Faith skirts the metal detectors and slows, searching the knots of people lingering outside security.

He waits for the little furrow to appear in her brow, then calls her name as he descends the steps. "Thanks for coming," he says, feeling awkward and formal.

She shrugs. "Well, she's one of the sisterhood."

"Do you have luggage?"

"Yeah."

Xander leads her to the carousel where people from three flights are milling around. "Are you hungry?"

Distracted, watching for her bags, she says, "After six hours of airplanes? I could eat the ass out of a skunk."

"We'd have to go to Idaho for that," Xander says.

She turns to give him a what the hell? look, then it sinks in and she laughs.

"It's not far," he adds.

"On second thought, a nice bloody hamburger close by would do."

"Sorry, can't do that here or in Idaho."

Another sharp look. "What do you mean?"

"Rare burgers. Restaurants can't serve them, they're illegal. E. coli and all."

"That's bullshit. Out east you eat 'em however you want 'em, and let the goddamn chips fall where they may."

"You can still get those."

"What?"

"The goddamn chips."

"About time," she says as a battered black suitcase tumbles off the belt. She moves toward it, but Xander cuts her off, lifting it off the carousel. His ribs had been mending fairly well, but this drives a spear of pain into his side. Everything goes gray briefly and he has to pause until his head stops swimming.

"Is this it?" His voice sounds oddly squeezed.

"Yeah."

He leads her out the doors to the parking garage. "Did you have a good flight?"

"Harris, no one ever gives a shit about the answer to that one. Including me. Did my weapons get here?"

"Arrived a couple days ago. Everything's still in the crate, but it got here in good shape."

"All right. Good." Faith reaches out for the suitcase as they make the other side of the crosswalk. "For god's sake, let me take that."

It's not the carrying but the letting go that doubles him over, panting. She waits it out without comment, then says as he straightens, "That was your last stupid macho pride moment. That's the shit that will get you killed. We clear?"

"Yes sir, ma'am." Xander stands by as she stashes her bag in the trunk of his car, then they head on into town.

He wishes he knew if this was one of the brighter ideas he's had, or the worst.

END

Lilac City 2: the Artisan

Summary: Continued from "Lilac City: the Loner," five years after "Chosen." In order to help a new Slayer come to terms with her power, Xander has to confront his own past, as a new threat rises in his adopted hometown.
Rating: R
Author Notes: This story began with a drabble that ran away with me, and was originally serialized in Live Journal, Dickens-style. Its structure and flow stems from that, and I've left those alone. Thanks to all the readers who chimed in with support, questions, corrections, meta, arguments and little tidbits that added to the whole -- and sometimes pushed the story in surprising new directions. I never thought this ride would last so long, or that I'd have so many great people traveling with me. Thanks to Luddite Robot for handing me an idea that branched in so many different directions in two different stories and for other helpful tidbits; Malkin Grey for the help in sorting out Ieuan Goch and his history; Moosesal for the Lorca poems; Superplin for Italian help (Xander's butchery of Italian here is his and mine alone). Many thanks to Automatic Badgirl, Herself and Luddite Robot for listening to me work through the story and helping me find my way, one chapter at a time. A huge thank you to my anonymous luthier friend who went above and beyond the call with on-the-spot beta services and many other forms of help. Xander sounds much more like a luthier because of you. Anyone interested in the art of instrument making should check out the Musical Instrument Makers Forum at www.mimf.com, an incredible resource.
Story Notes: Though Spokane is a real city and most places mentioned here are real (plus a couple of people in walk-on roles), this is an imaginary version where a certain grocery is open all night and other anomalies exist. All inaccuracies regarding Spokane and its haunts are mine. Spoilers: All of BtVS and AtS, and early s3 "Alias." (One small joke, not a crossover.) Warnings: language, het, character death, discussion of alcoholism and drug use; much abuse of nicotine, not to mention caffeine and sugar.
Disclaimer: All BtVS and AtS characters belong to Joss, Mutant Enemy and various corporate entities. I'm just having a bit of fun with them. The poems and songs mentioned herein belong to their authors and/or copyright holders; no copyright infringement is intended in any case. All places, people, news organizations and the like from Spokane are used in a purely fictional sense. But guys: you might want to take that big ol' vampire invitation off your tourist map -- some beings you don't want to "just fit right in and make yourself at home."

It's a warm May night, so Xander takes Faith to Dick's drive-in for a bag of burgers. They manage to slide in ahead of the softball team ordering two dozen deluxe burgers, finding a picnic table farthest from a guitar-wielding guy in patchwork jeans who haunts the place. "This joint is even more of a scene around two in the morning. They're open all night."

"Have you been patrolling here?"

"I check it once or twice a night, when I'm out. As my friend Willa said -- she's your future student -- it's not so easy to use last decade's look as a clue."

"Yeah, I noticed. Not to mention just about anyone looks pasty under these lights."

"I haven't been out since I got hurt. Plus I'm on third, so most nights I only do a quick round. That's another reason it'll be good to have you here."

She licks a trickle of burger grease off her hand. "So what happened the night you got hurt?"

He describes his stakeout of the alley, the first vamp dusted, his close-but-no-cigar shot at the second, and what happened on the roof.

"Damn. You're lucky."

He smiles. "I tell myself that, when I've passed out from lifting a suitcase."

"Also, sounds like you're a pretty good shot with one eye. How come you never got anything done with that? Dawn says -- I've heard they make fake ones so good now you can't tell."

It's been a topic. Interesting. He can't say it makes him happy. "Wouldn't change anything."

She reaches for her huckleberry milkshake. "You'd be prettier."

"I'm already prettier than most people can take."

"Not too pretty for this Kevin."

Xander nearly chokes on his cheeseburger. "Jesus. Where are you getting this?"

"Oh, c'mon." She wads up her burger wrapper and pitches it into a nearby trash can. "He's at your house in the middle of the day."

"He brought me home from the emergency room. I called him because he works second and I knew he'd be home." He finishes gathering up his trash and throws it out, then makes a doomed attempt to remove the grease from his hands.

Once they're back in the car, Faith says, "Plus you invited him into the super secret vampire fighter's club. Unless that whole thing over the phone was just a joke."

"No, it wasn't a joke. But I can't say he's joined the club. He doesn't exactly believe, but he doesn't not believe. He's still mulling it over, I guess. He hasn't been around."

"Yeah, well, I've got some experience with that. Start telling the boys you're the chosen Slayer -- or in the ladies' auxiliary, like you -- and that's pretty much the last you'll see of 'em."

Xander feels his jaw pulsing as he pulls the car into his drive, debating whether to say anything.

"This your place?"

"This is my house."

"Not bad. It's got a garage, good. We can set up the training area there."

"No." Faith starts to open her door, but he stops her with a gesture. "This is my house. We leave the 'ladies' auxiliary' shit outside. You have no idea what I've put into the fight, and that's fine. But you're not going to undercut me with Willa. I'm training her as much as you are."

Faith shrugs. "Sure, whatever." She pushes her door open and steps outside.

"You can dump your bags in here." Xander leads the way down the hall. "We'll have to come up with an arrangement when Willa gets out of rehab. Her apartment is compromised, but her parents' house might be safe. I'm just not sure if it's a good place for her. There's a basement we -- well, you, mostly -- can set up for training. Shouldn't need too much muscle to clear the space; I never collected a lot of stuff after Sunnydale. It's roomy down there." He shows her the guest bath, the extra towels and soap, the quirks of the shower.

As they re-enter the kitchen, Faith asks, "What's the deal with the garage?"

"The deal is I'm using it."

She opens the door, flicking on the light. Peering around, she says, "Whoa, somebody sure busted the hell out of his guitar."

"Not exactly."

But she's already figuring that out, stepping inside his workshop to examine the braced and glued back, bristling with clamps; the rosette channels he's cut on scrap; the plans tacked to the bare wall studs above his bench. "I don't get it. What is all this?"

"It hasn't all come apart, it's just now coming together. I'm building a guitar."

"You can do that?"

"Well, I'm going to find out."

"I meant --" Faith bends over to peer at the bracing on the back. "I didn't know -- well, it sounds stupid, but it never occurred to me that a person could do this. It seems -- to me, anyhow -- like a guy deciding to build himself a refrigerator. What is all that?"

"These are clamps. I glued the braces in, so it all has to be held together until it dries. Once you get the strings on, there's an enormous amount of stress put on the guitar -- this is going to be a steel-string, which needs a different kind of bracing than classical, which uses nylon strings, and that's way more than you were interested in hearing, I know."

She doesn't react to the babble. "I always thought they were totally hollow. About how many of these have you done?"

He smiles. "About one. This is my first." He shows her one of the sides of curly maple. "This is the what the back and sides will be."

She strokes a finger over the figured wood. "Damn. What makes it look like that?"

"The grain. The way the light hits it. I'm a sucker for it. I could've picked something a lot easier to work, but once I saw this stuff, I was gone."

She's gone all quiet, which makes him self-conscious.

"Faith, you've had a long day, not to mention it's three hours later to you. You head on to bed anytime you like. Depending what time you get up in the morning, I may see you before I go to sleep."

The self-consciousness is catching. "Yeah. I could stand to turn in. Tomorrow I'll take a look at the basement, start setting that up."

"Great."

"Yeah. Well. Goodnight."

"Yeah. Sleep well."

Better than he's likely to sleep with Faith under his roof.

He finishes up his work for the morning and realizes he's starving. Though he's had nothing but scorn his whole life for people (and it's only been women, in his personal experience) who get so busy they forget to eat, that's what he's done. He puts his safety glasses in their assigned cubbyhole, shuts off the lights, and heads into the kitchen.

Faith's already awake, working on a cigarette, a pot of coffee and one of the books from his little shelf. Betting on the Night -- not surprising the title drew her attention.

Xander suppresses his irritation not to have his winding-down time to himself, and sets up his espresso-maker with the decaf grounds. "Morning."

"Hey." She's still got her nose in the book. "There's coffee already made."

"I'm decaffing it at this hour, thanks." He rummages in the cupboard for some cereal. This close to bedtime anything too seriously meal-like will give him what he calls Tales of Sunnydale dreams.

She finally looks up, the corner of her mouth quirked up. "Poetry, huh?"

"Don't start." All he can find is the health-food stuff. Kasha and Muselix (Dawn calls it Mooselips). He'd give a lot for a bowl of Cocoa Puffs right now.

"What'd I say? God, you're touchy. You been living alone all this time?"

"Yeah, exactly, I'm like one of those hermit prospectors. I've been up in these here hills for four years, just me and my mule. I got me a shotgun, so back away slowly." Dang smoochers, he almost adds, but he knows Faith won't get the reference.

"Oh, it's your mule. My mistake."

He dumps some cereal and milk in a bowl, hunching over it to eat without dripping.

"How's the guitar coming?"

"Slowly. It's how they do." The espresso pot gurgles and Xander gets up to fix his Americano. "You want some breakfast? You're welcome to whatever's around."

"I'll make some toast in a minute." She mashes her cigarette in the ashtray. "The shit I say, Harris. I don't mean half of it."

He wonders if this is meant to be an apology of some sort. "That's not exactly what I remember."

She rises and takes a couple of slices from the loaf on the counter, drops them in the toaster. "I'm not talking about then."

"I don't mention it much myself." Leaning against the counter to drink his coffee, he watches the blood rise in Faith's cheeks. She's not what he expected, and she is -- he can't get a handle on her. "Write a list of anything you need that you don't have. Food, supplies for the training space. Whatever. I'm off to bed."

Though he never does so under normal circumstances, he sets his dishes in the sink and heads down the hall.

Dreams aren't so much the problem.

It's hard just getting REM-y in the first place. Lying in the darkened room. Xander's throat feels tight, constricted. Just enough to create a little whisper of panic somewhere in the dark, primitive recesses of his brain.

This is stupid.

That was nearly ten years ago. She has changed, willingly gave herself up to do her time in prison, according to Angel. (And how weird is that, Angel playing sponsor in Psycho Killers Anonymous?) People change, hell, even Spike threw himself at an apocalypse or two, pre-soul and post. Faith proved herself several times over.

You can tapdance all around things in your head, but the body's memory is long and vivid. Xander's is raising the alarm at having his near-murderer in his own house. Every breath is something that requires effort, squeezing past a hard knot of the past.

This hasn't happened before. Most of the time she'd been back in Sunnydale to fight the First, his body had been too preoccupied with the shock of his injury to send up any warning flares. And in Italy he'd effectively drowned any physical symptoms of the past in alcohol. Only now is he safe enough -- and sober enough -- to feel the fear stored in his body all these years.

After an hour of thrashing, he raises the blackout shade, lights up a smoke and grabs his sketchpad to doodle rosettes. The one he's already installed is one he bought, but in his spare time he tinkers with wood scraps and thinks about inlay. He liked the bloodwood and maple together on the picture frame, and he's seen some nice work with abalone. He's put some thought into the headstock inlay too, but nothing satisfying has come to mind. Whatever it is should be a kind of trademark, something he puts, in one variation or another, on all his guitars. (And yeah, he's already thinking in terms of all his guitars.) Abstract rosettes are easier.

But this morning the sketches are for shit. He can't even escape into drawing the patterns in his head; they've all gone jagged with her presence in the house.

Eventually he tosses the pad aside, stubs out his sixth cigarette and pulls the shade.

It's a long, restless time before REM finally makes the scene. The dream is familiar, yet different. Inhumanly strong hands close around his throat, but through the red mist that obscures his vision, it's Willa he sees.

Xander stands under the hot spray for a long time, trying to pull himself into some semblance of wakefulness. He slept later than usual, but feels more dragged out than he had during Willow's whole visit, when he'd gotten damn little sleep. Pulling on jeans and a tee, he shambles out of the bedroom, greeted by the smell of garlic and tomatoes in the hallway. Faith must've found his stash of takeout and delivery menus. He can't remember what place makes Italian that smells this good.

Once he makes it to the kitchen, he knows by the intensity of the aroma and the humid warmth in the room that actual cooking's going on. It's apparently at a non-critical stage, because Faith's sitting with a book again, ignoring the big pot simmering on the stove. Not poetry this time, but a mass market paperback, maybe one of the library sale books he stashes in the guest room when he's finished with them.

"Okay to lift the lid?" he asks.

"What? Oh -- yeah. It could probably use a stir. I keep getting caught up here. This is a fuckin' great book."

He stirs the chunky sauce, catching a little on the spoon to taste. It's not his usual breakfast food, but he could get used to it with no problem. "What is it?" While he's at the stove he begins his espresso pot ritual.

She flashes him the cover. "Gates of Fire -- it's about the Spartans and the battle of -- Thermo-something. You read it? It's yours, I found it in the guest room."

"Yeah, I liked that a lot too."

"Gwen Post told me about the Spartans. You remember her, the crazy Watcher bitch."

Xander nods. "She did make an impression."

"Yeah," she says, shaking a cigarette from her pack, lighting it. "She did."

For the first time in years he wonders what that must have been like for Faith. Fifteen or sixteen, fresh from seeing your first watcher killed. Taken in -- in the scammy sense -- by the next adult who took the slightest interest in her. It sent her on a tailspin, all right, straight to the Mayor.

"I thought about them a lot in prison."

"Who?"

"The Spartans. I remembered her telling me how they didn't need luxuries. They kept things clean and simple. I --" She clams up, brushing at an invisible fleck of ash on her jeans.

"What?"

"Ah, nothing."

He gets it, though. Envisions her imagining she's a Spartan in her tiny cell. It's got to be easier being told what to do every minute of the day if you're a soldier instead of a prisoner. But it's not a very Spartan thing to do to admit to playing pretend games.

She shifts, flicking ash into the astray. "I suppose you know, there's some seriously strange shit in your refrigerator. Especially the ice trays."

He smiles. "You'll want the ice maker for ice. The trays are for glue."

"Glue cubes -- this what all the cool kids are doing now? Like Jello shots?"

"Well, it's made out of the same stuff. It's for the guitar. I mix it in big batches, freeze what I don't use. So what's for dinner?"

"Depends on whether you want to run out for some mozzarella. I could bake some ziti then. Otherwise, we can just do stovetop. Spaghetti, then we can use the parmesan in your fridge."

"Ziti sounds nice. That gives me time to work up some hunger. It's early yet, for me."

"I can do the grocery store run, if you want to stay and chill."

He assembles his Americano. "I don't mind going. Plus I've got an employee discount." He leans against the counter, sipping at his coffee. "You had some shit luck with your watchers, didn't you?"

"Or else they had shit luck with me. Poor Wes. Poor --" She bites that off, shaking her head.

"Buffy's first watcher died."

Faith glances sharply at him. "I never knew that."

"She hardly ever talked about him. We got drunk together one night in Florence and she gave me a little of the story." One of the rare nights there that being drunk hadn't evolved into some unpleasantness. "I think she's always blamed herself."

"Maybe that's how it goes. The watchers feel guilty over their slayers, while the slayers blame themselves when they can't save their watchers." She jumps to her feet to stir the sauce. "Maybe you should get that cheese now. The ziti has to bake for a while once it's made."

"Good idea." He finishes his coffee, puts the cup in the dishwasher rack. "Anything else on your list?"

Dinner conversation's a little awkward, once they get past the initial talk about how great the food is. Besides the mozzarella, Xander returned with a loaf of asiago cheese bread, some salad ingredients and various other staples for more meals from scratch. He figures having cooking to focus their attention on might distract them from the tension. It feels to him like he's aware of every molecule of air that moves between them, and not in that good, buzzy, sexy way.

Faith gets them jumpstarted by asking what he can tell her about Willa. It's kind of embarrassing how little he knows about her personally: her parents teach English, she works at a record store, she's interested in the nature of creativity and can even make a case for NASCAR, she has an intimate relationship with hair dye, she's been in the psych ward. He filters some of that out, and adds her description of her two encounters with Spokane's vamps. "I want to be the one who tells her. That she's a slayer. She's going to be shaky enough, so soon out of rehab."

"Sure, yeah. We can figure it out later, but I can make myself scarce when you need me to. I hear there's good hiking around here, other kinds of that healthy, outdoorsy shit. She switches the conversation to the efforts she's made with the basement, what equipment she'd like to get. "I'll show you when we're done eating. What about money, though?"

"What about it?"

"Well, the stuff's not cheap. What if we get in touch with Giles? He's sitting on that big pile of Council --"

"No. I don't want the Council in this, I don't want Giles."

"You're getting ready to wade into deep water, Xander. We both are. If there's help we can both get -- financial and otherwise -- why not?"

"Because we can help this girl. We can understand her in a way Giles never will. You know once we ask for help, we give up control. She's theirs then." He saws off another slice of the bread. "I'm not the most brilliant guy in the world. But I've been around for seven years of Buffy's career. I took in a lot of her training, and I've fought an enormous variety of bad shit."

"What exactly went on with you and Giles?"

"Nothing I'm talking about."

She lapses into silence.

"We'll pull out the classifieds," Xander says, "see if we can find something used. If we don't come up with something, I'll check in with my friend Peggy. She's got a line on every bargain in this town." He's been meaning to look in the ads for a second-hand drill press and a bandsaw; he might as well expand the search into athletic equipment.

They finish up dinner and do the dishes together, the vibe a weird combination of companionable and tense. Then Faith takes him down into the basement to see what she's accomplished and what she plans.

Xander starts to feel a little short of breath downstairs, even as he tries to concentrate on what she's saying. He doesn't like being underground with a set of wooden stairs his only escape route. Stupid, he tells himself. There's going to be no need to escape.

Except he's getting the sense that Faith is dragging things out. "Did you ever do that thing, the making amends business they talk about in AA?"

What's this, more pressure about contacting Giles? "Some. There are still some people left on my list." Everyone who matters, pretty much.

"I've only heard about it, I don't know exactly how it works. So if I fuck it up...." Faith takes a deep breath. "See, I've been doing this self-defense training work. There's a lot of sitting around working through your feelings, because the stuff we're asking them to do, it cuts right to the bone. Shit, I thought I knew something about courage, but --" She shakes her head. "So. About what happened the first time I was in Sunnydale." Her face twists in disgust. "'What happened,' how chickenshit is that? 'Oh, look what happened.' About me trying to kill you. About everything I did to you --"

"Faith, this isn't necessary."

"Bullshit. I think we both need it."

Every cell of his body wants up those stairs, now.

"Willa needs it," she adds.

"What do you mean?"

"All that history, it's been like this freakin' elephant in the room, but neither one of us will mention it. Way things are now, there's no room for Willa, and I imagine with her problems she's going to need to take up a fair amount of space."

All the arguments backed up behind his teeth and tongue melt away. "That's fighting dirty," he says faintly.

"It's true."

He drops into a canvas director's chair and Faith perches on one of the bottom stairs (blocks his escape). "I didn't see you at all in those days. Nothing personal, I didn't really see anyone but B. She was the only person on the face of the earth who was like me. 'Course, she wasn't much like me at all, but still. You got a cigarette down here?"

Xander passes her the pack and lighter, looking around for anything they could use as an ashtray.

"I left a coffee mug down here somewhere," Faith says.

He spots it on the floor near his heavy bag, and brings it close by her, then pulls his chair closer. Not that he so much wants to sit by her, but a smoke, yeah. Faith hands the pack and lighter back, and he follows her lead.

"Like I said, wasn't personal. I didn't even want to look at myself."

"I'm not trying to be contrary here, Faith, but having someone's hands locked around your throat feels really damn personal."

"Yeah." She's silent for a long time, and Xander lets it stretch out. "That night we screwed. The reason I kicked you out was the way you looked at me. Most people in my life, I was just furniture to them. Or maybe they saw someone there, but it was their fantasy of whatever they wanted. Nobody ever looked at me and saw me until I met you. It scared the shit out of me."

"What did you think would happen?"

"Hell, I don't know. You'd eat me alive, you'd hate me once you knew who I was -- I don't know, and I've thought about it enough."

Xander flicks ash into the coffee cup. "So somehow we get from me looking at you to you choking the life out of me."

"Yeah," she says again, leaning back on her elbows and stretching her legs out below her. "'I'm sorry' are the two most sorry-ass words in the English language for something like that. Oops, my bad. Sorry I nearly killed you. Maybe it's why they're so hard to say."

"Now that we've brought it up, I wouldn't mind hearing you try."

She draws her legs up again, wraps her arms around them. "I am. I'm sorry for what I did to you. And to be completely honest, at the same time I'm sorry for screwing myself over."

"How's that?"

"You offered to stand by me. I saw it as pity. It's like someone gave me a winning lottery ticket, and I threw it away because it was a stupid piece of paper. I didn't have friends. It took me a long time to see what they're worth."

A winning lottery ticket. He's not sure any of his actual friends would go that far.

"When I was in prison," she continues, "that's when I got enough distance to really see you. Too late to do me much good, but maybe it'll do us both some good now. Mind if I mooch another?"

He hands over the pack and lighter without a word, and she busies herself with getting her smoke lit. She picks a fleck of tobacco off her tongue.

"I couldn't believe it when you called me. That you'd offer me that kind of trust after everything." When he hands the pack back to him, her fingers brush his hand. "Guess that shows where things are with you and Giles, huh? I know you're doing it for this girl, but I'm thankful anyway. I've learned enough to take the grace I get, even if it's just slopping over onto me from somewhere else. This girl is damn lucky, and I'll make sure she realizes it."

Now it's Xander who needs the stage business of fiddling with a cigarette. How did he ever have uncomfortable conversations before he smoked?

"Jesus, Harris. You're the same man you were when I first knew you. After everything that's happened." This time Faith is the one who holds him in her gaze, seeing him for maybe the first time. Finally he gets her terror back then, but he manages to sit still.

"I'm not so sure," he says. His voice is rough, his eye irritated by the unvented smoke.

"Maybe you don't have to be." She cocks her head to catch some sound he doesn't hear. "Shit. Your phone."

"Screw it."

"It's late. Might be important."

He curses softly and rises to his feet, but she's halfway up the stairs, calling out, "I'll get it." If it's Willa and she hears a woman answer --

When he makes it into the living room, Faith's holding the phone at arm's length toward him. He takes the cordless. "Hello."

"Jesus Christ." It's a voice he doesn't recognize, and he's about to make a smartass remark and roll his eyes over the drunk at the other end of the line when something stops him.

"Who's this?" His own voice sounds unnaturally calm.

"It's Kevin Straley. I just --" He drops to a near whisper. "Christ, Xander, I just killed myself a vampire."

"No, I still don't think you're in any shape to drive," Xander says. "Just sit tight. We'll be right there." He tears the top page off the memo pad, drops the phone on the closest chair and grabs his keys. "Faith, you want to come?"

"Wouldn't miss it. I'll get my weapons bag."

"Where we're going that might not be a great idea. There are stakes in the car."

On the drive over, Faith asks, "So what's the story?"

"He couldn't really say much; there were people around. He killed a vamp. It didn't sound like he got hurt. Plenty shaken, though."

"Guess he's a believer now."

Xander thinks about his own skepticism, how quickly it melted away when confronted with Darla. Straley had a little easier time of it when the ground shifted beneath his feet -- quick reactions are part of his job. "This looks like the place." He finds a parking spot across from the row of patrol cars.

"Aw, don't tell me he went to the cops with this story."

"No. This is where he works."

It's not a look he's seen often on her face, but he recognizes it just the same: a flash of blind panic. "Shit, you've gotta be kidding me. He's a cop?"

"What, I thought you had everything squared away before we even went to Europe. Didn't Angel have Wolfram & Hart --"

"Yeah, yeah. He made it all go away. Except for my deep dislike of the boys in blue."

"Well, I can't say Sunnydale taught me 'The policeman is our friend' either. But Straley -- Kevin -- is all right. Just try not to act like you're fresh from a prison break."

"No, I'm five years from a prison break."

"Faith --"

"Go. Go. I'm good. I'll wait in the car."

"Do not go anywhere."

"Promise. I'll just have a nice, calming smoke. If you'll give me one."

Xander sighs and hands over the pack, then gets out of the car. Great. A freaked-out cop and a nervous ex-rogue Slayer. This is going to go really well.

It's not exactly Barney Miller in there, sort of quiet and depressing. A cop (desk sergeant, his brain supplies from a hundred movies and tv shows) sits at a high counter, reading some papers. Across from him is a bench where a woman sits, her fingers ceaselessly fidgeting with her purse -- the clasp, the straps, the pockets. She looks completely colorless, as if a fine dust has settled over hair and skin and clothes. At the other end a sullen teenaged boy sits on his spine, his ass hanging out over thin air, his knees splayed as wide as his baggy bad-boy jeans will allow.

Xander quietly tells the sergeant he's looking for Officer Straley. He picks up the phone, and in a moment, Straley comes down a hallway to meet Xander, looking pale enough to have donated a couple of pints to the vamp he killed.

"You all right?"

"Not so hot," he says, louder than necessary. "I think I got some bad Chinese food."

"I'm parked just outside." He leads Straley out to the car, half surprised to see Faith still there, leaning against the fender finishing her smoke. "Faith, this is my friend Kevin. Kevin,this is Faith. You spoke on the phone a couple of weeks ago."

"Hey," she says.

Straley nods a greeting.

Faith installs herself in the back seat, turning down Straley's offer of the front. She sits directly behind him, where it would take effort for him to turn and see her. Xander takes his place behind the wheel. "Where to?"

Straley gives an address in Browne's Addition, which is about what Xander expected, since he shops at the Rosauers.

"You hurt?"

"Nuh."

"You sure? Cause I have to say, buddy, that you don't look so great."

"Little rattled, that's all. Never expected to run up on something like that, even though you warned me." That hadn't stopped him, apparently, from keeping a stake on him.

"You're a member of the club now."

"Yeah," Straley says, "a -- what'd you call it? A slayer."

"No," Faith says.

"Faith is a vampire slayer," Xander says. "You and me, we're regular guys who've killed vampires. There's a big difference. There's a whole lore here that I need to fill you in on. But I want to hear about tonight first."

By the time they get him home, Straley's less shaky, maybe just from being able to put his experience into words -- even the few that have already passed between them. He invites them in, leading them to the kitchen where he opens the fridge and pulls out some beers, cracking one open before he stops and looks at Xander. "Shit. Sorry, I --"

"Don't worry about it, I'm good."

"It's probably not the best coping mechanism --"

"I'm not a proselytizing member. Never got that step down. Faith, if you want to, feel free."

"No, I'm good," she echoes. Xander's not sure if she's showing solidarity with him, or just doesn't want to drink with a cop.

Straley scrounges a couple of sodas left over from his kids' last visit, then settles in and tells them what happened. Your basic shift till almost the end, a couple car accidents, a B&E, a guy with no taillights who turned out to have weed in his car. They'd stopped at a convenience store half an hour before the end of their shift so his partner could use the jakes. Straley waited in the patrol car, till he spotted a couple engaged in some get-a-room level macking in a recessed door in the next building. He strolled over and tapped the man on the shoulder to suggest they take it elsewhere, and the guy wheeled, blood glistening on his teeth and lips. The vamp grabbed him by the throat, slammed him against the wall, but Straley had stitched a slender sideways pocket into his body armor to hold a stake (maybe not a believer, but a practical guy), and instinct drove it home.

"That thing just exploded into dust," he says, as if he's trying to convince them.

"They do that," Xander says. "What about the woman?"

"Alive, but not in good shape. She's at Sacred Heart."

"Did your partner see anything?" Faith asks.

"No. No one did, that I know of."

"What'd you say?"

"That I saw what looked like a movement off in the shadows at the edge of the building, then I spotted her on the ground."

"You're a champ at this already," Xander says. "So they're thinking it's the icepick guy?"

"Yeah, the same detective's on the case." Straley takes a long pull at the beer. "I can't believe you're still in the game. I didn't come near as close to dying as you did, and I never want to see one of those things again."

Faith turns a sharp gaze on Xander, but says nothing.

"Well, once you're in the Scooby gang, it's kind of a lifetime membership."

"The what?"

Xander makes a dismissive gesture. "It's a thing. Old in-joke. So what did this vamp look like? The one I had my run-in with looked like your average early-twenties metalhead, medium brown, medium long mullet, black t-shirt, jeans."

"Nah. This one looked older, wore a trench coat."

"Shit. I keep hoping we'll finish off the ones that attacked Willa, and that'll be the end of them. But either we've already got an infestation, or they're making more."

"I think of 'em like roaches," Faith says. "See one, and you've got hundreds. Maybe not hundreds, this ain't exactly the city that never sleeps, but I'd bet a dozen or two. And there'll be more."

Xander sips at his soda, sublimating the urge for a cigarette. "That's the safer assumption to make, so if I were you I'd take that point of view."

Straley rouses himself, sets his bottle on the kitchen table. "I prefer the point of view that I'm having a hell of a pepperoni dream. And I think I'd like to roll over and go back to sleep, if you two don't mind."

Xander finishes his soda and gets to his feet. "Call me tomorrow if you want the full seminar. In the meantime, don't invite anyone into your house at night if you don't know them or haven't seen them in a couple of days."

Faith follows suit and they head back out to the street.

Over the next couple of days, Xander slowly becomes aware of something. There's a weird peace in the house around the conversation he and Faith had the night Straley called. He hasn't forgiven her. He doesn't even think he gave the impression he was seconds away from forgiving her if only the phone hadn't rung. But he senses an acceptance of that from her, a willingness to wait that he recognizes from Evan's patience and his own growing feeling that guitars take time.

When he's settling in during the mornings, trying to sleep, his thoughts keep curling back in on themselves, taking him back to the days after his botched wedding. Much as he professed his love for Anya, he hadn't been able to give her what Faith is giving him: the time to process what she'd said the way he needs to. Xander had merely disappeared for a few days, then showed up, asking Anya if they could just go back to the way things had been. Jesus. It hadn't been about making Anya suffer less, but about him. No wonder she'd gone running in the other direction, ended up having sex with Spike.

He'd thought hell would freeze over before he ever forgave Faith, but he thinks now that'll happen long before he does the same for himself.

Thursday after his shift he swings by the morning meeting before heading home. Xander pulls into his drive, grabbing the bag of groceries he'd picked up.

The change is noticeable the moment he steps inside. The living room is bathed in sunlight and a soft breeze rustles the sheers at the window. He so rarely has opened the curtains he'd sort of forgotten there were sheers. His luthier supply catalogs lie where he left them, opened and scattered with Post-it notes and slips of paper, but he can see the vacuum cleaner tracks on the carpet.

Xander's house has always been neat; even when he was still drinking he maintained that carpenter's love of order. But the feeling of it is different now. The scattered catalogs remind him of birds on the wing -- of life. It makes him feel unaccountably cheerful, a little goofy, and he calls out in a sitcom-dad voice, "Honey, I'm home."

There's no response, which causes a surge of relief. It's been a fairly long time since his mouth got him into trouble, and he'd like to keep it that way. Xander heads into the kitchen and sets down the groceries, spotting a flash of movement out in the back yard. She's out there, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, doing a slow series of tai chi moves in loose pants and shirt.

He's never seen her move like that, with meditative grace and deliberation. It's like he can see through her to the quiet place inside, like the one in Xander that woodworking touches. He'd never have suspected she had that within her. Three years in prison, he supposes, would either help you find that place or make you crazy. He's caught for a moment, unable to look away, then he suddenly finds himself feeling like a voyeur.

He turns away and starts unpacking the groceries, opening himself to the changes in the house. He'd expected to resist her occupation -- partly because it's Faith, partly because, well, he sometimes wonders if he's destined to turn into a crotchety bachelor before he even hits thirty. Xander remembers how particular Giles could be whenever they all invaded his place in Sunnydale. There always seemed to be something they -- or specifically Xander -- would do wrong. Don't move that, don't rifle through the record albums, for the love of god, please restrain yourself.

Blinking, he catches himself staring at a can of diced tomatoes in his hand. He'd tried so hard. All the trying he'd stopped throwing away on his father got turned onto Giles. He couldn't really compete with Willow, so it came out in a variety of other ways, most of them doomed. Will used to insist that of course Giles liked him, don't be silly. Xander wasn't so sure.

As he's shoving the last can in the cupboard, the phone rings.

"Hi," a small voice says in response to his greeting. "It's Willa."

"Hey, Eudora, it's great to hear from you."

"Don't say that till you hear why I called."

"Why, what's up?"

"I need a favor."

"Ask away. I'll do whatever I can."

There's a pause on the other end anyway. "I get out of here on Saturday," she says. "I kind of need a ride. My parents are busy."

"Sure, I can do that. Wherever you want to go."

Another pause, a little longer. "I kind of need a place to stay, too. Just for a couple of nights. My parents are having a party that night -- for an honest-to-god literary light who's visiting the university, so they can't unhave it. It'll all be very Wonder Boys, and it's not a good place for me to be. I'm not asking to stay with you, but maybe you know someone --"

"Willa, stop. My place is fine. There's more we need to sort out about what's going on around Spokane, anyway. And listen. You're okay here. I don't feel right about what happened before. I promise it won't happen again."

"I jumped you, you know."

His fingers twitch with the sudden desire for a cigarette, but there's no pack in his shirt pocket. The meeting finished that one off. "I didn't have to go along."

"You beat yourself up too much. Just come and get me, and we're even."

"Sure, yeah, I can do that." He scrawls the time and address down, and assures her he'll be there.

When he hangs up and turns from the phone, Faith is standing in the doorway from the back. "I didn't hear you come back," she says, "so I came to get the phone."

Xander nods. "That was Willa."

"I figured. I never asked -- how'd you realize she was a slayer? Maybe when you slept with her?" A quick burst of laughter, then: "You should see the look on your face."

That laugh pierces him, goes straight to memory that's much closer to the surface than it's been in years. She'd laughed just like that the night he'd gone to her to offer his help. Buffy had warned him that he was just a joke to Faith, but he'd tried to be more than the largely useless appendage he normally was, tried to forge a connection with her. He looks at her now as her dimples begin to fade. "Yeah, I'll bet it's priceless. I'll be in my workshop."

"Oh, shit. What'd I say?"

"Nothing. I've just got things to do."

She follows him into the garage. "I can't tell what you think I meant by that, but I guarantee you, it's not what you're thinking."

"Yeah? What did you mean?" He switches on the power to his bending iron.

"I just -- you looked so guilty and worried. It struck me funny, that's all. It's just sex."

Xander selects a couple of maple lumber-yard slats Evan milled as practice sides. "I guess it's still a big joke to you."

"Why do I get the feeling we're having two different conversations? Yours is about something that happened a while ago. 'Still a big joke,' you said. Why don't we get that out of the way first?"

"Let's not."

"Okay, then. We were talking about Willa." Xander doesn't remember Faith being this much of a bulldog when he knew her before. Actually, he doesn't remember her having this long an attention span. Certainly not when applied to him. "I heard you say you didn't feel right about what happened. The two of you screwed. If I hadn't known it from your half of the conversation, that look on your face totally gave it away. I know you, and like I said the other night, you haven't changed, not where it counts. If you two did the deed, you treated her right."

He grabs his safety glasses, puts them on. "Say what you want, but you weren't there. I want to get some work done before I head for bed. There isn't an extra pair of safety glasses, so hanging around really isn't such a good idea. There could be shards."

Faith gets this look like she wants to say something, then she shakes her head and goes. Xander tests the hot pipe, then grabs a practice side. He breathes in the smell of hot metal and wood, giving himself up to the feel of the work. Taking it past the point of perfection, familiarizing himself with the stink of scorched wood, the feathering of grain as it separates.

The startling snap!, even though he expected it, of a side as it breaks.

He stumbles out to the living room an hour earlier than usual. Tough time sleeping today -- not fear, that's throttled back since their talk about their history. A gathering tension.

Xander finds Faith sitting on the carpet, her back to him. Legs drawn up, her body folded against her knees, head bent. Some yoga pose, he guesses. Her low-slung sweatpants reveal skin at her lower back, and another tattoo. Too narrow a slice to tell what it is, but it's colorful and elaborate.

She turns her head as she senses his presence, and as he comes up beside her he sees that her yoga pose is actually Faith engaged in toenail polishing. "Hey," she says.

"Hey. Is that dinner I smell?"

"Yeah, I threw together some stuff. I hope it's soup. Won't be ready for a while, though."

"That's okay, neither will I."

She twists the cap on the polish bottle, sets it on the newspaper she's using as her work surface. "Listen, when Willa comes, I thought I'd move to the basement. There's that little alcove down there, wouldn't take much work to get it set up. A cot, a trunk underneath, a blanket or something across the opening, and --"

He drops into a chair. "Faith, no. I'm not banishing you to the basement. Christ."

"Well, you're not gonna put Willa down there. She's coming straight out of rehab, she needs someplace nice to be. I'm not sayin' your basement's a pit -- there's light, it's clean and dry -- I can make it nice for myself. But she's probably a rich girl, huh? She won't see it the same way."

"She's not a rich girl. Her parents are college teachers."

Faith gives him the yeahrightwhatever look.

"You're right. I'm not moving her in down there. I'm going. You'll stay where you are, she'll take my room." It's embarrassing to be outplanned by Faith; he hasn't really thought about this.

"Problem. You need to be sleeping during the day. We need to be training. Tiptoeing around down there until you're up would be a big pain in the ass." She watches him trying to work out some way around her arguments. "You know I'm right."

Dammit. She is. Xander gets to his feet. "Let's take a look down there, see what we need." He makes a detour to the garage for his tape measure, pencil and notepad. Downstairs, he stands in the opening to the alcove, looking at the gray cinderblock walls. "I don't know, Faith. It's --" It's depressing as hell, but he doesn't want to say.

"Spartan?"

"Yeah. Haven't you had enough of the Spartan?"

"It's bigger than what I had. All I do in my room is sleep, anyway. I'll take a few books from the guest room so I can get to 'em when I need to, and here's just as good as anywhere."

All Xander can see down here is flashbacks to one of the two most fucked-up years of his life. Faith sees a place that's as good as anywhere. He shakes his head and begins to measure.

"I could get a door up there by Saturday, no problem." He puts away his tape measure, straightens a couple of tools on the pegboard. "Little fold-in number, like a closet door. Since the ceiling's higher than average, I'll rig up a transom overhead. Clear glass or frosted, whichever you prefer."

"Really, a blanket's fine." She's leaning against the doorjamb, a thumbnail of bare skin peeping between her shirt and pants, bisected by a pale slash of scar.

"It looks crappy." He comes in from the garage, backing Faith out of the doorway. She heads into the kitchen to check on the soup. "I won't have time to build you a chest or bed or anything."

"Let's just go to the surplus. A cot and a trunk are all I need." She dips a spoon into the pot, blows on it, tests it.

"We might find something good in the ads. I always prefer that to some piece-of-shit particle board furniture at WalMart, but that's your call. Some people don't like used."

"Xander, I made my call. Here, taste this." She dips the spoon in again, holds it out to him. He takes it too fast, burns his mouth as she says, "Really, a cot's fine, I don't care."

"I fucking care!" His eye tears from the burn. Throwing the spoon into the sink with a clatter, he stalks out of the kitchen.

Faith turns and follows on his heels. "Why don't we stay in the same room and finish one of these conversations for once?"

"Because I have to dress for work and go run some errands."

She steams on down the hall after him. "Doesn't bother me. I'll come with." Plopping onto his bed, she pulls her legs up and wraps her arms around her knees. "So okay, this whole basement-cot thing is important to you. Try talking to me. Tell me why."

Unfuckingbelievable. Xander refuses to be what she'd call a priss, to chase her off or dress in his bathroom. If it's a bluff, he's calling it. He pulls off his t-shirt. "I lived in my parents' basement for about a year. I had a fold-out couch, not a cot." He hooks his thumb into his sweatpants, pushes them down and off. He's commando-guy after his afternoon shower, so she gets the full Monty. "It smelled like bleach and mildew --" And sex a lot of the time, he doesn't say. Solo and with Anya. "Everything was cruddy and broken down -- I got the tv that only got three channels, the chairs that needed a book shoved underneath to make them sit level." Difficult as it is under her gaze, he follows his unhurried post-waking routine: strolls to the closet, decides which dark pants and white shirt he's wearing tonight, chooses a tie. He lays it all out on the bed before he pulls a pair of boxers out of the drawer and slips them on. "I used to say that shit didn't matter. But it does. It curls inside you like smoke, and --" Xander stops himself. He's not getting any nakeder in front of Faith. "I'm not having you live down there behind a goddamn blanket."

"Nothing stinks down there. Nothing's broken down. This is now." She watches as he pulls on a crisp white shirt, buttons from the bottom upward. "In a way you're lucky. Your past is in the bottom of a big pit. You could leave it there."

"Nice bit of philosophy. Is that how you live with the shit you did?"

Faith shifts on the bed, crossing her legs Indian-style. "A lot of my past is still above ground. I'm not talking about what you did or I did. You happened to live in a crappy place for a year. That doesn't say a thing about who you are. Whether I sleep on a cot or a fancy-ass canopy bed doesn't say anything about me."

He zips his slacks, slides a belt through the loops, finishes tucking his shirt. "In other words, 'get over it.'"

"If you want it short enough to embroider on a wall hanging, yeah."

Grabbing his tie, Xander walks into his bathroom.

"Nice knife scar you've got," Faith calls after him.

Absently he touches the scar through his clothing. One of his last mementos from Sunnydale, one last date with a wacked-out demon chick to remember it by. "Yeah, I learned a lesson there." He finishes knotting his tie. "Never go to a place called Jiffy Vasectomy."

As he finishes combing his hair, Faith appears in the mirror, leaning in the doorway behind him. "You don't want me to know."

"Know what?"

"When I first got here, you said I didn't have any idea what you'd put into the fight. I'm not sure you want me to. You hide how bad you're hurt, you make jokes. Are you scared I won't take you seriously even if I know? Or are you scared to be taken seriously at all, by anyone?"

"Ah, for Christ's sake." He pushes past her, finds his socks and dress shoes.

"Why? Easier to work with other people's low expectations than high ones?"

"I'm going to Home Depot. You're free to come, if you lay off the goddamn Dr. Phil routine."

She shrugs. "Sure. Let me get my shoes and turn off the soup."

Something seems to quiet within Xander during the trip to Home Depot. He's always been a sucker for hardware stores. The smell of cut lumber, the neatly organized rows of tools, bins of nails and screws and bolts. All this stuff appeals to his love of creating things, makes him feel almost as good as the work itself.

He wanders up and down a couple of aisles before going to look at doors, letting it all settle in. Faith tags along, not questioning, not even speaking -- but he's sure she's missing nothing. Once they get to the doors, she listens to his suggestions and gives her input on paint or stain. "I wish we had time to make it nicer," he says. "Get some decent wood and custom build it."

"Seriously, Xander. I've got no complaints. It's more than I expected."

He forces himself to keep his mouth shut.

"You could be spending your time and money on your guitar. Why guitars, anyway?"

His answer is postponed by their arrival at the checkout. He chats with the clerk, hands over his debit card, signs the slip, and all the while he reaches for an answer. After they get the door slanted out the back window with a red flag fixed to its end, he aims the car toward the surplus store. "I'm not sure I know," he finally says. "I saw some in a shop, and they made me want to work with wood for the first time in years."

"Do you play?"

"No. I used to have one, but it was more a teenage stage prop than anything else. My parents didn't have money for lessons -- didn't have any interest in spending it on something that frivolous, to be more accurate. Too bad I wasn't one of those musical idiot-savants."

"A what?"

"Idiot-savant. I used to read about 'em in these old Tales of the Weird paperbacks my dad had. People who were profoundly retarded or autistic or something, but they could hear a classical piece one time and then play it perfectly. There's probably some culturally sensitive term for it now, but that's what these crumbling old paperbacks called it. There were math prodigies too, same sort of thing."

"Oh, like Rainman."

"Yeah. Anyhow, not an idiot-savant, just an idiot. So I turned around and sold it to some other kid."

Faith lowers her window and lights a cigarette. "You should knock that off."

"Knock what off?"

"That self-effacing shit. You've been doing that ever since I've known you. You cut yourself down before anyone else can do it."

"Why do you care?"

"Why do you care if I sleep on a cot or a regular bed?"

Good question, and he's still not completely sure of the answer. "Well, I'm giving in. You're getting your cot, so by that token --"

She fixes him with a look. "There's a difference. Sleeping on a cot isn't gonna hurt me."

Miracle of miracles, he finds parking right by the store. "Faith, it's just talk."

"Bullshit." She mashes her cigarette into the ashtray. "I used to say that kind of crap myself. I still catch myself. 'Just talk,' my ass." Faith opens her door. "Let's go see what's what."

Once they get everything back to the house and squared away, there's enough time for a bowl of soup before he heads in to work. Faith plans her night's patrol -- she's taking the car for the first half of his shift. At closing time in the taverns, she'll pick up Xander and they'll see what action they can find during his lunch hour.

He hands her the Spokesman and the downtown tourist map. "I'd check the movie times for Riverpark Square. You might get some vamps hanging out in the park after the last showings. You might want to see if anything's shaking over by Clinkerdagger's, across the park. It's a big spot for special events and parties and that, especially on weekend nights." He runs his finger along the map. "This pedestrian bridge seems like a likely spot, too. People stop there and look at the falls. There's a place or two near this end that are sort of prime lurking areas."

They'll see where things stand once they've met for his lunch break, but the plan is for him to drop her back at the house, where she'll stain the new door and transom frame so they're ready to install.

Xander makes himself an Americano, leaning back and closing his eyes for a moment as Faith studies the map and movie schedule.

"What's the tattoo on your shoulder blade?" she asks. "I've never seen one like that."

He doesn't really feel like talking about it, but evading seems like more energy than it's worth. "It's a Norse rune. A compass."

"What the hell kind of compass is that? From what I could see, everything was an E."

"They're runes. Each one is a little different, but yeah, most of them do look like E's."

"Why'd you want a compass?"

"It's a sea charm. Kept the Vikings from losing their way."

"Guitars and Vikings. You're hard to keep up with sometimes." Faith dumps more sugar in her tea. "Think it's working?"

"I used to. I'm not so sure now."

"It said something else. A-U-something. B? D?"

"Aud," he says softly.

"What's it mean?" He can tell from her voice that she knows she's treading on sacred ground.

"Anya told me once about her old life. It was her name. Her people were Norse." He checks his watch, finishes his coffee. "I need to get to the store."

He lets Faith take the wheel, grateful to discover that she's a decent driver. She says little on the way to Rosauers, beyond a couple of mild bitches about the state of the roads.

"Happy hunting," he says as he opens his door.

"Xander --"

He pauses with his right foot on the pavement, then turns toward her.

"It's working," she says.

Clipboard in hand, Xander is checking over the bakery section. The cookies are moving, the cakes are not. He'll hand Damon a roll of red Manager's Special stickers and knock fifty cents off the small ones, a dollar off the large. It'll be a little more time-consuming for Xander than using the stickers himself -- Damon's not the best independent thinker on the cases that could go either way, but he loves any scrap of responsibility that's handed to him.

He's about to go look for Damon when Straley rounds the corner, red plastic shopping basket in hand. "Oh, hey, I was hoping you were on tonight. You said there's more I should know, and I --"

"This is not a good time. I don't stand around my workplace talking about --" he glances around the bakery department, lowers his voice -- "vampires -- any more than you do."

"Oh, sure. I was just thinking maybe we could go out for a bee-- uh, burger. Catch up on things there."

"Kevin, no offense, but I've got a lot going on. In a little over a day I've got someone coming to me who's called to this work, and she's not going to know what hit her. She's my priority. I don't have time to deal with someone who finds out something that shakes his worldview then disappears for two days, two weeks to get it all sorted out. You know enough to keep yourself safe, let's leave it at that."

"What about you? You said you were just a kid when you joined the fight."

"I got drafted. My friends were in trouble, and I didn't have the luxury of deciding how I felt about it all." He softens his tone. "Listen. I don't mean to be a hardass. And if you happen to hear something on the street that might be useful to us, we'd like to know. I think it'll be useful to your side to have us in the loop. We can do the same for you. But for the next couple weeks, at least, I don't have time to give you the whole semester's worth of lore and history. That's the way it is."

"Fair enough, I guess. I'll see you around."

"Yeah. And be careful out there."

Straley heads for the bread shelf and Xander sets off for his office to get the roll of red stickers.

An hour later Xander's leaning against the checkout stand next to Peggy's, carefully paging through The Weekly World News. He likes to keep an eye on the latest apocalypse news, so he skims all the tabloids. You never know when one of them might get something partially right. He's spotted a couple of demons in these pages that he's actually fought, though they're usually identified all wrong.

The phone rings and Peg catches it. "Alex, it's for you."

He picks up, punches the right line. "Rosauers. How may I help you?"

"You know, a guy my age hates to think a teenage boy has bigger stones than him." Straley.

Xander laughs. "A teenage boy doesn't really know how close he can come to losing 'em. You've got more at stake, I realize that."

"Yeah, well, I think I'd like to know more about what you're doing. No more disappearing act, I promise. If you're gonna be that busy in the next few weeks, you could probably use some help."

"You're sure you want in."

"Yeah. I don't like this shit going on in my town."

Xander thinks about it for a moment. "All right. I still need to concentrate on --" He's suddenly aware of his proximity to Peg, who's not exactly eavesdropping, but is standing at her stand doing her own careful read of the merchandise -- chuckling over Paul Turner's column in the Spokesman, in her case. "On my houseguest, for the first few days anyway. Faith and I are getting things ready tomorrow -- we're making like Habitat for Humanity down in the basement. If you want to help out with that, we can fill you in at the same time."

"Sure. I'd like to give you guys a hand."

"Hate to do this to you, but we're getting an early start. We'll probably put in a couple of hours or more after I get off work, then when I get up. You'll be at work by that time, so it's gotta be morning."

"Seven-thirty work for you?"

"That'd be great. See you then." Xander hangs up.

This is a good thing. The Scooby Gang, Northwest Branch, is about to open for business.

Damn. He's gonna need a bigger coffeemaker.

Straley shows up at the appointed time with a box of donuts. "No cop jokes, all right? I just happen to live down the street from this place."

He and Faith both look a little rough around the edges, both thrown off their schedules.

Faith, still in her sleep boxers and undershirt, grabs the box and lifts the lid. "Thank god you don't live near Krispy Kreme. I do not get the breathlessness over that freakin' place." She's already retreating into the kitchen with the box, tearing through a double chocolate donut. "Dunkin' Donuts -- any Mass. girl can tell you, that's the Temple of the One True Donut. And their coffee is superior to anything I've had out here, no offense." This doesn't stop her from pouring herself another cup from the new coffeemaker.

Xander scores a jelly and freshens his cup from the decaf in the old Melita, which he's also fired up. "Faith believes in speaking her mind."

"I like that in a person," Straley says. "So what's first? Building or the vampire seminar?"

"The donuts," says Faith.

"And maybe some preliminary seminar stuff. If you've got questions."

Straley's a plain donut guy. "You said Faith's a slayer, but you and I aren't. Why's that, and how do you know?"

"Well, for one thing, we're men, which automatically puts us out of the running. The Slayer line goes through women only -- girls, if you want to be precise about it. They're usually around fifteen or sixteen when they're called. It's not just killing vampires that makes her a slayer. She gets a superhuman strength, heightened senses, the ability to heal faster than average people."

Faith licks off her fingers, dives back into the box. "And a set of Ginsu knives, if you call in the next ten minutes. Operators are standing by."

"You've been doing this since you were sixteen?"

"I got a few years off for ... behavior. But yeah, essentially." She roots through the donuts, apparently unsatisfied. "More double chocolate next time."

"You missed one, I think," Xander says.

"What, a chocolate?"

"No, I just think there's one you didn't manage to touch."

"Don't be such a pussy." She settles back with a maple. "It might be Watcherly and all, but it's definitely unsexy."

"Who said I wanted to be --" Xander clams up. "Forget it."

"So who does this calling?" Straley asks.

"I don't think it's exactly a who," Xander says.

"Angel calls them the Powers That Be. I mean, I guess it's the same Whatever that makes him and me both feel like we're being moved around on some cosmic chessboard. Anyway, I just ... knew I was changed. And then my watcher came to me, tried to explain what I was and what I was meant to do."

"Watcher. What's that, a Power of some kind too?"

"No, they're just people," Xander says.

"Well, they have the superpower of being more tight-assed than any human alive. Or maybe that's because they're English, I never could get that sorted out."

"There's a Council." He seems to be stuck for more in-depth detail. "They kind of own all the books."

"How many books do you need for vampire-killing?"

"Well, there's more than vampires," Xander offers. "There are demons of every stripe, hellgods, ancient prophecies, apocalypses -- hey, there's a word you never thought you'd need a plural for. So you need a good library to keep all of that straight."

"All that stuff is running around Spokane?"

"No," Xander says. "At least I don't think so. Sunnydale was built on a hellmouth. All kinds of nasty things were attracted to it. The last four years in Spokane, I haven't sensed anything going on, not till those vamps attacked my friend Willa." He finishes off his second donut and gets to his feet. "Let's make with the hammering. Top up your mugs and let's hit it."

He always could think better with a tool in his hand.

Xander wakes to late-afternoon light, stretching some kinks in his muscles. The three of them did good work together. Straley seemed to take Faith's spikiness in stride, and she seemed marginally more at ease with him. The slayer-watcher-council briefing was a bit more scattered than he'd have liked, but ultimately they got it all covered. He'll get it together for the discussion with Willa.

After his shower, Xander reaches for his sweats and t-shirt, pausing as he considers maybe slipping on some boxers under the pants. Yesterday had been -- Jesus. He didn't exactly know. How strange was that, sliding off his sweats in front of Faith, walking around naked under her gaze? Considering their history, he'd never have believed he'd make himself that vulnerable again. Dumbass macho pride, he supposes, does wonders for human behavior.

It's actually harder to believe he'd let her see his tattoo than his dick. That she'd seen before, but until the last few weeks, nobody except his doctor had seen the compass. Faith was the first to ask him what it meant.

According to some stuff he's read on the internet, a runic charm is pretty powerful on paper, much less permanently inked on flesh. But he wonders how true a compass can be under the magnetic pull of one slayer, much less two. Will he even be able to tell if he loses his way?

Xander shakes off his thoughts. He's got Patrick and Straley to help keep him on course; he's got his own experience of the last four years.

He heads for the kitchen, dumps out the stale coffee and starts some fresh brewing. Faith's nowhere to be seen; not even in the backyard. He calls downstairs into the basement and Faith answers over the sound of the clothes dryer.

"Getting in some training time?"

She comes out of her alcove. "No, just finishing setting up my room. Want to see?" She folds the new door in on itself -- she did a nice job with the stain -- and steps back. The army cot takes up most of one wall, but it's been transformed by a set of sheets in a soft blue sky-and-clouds pattern, folded back over a cobalt blue comforter. There's a rectangle of blue rug on the floor where she'd put her feet in the morning, which Xander suspects was originally a bathroom rug. Her new trunk is tucked beneath the cot, but there's also a nightstand with bookshelf and a lamp he's never seen before. Hanging from a ribbon on the wall opposite her bed is an 8 x 10" rectangle of stained glass in a burgundy and gold abstract pattern.

"This is really nice," Xander says. It is; it's much homier than he'd anticipated, in a spare sort of way.

"I kind of thought of it as a cell -- you know, the monastery type. So when I found the stained glass, I thought it would sort of go." He doesn't remember ever hearing her speak with such hesitancy. Kind of. Sort of.

"I see what you mean. It really does. Where'd you find this stuff?"

"I got a wild hair after lunchtime and borrowed your car to hit a couple of thrift stores. You said I could use --"

"Sure, absolutely. This is nice," he repeats. He's not sure why he feels so awkward. "I feel better about this, I really do. You sleeping in the basement, I mean." He's aware of how small this alcove is, how close she stands to him.

"I don't get you sometimes," she tells him. "The things you care about. I'm still not sure why I'm one of 'em." Xander stammers for a moment, which makes her laugh. "I'm not fishin', Harris." She puts her hand on his chest. "It's kind of a mystery to me, what goes on in here. But I guess I wouldn't change it." She turns her face up, her hand still over his heart.

He means to step back. He does. But instead he leans into Faith as she leans into him, feeling their breath on one another's lips as they hold there, not-kissing for what seems like a very long time, if time hadn't just melted. As this thought flits across his mind, the sheer overwrought dorkiness of it makes his lips twitch in a smile, which breaks whatever it is that suspends them there and brings them together in a soft kiss.

The second their lips touch, Xander stumbles back, bumping into the door. "Oh god. Oh no. Things are getting way too complicated."

"Seems simple enough to me."

"Trust me. The timing is -- I'm, uh -- I've got to head for bed now."

He blunders out of her room and upstairs, and it's only when he reaches the kitchen that he realizes it's not bedtime at all, in fact he's just gotten up.

Xander pours his coffee into the big thermal mug he's recently bought himself after too many forgotten cups grew cold in his shop. Carrying it into the garage, he switches on the bending iron. Oh god, his brain keeps saying. That was unbelievably -- Stupid? Sexy? Not-expected? In his agitation, it takes a moment to realize his feet are still bare. He heads to his bedroom for his steel-toed boots and a pair of socks, encountering Faith in the living room on his way back to the workshop.

She's smiling. "That was different. Historically, I've been the one who runs."

"Faith, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have --" He shakes his head.

"Kissed me? Taken off?"

"Yes."

"I've got no problem with being kissed. I seem to remember we were both kissing. Could have gone on longer, that's my only complaint."

"We can't. Not with Willa coming. We both have to focus on her. She's gonna be right out of rehab when I tell her she's a Slayer, and it's going to be enough emotional stuff for her to deal with."

"Her? Or you?"

"I -- It all ties in together."

"Is it because you two did the deed? You're hung up on her?"

He sits on the sofa, pulls on his socks instead of looking at her. "We're friends. I want to help her. But that's it."

"She's hung up on you?"

"I don't think so. She, uh, did a disappearing act right after."

Faith sits on the arm of a chair. "She's got one Slayer power, anyway."

"Neither one of us -- it was a lot like that night that you and I --" Xander focuses his attention on lacing his boots. "She was freaked out. She'd had vamps outside her apartment all night, trying to get in. I -- I can't tell what I'm feeling anymore."

"You don't have to explain yourself to me."

"That's not --" He stops fiddling with his laces, looks up at her. "You should probably know. I've had this nice, safe life here. Nobody knew much about who I was, and nothing ever got through this -- shell, or whatever you want to call it. I thought that was what I needed to do to keep sober. It probably was, when I first came here. All these things started happening -- new people in my life, Willow coming out for a visit, you being here. I've gone from social deprivation to complete overload. I need to be clear-headed when Willa gets here."

Faith moves to the couch, close -- damn close -- to Xander. "She's not here now." She touches his face. "I get safe. I do. But after a while, maybe it stops being healthy. And listen to me, poster girl for mental health."

"Stop. If I can't cut myself down, you're not allowed either."

Her breath flutters against his lips. "Give me something better to do."

Just like before, it's impossible to say who's the kisser and who's the kissed. Only this time he gives more time to trying to figure it out. This isn't like the night back in Sunnydale, all heat and hurry. They've both learned something about taking their time, and a few gentle kisses go by before their tongues even engage.

The pace has picked up when Faith pulls back. "Something smells hot."

It takes a moment for her words to sink in. "Oh. It's my iron."

"No, it smells like metal." She grins at his response. "I knew I could make you laugh." She kisses him again. "Go turn it off."

"No, I -- no. This isn't right. Not yet. We've done all this talking about what I've been through, but I haven't even asked you where your life has led you."

"We can talk about that after."

"Faith, no. I'm going to do some things in my shop. I need to get my thoughts together."

"Can I come and hang?"

"Normally I'd say yes, but I'm bending the sides. I've only got one pair of safety glasses, and I'm kind of a nut on eye safety."

She gets to her feet. "Like I said, I get safe." She moves into the kitchen and pours herself some coffee.

Xander pauses at the garage door, but can't think what to say. He goes in, puts on his glasses, tests the iron. As he raises up from retrieving his stickered sides of curly maple, he sees Faith walk in with her coffee mug, pulling his wooden stool closer to his work area.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a pair of safety glasses, and sits herself down.

Xander gives her one of his practice sides -- one of the later, less crappy ones. "This is what I'm going to do with the curly maple today."

"You do it on that pipe?"

"Yeah." He thinks of Anya and her many hairdos. "It's kind of like using hot rollers on your hair -- well, if your hair was completely stiff and wouldn't wrap around the roller and might break in half if you do it wrong."

"You need me to be quiet then?"

"It'll help. There's a lot to keep track of when you're bending. Sometimes you can hear if it's beginning to fracture, or you see the grain start to lift. You can smell if the wood starts to scorch -- I guess if anything gets me to stop smoking, it'll be so my sense of smell is sharper for that."

"Anything I can do to help?"

"Maybe hand me something as we go along. I'll let you know."

Evan had let him get the feel of bending different kinds of wood with scraps of tonewood he had lying around. There are easier woods to work with than the figured types, but he fell for the curly maple despite Evan's best efforts to talk him out of it. Xander had put in a lot of practice time on plain maple, developing a feel for the careful combination of heat and pressure that made the wood take a new shape under his hands. This is something he's gotten good at.

Making sure his work gloves are nearby, he takes up his side and starts to rock it over the oval pipe. "It takes a slow, steady rocking motion to get it right," he tells Faith. "You want a nice, fair curve, not a series of straight bits and bends."

Xander feeds with his right hand and applies pressure at the pipe with the other, rocking the side while keeping the template fixed in his mind, waiting for the feel of the wood relaxing under his hand. When the side gets too lot to handle, he slips on the left glove and keeps feeding and pressing. There. There's the moment where the maple becomes plastic, begins to mold to the shape he has in mind.

He barely has time for a moment of satisfaction before the side snaps with a crack that makes him cry out.

"Jesus!" Faith wipes her coffee off her leg. "What happened?"

"It's fucked, that's what. Shit." He lets the pieces of the side hit the floor, and turns away from Faith, a knot in his throat. "Fuck."

"Xander, I'm sorry. Did it screw you up, me being here?"

"No," he says quickly. Trying to calm himself, he takes up his thermal mug. "No, it's nice having you watch. It's my first time bending figured wood, and I should have paid more attention. It's less flexible than the plain I've practiced on --"

There's a look on Faith's face he's never seen before, almost like she wants to cry. Without thinking, he reaches out and brushes a strand of hair back from her forehead.

"It's all right. Maybe I can find a close match for some new sides. And I'll get in some more practice on the broken side." He offers her a smile. "Evan warned me the first guitar wouldn't be perfect. Actually, I think he said the first ten."

"Doesn't that make you nuts?"

"Yes. No. What it does is scare me. Thinking about what happens after tomorrow. The worst thing that happens in this workshop is maybe a few sides break before I figure out what I'm doing, or the final product doesn't look or sound as good as I want. I'd hate that, yeah, but compared to other things -- compared to screwing up with Willa --" He takes off the work glove. "I could get her killed, Faith. Or vamped. Or maybe I'll just louse things up so badly she starts drinking again and never finds her way back out."

"You're saying all this like she's got no influence at all on how things go." Moving in close to him, she puts her hand over his heart again. "How'd this dorky kid I knew back in the day wind up taking the weight of the whole world on his shoulders?"

He thinks of Buffy clawing her way from her coffin. Anya, lost, after unwittingly sacrificing her friend to be human again. "By seeing what happens when I fuck up."

"It's not 'I' anymore, it's 'we.'" I came out here to help. And Kevin -- there's a reason you told him what was going on even before he ran into that vamp. You surround yourself with pretty good people, if you'd just pull your head out of your ass long enough to notice." Her voice is still soft despite her words, the heat of her hand on his chest doing strange things to his breath. "There's Giles, too, if your common sense ever grows bigger than your case of hurt feelings."

"I don't want to talk --"

"Neither do I." She moves her hand in feathery strokes over his chest. "You're not going to help this girl by worrying all night. Trust what you've learned. Trust your friends. Trust your heart."

Xander's heart may have something to say, but right now other parts of his anatomy are talking louder. He's not so sure their advice is the smartest.

"I think you should get in more practice with the slow, steady rocking." Faith takes off her safety glasses. "I promise I won't break."

Xander switches off the bending iron.

Faith catches his hand as he turns back, tracing her fingers over the tender places that were calluses so many years ago, stroking her thumb over the palm of his hand. "I never knew anyone in my whole life who could make things." She presses a kiss into his palm. "I had no idea how sexy it could be."

Another kiss, then she turns her face so he's caressing her cheek, guiding his hand with her own along her jawline, down her neck. The realization comes as he takes the lead that she's handing it to him, and just after that arrives a flash of memory: Faith pulling his shirt off, throwing him down on her bed.

Throwing him down on her bed --

"Hey, what just happened? Where'd you go?"

"Nowhere, nothing. I just --" He shakes his head. "Voice of reason."

"I don't think so. You kind of -- froze."

"Let's not go into it." He backs away, bends to pick up the broken sides.

Faith takes him by the arm, gently pulls the maple pieces out of his hand. "Let's do. I'm not just playing around here, Xander, this isn't just a quick fuck to me. Something moved in between us just then. I could feel it." She searches his face. "It's her, isn't it?"

"God, no, I told you --"

"Her, Stupid-Faith, the girl who's always following me around with her big mouth and her bad decisions. I keep hoping someday I'll shake her, but she's like this retarded sister who tags after me, fucking everything up. Except it's worse, because it's me. Am I right?"

Xander starts to lie, but her face makes it clear she sees through him. "I need time."

"Right." She takes two steps back, then whirls and strides into the kitchen. By the time he follows she's out the back door and into the yard.

"Faith, wait."

She stops without turning to face him.

"I didn't say 'time alone.'" He reaches for her hand. "Come sit with me a while." He draws her to the back porch, sits on the top step. After a moment's hesitation, she seats herself by him. Xander keeps his hold on her hand, and she lets him. "There are certain memories stored in my body. I pretty much had my head fooled during the last few years, put a big wall around most of my past. But muscle and nerves and sinew -- can't get anything past 'em. Certain things trigger a response." He smiles. "You should have seen the date who said, 'You've got an eyelash' and came at my eye with her fingers. That was a fun first-and-last."

It doesn't tease a laugh from her. "There's a difference. I'm not some innocent bystander."

"Well, no. But you're not the same Faith, either. If we take it slow enough, maybe even the muscle and nerves and sinew will clue in. It's like Evan -- the guy who's talking me through building this guitar -- says, guitarmaking will teach you to wait." He gets to his feet. "Come on. I have an idea."

Xander leads her back to his bed, where he and Willow had argued and talked and not-talked and laughed at South Park together. "We'll ease into it. We'll talk, we'll kiss some. We'll take our time."

"I don't know --"

"We'll just lie here together. Pretend we've already done the slow, steady rocking."

"That's always the hard part."

"What?"

"After."

Sitting on the bed, he begins to unlace his work boots. "Well, see? That's good. Then it's the both of us trying to ease into something that's not so simple." He swings his legs up, scoots to make room for her.

Faith yanks off her boots, alternating in a one-legged stork pose. She puts one knee on the bed. "This feels weird."

"Who's going to know?"

She settles next to him, her legs tucked under her.

"Who are you, the White Rock fairy? C'mere."

"How do you know about White Rock, California boy?"

"My Uncle Rory sent me a case once. I used to have carnal thoughts about the fairy. I think I still had a couple of the empty bottles when Sunnydale caved in."

"Are you having carnal thoughts about me?"

"I will if you'll come down here." Finally she slides down next to him and Xander unbuttons the top button of her shirt, planting a kiss on the silky skin revealed beneath.

Starting to sit up, Faith reaches around behind her to unhook her bra.

Gently he pushes her back. "Not yet." He opens another button, plants another kiss. "You said something the other day, about telling men about the Slayer thing. You must've had some actual relationships since I knew you."

"I tried. Bein' the Slayer is a deal-breaker."

"How long had you been together?"

"Couple of months, with the first. The second I waited until almost six months. I thought maybe things would have a chance to take, you know? Didn't matter, he was gone."

"That's six months longer than I've made it with anyone. It's impossible to talk about my past, and there's nothing too exciting about my life right now -- well, up till the last couple of weeks, anyway. But I can't talk about that, either."

"You're the Scarlet Pimpernel. You ever see that old movie?"

"A long time ago, I think."

"The book was even better. I read it when I was in the joint. Anyway, that's you, nobody knows who you really are."

"A dashing hero of revolutionary France? Who everyone thinks is a dork?" He unbuttons another button, drops another kiss. "You really are trying to get in my pants."

"Oui, mon petit -- um ..."

"Petit four?"

"That'll work."

He opens the last button, finds a silver ring in Faith's navel. He plants a kiss nearby, and Faith shimmies out of her shirt.

It's then that he sees the knife scar, above the waistband of her low-rise jeans. "Wow." It's longer than he'd have thought, still raised and pink. "Is that from -- you know?"

"Buffy? Yeah. Wicked ugly, isn't it? Always wondered if there was something mystical about that knife. That's the only scar I ever got that you can still see."

He traces it with a finger. "Maybe it's because another Slayer gave it to you."

"Maybe. Who the hell knows."

"Is it weird, having your scars disappear? I mean, in a way, it's your history being erased."

"I always got Fs in history. And no, I'll take pretty pink skin any day. Come on, would you keep yours?"

That question comes around to revisit him now and again. He always believed his injury brought him and Anya back together before the end. Would he have his eye back if it meant losing that? He's never managed to come up with an answer he's sure he feels in his heart.

Sensing his change in mood, Faith curls beside him. "Shit. I didn't mean to --"

"It's okay. It's nothing I haven't asked myself. I don't have an answer yet."

She rests her head on his chest, snugs her arm around him, and they lie quietly in the gathering dark until it's time for Xander to get ready for work.

Xander arrives at the store early as always to go over things with the second shift manager. Damon, as always, has beaten him there, just because it's where he feels like he's home. Once the shift has begun, Damon delivers the 11 o'clock news to Peggy.

"Alex was kissing a girl in the parking lot."

"Alex." Peg lights up. "Is it that girl who was here a few weeks ago?"

"Not her. This one had dark hair," Damon says. "It was J.J. Grimaldi."

"What?" Xander and Peggy chorus.

"J.J. has dark hair. Alex talks about her all the time."

"Damon, I talk about baseball all the time. I wasn't going out with Ichiro, and I talked about him at least as much."

Damon laughs. "That's crazy. Ichiro. J.J.'s a girl."

"J.J.'s rich and famous, and I'm a one-eyed supermarket manager. Besides, the M's are in Baltimore right now, and so is she."

Peg's sharp gaze turns on him. Xander knows why: he's never mentioned his eye at all, much less in such an offhand way. "I don't know. I think you'll have to bring her in, just to prove she's not J.J. Grimaldi. Don't you think so, Damon?"

"Good idea. Bring her in, Alex."

"I've got a good idea. Why don't you get out the Zamboni and do your thing?" Hockey is Damon's passion, so the floor polisher has been nicknamed the Zamboni. Damon bounds off to do that -- for such a big man, he's amazingly quick and light on his feet.

"Finally showing a little life," Peg says. She's tried to fix him up a couple of times, without much success.

"Don't get excited. It's early yet."

"Yeah, sure. Look at that smile."

When dawn rolls around, Peggy joins him outside for his first smoke of the new day. It's a helluva day he's got ahead of him. Change on the heels of change. He's set to pick Willa up from the rehab center at noon, try to make things make sense to her. Faith's promised to make herself scarce, but he's not sure how she'll feel about that now. For the millionth time, Xander hopes he knows what he's doing.

The sun's glimmering through early morning mist when he finally speaks. "Peg?"

"Mmm."

"When I moved to Spokane, all I wanted to do was distance myself from who I'd been, where I'd been, everything I'd lost." He feels her shift beside him, an almost imperceptible sharpening of her attention.

"Mm-hm."

"I cut loose my friends, cut loose the name they called me. I started using Alex instead." He taps his ashes at his feet. "But the last few weeks I've had visits from some of those friends, and I've been doing some thinking about a few things I pushed away instead of losing. Does that make any sense?"

"A little. Maybe more, if I weren't operating on a complete lack of detail."

That old-movie wiseacre tone to her voice makes him grin. "Sometime, maybe. What I wanted to say, though, is that my friends call me Xander. It'll take some getting used to, but I'd like it if you did, too."

"Xander," she repeats, trying out the sound of it. "I'm so used to you being an Alex."

"Me too, till recently."

"Xander. It's nice, I like it. Xander Harris."

He smiles. "Think Damon will go for it?" Damon hates change of any kind.

"Good luck. I'm not sure he's given up the idea of J.J. Grimaldi."

"We've got time." A car pulls into the parking lot, and Xander and Peggy turn back toward the doors. He stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray/trashcan, and follows her back into the store.

Xander sits in the rental car for a moment, taking in the lush landscaping of the rehab clinic. It's got a peaceful, countryish sort of name -- countryish in the sense of huge estates, not house trailers and cars on blocks and scrawny hounds. The grounds are a postage-stamp version of what those estate grounds would be like.

Faith's taken his car, headed south of Coeur d'Alene to the Indian casino and hotel. He's got the rental because --

Because the confined interior of his car smelled a little too strongly of the wild, semi-public driveway sex he and Faith engaged in after she picked him up at Rosauers. Even airing out the car on the drive to pick Willa up, he couldn't be sure there wouldn't be a trace, and the last thing he needed was to freak her out fresh from rehab.

So ... rental car.

So ... wild, semi-public driveway sex. Not to mention slightly more contained basement monk-cell sex. And then shower sex, which hadn't quite been the original point of the shower.

He can't speak for Faith, but Xander hadn't planned anything like that. More taking-it-slow, that's what had been on his agenda. But he'd made some wisecrack, and she'd laughed her smoky laugh, which had led to a kiss, which had led to necking at a stoplight, which led to everything else.

Xander can hardly think of a worse idea, or a worse time for it. Which in no way stops him from missing the hell out of Faith, and wishing she weren't disappearing for 24 hours or more. He could use another one of her pep talks about now, even though she'd given him one just before she drove off in his car.

Not surprisingly, it had been short and pithy. "Nervous?" she'd asked.

"Who, me? Nah. I'm going for terrified."

Once more she'd placed her hand over his heart. "Remember what I told you." Then she kissed him. Then she copped a quick feel of his ass.

Then she was gone.

Xander steps out of the rental, straightens his tie and cuts across the manicured lawn to the front entrance of the clinic.

This place makes him twitchy for some reason. Maybe he's just flashing back to his youth, when anything that reeked of luxury or refinement made him nervous, anxious to pick at flaws so he'd be less aware of his own inadequacies.

Okay, so this isn't a palace by any stretch, but it still represents a luxury Xander never had: 28 days to retreat from the world and get his shit together, away (if he chose not to break the rules, which could always be managed, he was sure) from temptation. He'd had a new job to hang onto, an apartment not far from a liquor store. He'd had the rooms and Patrick and a deep discomfort with the idea of a higher power. Somehow he'd managed, but he wondered what this would be like. He suspects it would make him feel trapped.

He chats with her counselor for a few minutes, then Willa comes in. She looks even smaller, more fragile than Xander remembered. Her hair's been cut short, in a style that lies close to the shape of her head, and it's a medium brown now. Giving Anya a run for her money. She's traded the vintage costumes for an oversized white shirt and black pants and pointy, stylish shoes. She looks good, healthy, like she's got her feet on the ground instead of hovering above ready to be pushed in whichever direction the wind's blowing.

She smiles shyly. "Thanks for coming. I appreciate it."

"I'm glad to help." He takes her luggage to the car while she says goodbye to friends, and has a smoke while he waits for her.

"I'm sorry to make you do this," she says once she's out on the sidewalk. "I know you're usually in bed at this hour."

"You're not making me do anything. I wanted to. Are you hungry? Or do you want to stop off at your place, get things you need?"

She settles into the passenger seat, chews a nail. "The more I think of it, the sillier I feel. About being afraid to stay in my apartment. I was really out of control, Xander; I don't remember half of what I told you."

"I remember it."

"Well, you can stop now."

"Listen to me. None of what you told me was crazy. I believed everything you said, because I've seen worse. I want to talk to you about that when you're settled in a bit. But I think you're safer if you stay somewhere besides your place."

"I don't feel that ready to be on my own..."

"My guest room's all ready. I like your hair. You look really different, though."

"My mother took me to get that last dye job fixed. I don't think she could stand me going into rehab looking like some white trash peroxide OD victim."

"You didn't look like --"

"Yeah, I did. At least it was just hair dye, not a tattoo. And you -- you got a new car."

He pulls into the parking lot at her complex, and they get out. "No, this is just a rental."

"What happened to yours?"

"I loaned it to a friend who doesn't have a credit card to rent one."

Willa slips her key into the lock, then turns to look at him. "Good friend, or are you just the kind of sap who can't say no?"

Sap. Her vocabulary is still vintage, even if she's taken a bold step into the present with her wardrobe. "Good friend." The words feel a little strange coming out of his mouth, but there's no quick description for what Faith really is. "We have a lot of history."

"I never know if history is a good thing," she says. "Most of mine, I'd say not." She ushers him into her apartment. If her place is an indicator of her state of mind, no wonder she drinks. It's not exactly messy, but there's nowhere to look where there's any sense of rest. She's a collector of pop culture, collages and photos everywhere, little toys and action figures -- it's a dead heat between Jesus and Japanese cartoon characters. Even a shrine she's made in the corner is busy as Times Square in tourist season. Xander wonders what sort of beings, if any, are attracted by the candles when she lights them. He plans not to be around to find out.

He declines a soft drink, sits on the edge of her kidney-shaped sofa while she rustles through her closet. Wondering if he and Faith will have to take her out to buy a whole new wardrobe for the slaying. Not that Faith's always had the firmest grasp on practical slaywear.

"I know this is crazy. I've got a month's worth of stuff in your trunk. I'm just sick of it all." Willa packs a few garments into a carry-on sized bag, then slings in a few bottles and jars from the bathroom. Her last stop is her bookcase, which like everywhere else in her home, is chaotic and jumbled. She pulls out a few books and puts them in her bag. "My parents have been collecting my mail and bringing it to me, so this is it."

He rises, takes the bag from her. "Willa, what happened between us last time I saw you. I was out of line. It won't happen again."

She waits for him to step outside the apartment and locks up. "Stop apologizing for that. You didn't do something to me. Neither one of us was in our right mind, but it was mutual. It was fine."

"Sure." Suddenly he feels twitchy again, willing to do anything he can think of to postpone the other big conversation. "You hungry? We can stop somewhere." There's also a huge container of soup in the fridge, but he doesn't mention that.

"No, I'm good. I had a big breakfast. Let's just get to your place. You look like you're ready to drop."

Yeah, drop a bomb. On her. He slings her bag into the car.

Let's do it. Let's get it over.

The changes in his house are subtle, but Xander sees her taking them in as he leads her into the living room: the books and lutherie catalogs, the double curl of plans he'd left spread out on the coffee table, the triangular mailing tube propped against a chair. He stows her luggage in the guest room, and she tosses her jacket on the bed.

Willa insists she's content to hang out and read while he sleeps, but Xander wants this done. The last thing he needs is a repeat of waking up to find she's bolted. He fires up the coffee pot, grateful once more to have something to occupy his hands.

"How about some cinnamon rolls?" He doesn't wait for her answer, but raids Faith's ten-tube stash of Pillsbury rolls in the fridge. An abundance of these things is some kind of security blanket for Faith, one he doesn't quite understand, but he doesn't begrudge her the space it takes. The can opens with a doughy pop as he presses the seam, and he lays them out on a baking sheet.

"Oh my god," Willa says. "I love those things, but my mother thinks they're too low class to have in the house."

The unintentional slam at Faith makes him bristle. "Sounds like your mother has a lot of ideas about things."

"She's not a snob, if that's what you mean."

Shit. This is not how he wants to start off with her. "Sorry. Didn't mean to imply." He sticks the baking sheet in the oven, sets the timer, then leans against the counter. "I need to talk to you about the things that happened a month ago. About the vampires."

"Xander, I got mugged. And then I had a freakout, and I imagined all sorts of things."

"Is that what you've been telling yourself? Or did it take someone else to convince you it was all your imagination? Your mother, maybe. Or a counselor at the clinic."

From the way her hackles rise, he suspects it's her mother. "What does that matter?"

"You're right. Who said it isn't important. What matters is, they're wrong." The coffeemaker gurgles and sighs, and he pours her a cup, then another for himself.

"You weren't there. How do you know?"

He can't believe this. He's going to have to convince her all over again that what she saw was real. "I know because I saw the same two who hurt you. I killed one of them."

"Killed one --"

Xander nods. "Staked him. Crossbow, to be accurate. The other one nearly killed me. Willa, I know you've been in a safe, secure, sane place the last month and this sounds like a remnant of whatever craziness you were going through, but trust me on this. What you saw then was real. I was hoping maybe it was a random attack, a couple of vamps passing through town, but there's more of them, and people are dying."

"Okay, so they're real. What does that have to do with me? I'll stick close to home after dark, follow all the other advice you gave me. But beyond that, there's nothing I can do."

"Well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. Do you remember me telling you about my friend Buffy?"

"The vampire killer, right?"

"Slayer. Right." The timer goes off, and Xander pulls the cinnamon rolls out of the oven, slathers the icing all over the tops. "There were others who came later. I think I told you about that. The line opened up to girls all over the world. There's an organization that's working on finding them, the Watcher's Council. The Slayer, some of the potentials, each had a Watcher, a mentor who had access to centuries of research about vampires and demons and that kind of thing. So these girls are all over the world, and some of them are still being found." He sets a plate on the table and nudges the rolls onto it with a spatula. "Willa, I'm certain you're one of them."

"What?"

He sits across from her and takes a roll. "You're a Slayer. I'm sure of it."

A look of pure panic flashes across her face. "Me? That's crazy. I'm not some Xena-type warrior girl."

Xander laughs. "You think Buffy was? When the Council found her, she was all about movies and shopping and boys. Yeah, she learned how to fight after she was chosen. But it's not like she gave up everything she'd been before."

"Chosen. By this council?" She takes a roll, tears a tiny piece off and pops it in her mouth. "See, nobody's come to me, so you must be mistaken."

"It's not the Council that does the choosing. That would simplify things, I guess, because tracking down the Slayer -- especially now that there's more than one -- can get tricky."

"So who chooses?"

"I never got a satisfying answer to that, myself. Destiny, some higher power -- and I might be a guy with a four-year chip, but I still have some trouble with the whole higher power thing -- I don't know. But she's chosen before her Watcher ever comes to tell her." He finishes a roll, licks off his fingers. Faith may be onto something -- the cinnamon seems to have a soothing effect. Which is so far lost on Willa, who's only torn a couple of bird-bite pieces off hers.

"Are you in this council?"

"Me? God, no." Xander snatches a second roll off the plate.

Another pinch. "So why haven't they come?"

This whole thing is getting away from him. He'd thought he'd just present everything to her in a neat little package. But all these questions pinch tiny pieces off his story the way she's picking at her roll, throwing him off plan. "They haven't found you yet."

"And you haven't told them."

"No."

"No wonder. 'Hey, look what I found you, an alcoholic slayer!'" That apparently calls for a bigger hunk of roll -- she tears off a nearly thumbnail-sized piece.

"That's not it at all. I thought I would have a better understanding of what you're going through than someone who's never struggled with getting sober. I think that should be taken into account, in every part of your training."

"Training. Who's teaching me, then? You?" There's a challenge in her voice that sets his teeth on edge.

For a split second he wonders if Giles ever wanted to pinch his slayer's head off. "You want my credentials? I can do up a resume for you, demons killed, apocalypses averted. I have a slayer lined up to train you on the fighting; she can fill out an application too, if you want. Or hell, the Council can have you. Let's put you in the hands of the generals. Why fuck around learning from the people who've fought in the trenches?" He finds he's on his feet. "Excuse me for a few minutes. Nicotine calls."

He goes outside, sits on the porch step, rubbing at the throbbing ache that's begun between his brows. Maybe he shouldn't have sent Faith off while he broke the news to Willa. But when he'd made that call, he and Willa hadn't been quite so -- well, no, there'd always been a fair amount of prickly between them. Maybe this was okay, then. She'd trusted him enough to ask for a ride and a place to stay when she got out of rehab. It wasn't like things had never gotten tense between Buffy and Giles, either. Xander finishes his cigarette and walks back into the kitchen.

In the time he's been gone, Willa's polished off two more cinnamon rolls and washed the baking sheet. She stands by the coffeemaker, staring out the window over the sink. She looks so tiny and scared.

"You don't have to clean my house every time you come over," he says gently.

"Sorry."

"I didn't mean --"

"Not about that. I ... well, I wasn't questioning whether you could teach me anything. I just -- I don't want this at all."

"I don't think many do. By the time I met her, Buffy had already sworn she was giving it up. It's dangerous, and it's lonely, and she ruined a lot of her favorite clothes."

That teases a small laugh out of her, but a wave of tears rides it. Xander takes the mug from her hands, pulls her into his arms. "It's all right, it's all right. Shhh..."

When the tears start to dry, she reaches up to touch his face, and Xander steps back, catching her hand in his.

"Willa, no. That can't happen again."

"I was just going to say how tired you look." But they both know it's a lie. "Go get some sleep. I need time to think this all through, and you need to stay on schedule."

It feels risky. He'd hoped to have her convinced, ready to join up, by the time he left her alone. It's a luxury he can't afford right now, practically weaving on his feet.

"Go," she says again.

"You stay."

"It's a deal."

He nods and stumbles back to his bedroom.

The phone drags him out of sleep, an hour and a half after his usual waking time. Xander fumbles on the nightstand, thumbs the talk button on the cordless. "'Lo."

"Morning, lover. I didn't think I'd wake you at this hour."

"Most days, not. I was late getting to sleep. How was the drive to Worley?" He retrieves his lighter and cigarettes, lights his first of the day.

"Pretty. It gave me the creeps."

"All that rolling farmland doesn't do it for you?"

"It's so fucking empty. Too much sky. How're things going with your slayer?"

The phrase brings an almost physical reaction. Not his, no, she can be someone else's responsibility. He takes a deep drag on his cigarette. "You're being highly optimistic there. I like your chances with the slots down there better than mine with Willa."

"Why, what's her deal?"

"She doubts herself, she doubts me. Not to mention the fact that she'd just rather believe none of this ever happened in the first place. She might even be gone -- I haven't been up yet to check."

"Want me to come back tonight?"

"No, go ahead and stay. If I can't make her trust me, we're screwed before we start. Maybe a little more time will do it."

"Maybe the bein' screwed part won't be so bad. As long as I'm there for that."

He finds Willa cross-legged on the sofa, buried in one of his poetry books, and he lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Hey."

"Hey." She looks up. "I hope you don't mind. I heated myself some soup and had some bread."

"That's fine. In fact, I meant to say something about that, but I forgot. Sorry."

"No problem. I'm plucky and resourceful and all that. Is your friend Buffy?"

"Is she what?" This is why he lives alone. He's not good with the conversations two minutes after he's emerged of an afternoon.

"Plucky and resourceful."

"It's her middle name. Names. Remind me to tell you sometime about the time she was trapped in a house with a psychotic vampire who'd kidnapped her mom, and she conned him into drinking holy water. Speaking of sacred liquids, I'll be in the kitchen making the blessed coffee."

She rises and follows him. "What's that do?"

"Jump-starts my heart, most days." He rummages in the cupboard for the Craven's Zags blend. His supply's getting low.

"No, the holy water."

"Oh. It burns, like acid."

"Neat. Well, disgusting, too. So -- holy water, fire, sunlight, staking and -- damn."

"Beheading." This seems encouraging. She's been reviewing the material.

"Right. Okay, I didn't forget that one, just repressed it." Willa opens the fridge door, peers inside.

"The holy water's more practical for inflicting damage rather than making a kill. You'd be more likely to splash it than get one to drink it."

"Are you having an affair with Poppin' Fresh here? Jesus, there must be a dozen cans of this stuff."

"They belong to my friend. So get the wiseass remarks out of your system now, before she gets back."

"She?" Willa emerges from the fridge, clutching one of the gourmet sodas Straley had brought over. "Open this, would you?"

"The slayer I told you about, who's coming to train you. She'll be here tomorrow." He twists the cap off her soda bottle, hands it back. "Afraid you'll break a nail?"

She shakes her head. "I tend to snap the necks off. So Buffy's coming here?"

Xander can't read her expression, but he senses she's carefully keeping it that way. "No. Her name's Faith."

"One of the new ones."

"Well, no. That's some of the lore we haven't gotten to yet. It's one of the weird little things in Council history. The line split a couple of years after Buffy was called, and there were two slayers. Faith comes from that line, she's been a slayer eight or nine years." He pours his coffee. "God, the more I explain, the more labyrinthine the whole thing gets."

Willa boosts herself onto the counter to sit. "So did she and Buffy fight together?"

"Sometimes yes and sometimes no." He'd rather avoid Faith's history, if he can manage it. "Mostly not."

"Jesus. Has anyone written any of this down?"

Xander laughs. "There used to be libraries of this stuff, since humans first started writing."

"Used to be?"

"Most of it got destroyed in the last big apocalypse I was on hand for."

"That'll happen."

Xander directs a sharp glance in her direction.

She guzzles for a moment, then says, "When I was a kid I was trying out all these different religions. I went to this Mormon visitor's center and heard the whole Joseph Smith thing, the angel, the golden tablets with the book of Mormon written on it. So after the whole presentation is over I ask where's the tablets. The guy tells me God took them back to where they came from. Which even then seemed pretty damn convenient."

"There's a thing called faith," he snaps. "You might try it sometime." This is funny. Xander Can't-Get-Past-the-Higher-Power-Thing Harris preaching the gospel of belief. He pinches the bridge of his nose, unsettled by a suspicion he's swiped this gesture from Giles. "I've seen these books, sat around with my friends in dozens of all-nighters searching the pages for whatever nasty was out there. Fallen asleep over them, possibly drooled on a priceless text or two. Set one on fire once, with an accidental spell. I don't have an ounce more evidence, so it all comes down to whether you believe me. You trust me, yeah. But I think believing is something else."

Willa's attention is on the thumbnail that's scraping at the label on her soda.

"Look, I know you were brought up by a couple of academics. There's a lot of weight put on what's rational. This takes a leap, but I can't help you make it. Just keep hanging out; I'll be in my workshop for a while."

Part of him thinks it's a wise move, giving her a little space to take everything in. But the other part -- and it's pretty damn big -- knows he's just tired out from this prickly shit.

He just wants to be with his guitar.

So much has happened since he snapped that side, it feels like weeks since he was last in his shop. Just yesterday, that's all. Xander picks up the longer piece of the broken side, switches on his iron.

Today with Willa -- actually, almost every conversation he's had with Willa -- has been like working with the curly maple. It's just a matter of seconds between feeling like things are going well, he can feel her relaxing and coming around, and snap! He's got a handful of useless scrap. He has a lot more confidence that he'll get it right with the maple someday than with Willa. And he's not that confident about the maple.

The iron will take a while yet, so he gets the cordless and calls Evan.

There's not a lot of chitchat in this relationship. He identifies himself, Evan asks how the guitar's coming. None of his accomplishments comes to mind: the neck, the soundboard and back, his awed feeling when he walks into his shop that there's not a project out here but a guitar. All he can say to Evan is, "I snapped a side."

"Only thing that surprises me about that is how soon you got this far," Evan says. "That maple's a bastard to work with."

"But I'd done so many practice sides."

"The plain will make you cocky. The only way to learn to work with the figured is to work with the figured. I can't tell you how many sides I busted in my day."

"Now the sides won't match the back."

"It's not too late to turn it into a picture frame," Evan says. It throws Xander for a moment, till he remembers what Evan had said when he'd first agreed to mentor him. If he couldn't take the certainty of imperfection, he should stick to picture frames.

He cracks a smile. "Yeah, I guess I could. But I think I'll still turn it into a guitar. I'll lose a little time; I've still got to put in an order for the new sides."

"No, you don't. Just swing by the shop when you get a few minutes. When I saw you weren't going to be talked out of the curly maple, I called Lou and told him to send me some sides from the same log."

Xander blinks. "Hell, Evan. I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll take my advice next time." That Evan. He practically makes Oz look like a chatterbox. "And get in some practice on the broken side. It's no good for anything but headstock veneer anyway. If it keeps breaking, then work on your unmatched side. Thin it more and see if that solves your problem."

"But I've already taken it to the far end of the parameters I've read --"

"This is difficult wood. Sometimes you need to go beyond what the books tell you. You beef it up again with extra side braces when you're constructing the soundbox."

"I guess," he says dubiously.

"Your hands will tell you more than a book can. Train them. Trust them."

"Yes sir. I'll come by tomorrow." He thumbs off the talk button, then turns to test his iron. Gathering up his glasses and his gloves, he gets ready for some slow, steady rocking.

He strokes the surface of the maple, thinking of Faith's skin figured with the scrolling tattoo just above the dimples of her ass.

He contemplates the tight curve of the waist on the plans tacked to the wall. Thinks of Faith's waist.

Xander shakes his head to clear it and gets to work.

When he emerges, Xander has another useless side and a lot of scraps of kindling, but he feels oddly better. Not all progress is visible. His hands are gaining a feel for the stiff-grained wood, for that delicate point just before plasticity becomes fragility. Maybe -- not that he's getting cocky -- the next set of sides will actually turn out to be sides.

Willa's sprawled on the sofa watching the tube with the sound so low it might as well be off. He checks the picture: it's a real estate infomercial offering the key to unlimited income. He's watched it a time or two himself, when he wanted to be numb without drinking. "I've seen this," Xander says. "The guy in the golf cart committed the murder."

"You sure? I'm thinking it was the perky lady in the blue eye shadow."

"Red herring. I've got DVDs, you know."

"I saw. Couldn't make up my mind. You actually have Jesus Christ Vampire Hunter?"

"How could I not? I slip it in, point out all the glaring inaccuracies. 'Oh, that's bogus. Everyone knows that won't kill a vamp.' Always makes for a great last date."

She summons up a smile and drags herself into a sitting position. "Sorry for being a ball-buster."

"Hey, my balls are copacetic." Add that to the Library of Congress-sized file of Things He Can't Believe He Said. "I'm starved. Want more soup?"

"Sure." She trails him into the kitchen. "You're a good cook."

"Faith made it, actually." He sets the asiago cheese bread on the counter. "This is going stale. You want to turn it into garlic bread?"

"I've been trying to imagine what this Faith is like. Do you have a picture of her in that little album you showed me?"

He shakes his head. "She's not so much on the community of slayers thing, and Willow -- believe it or not, that's my best friend's name, Willow like the tree -- hasn't gone to visit her."

Willa takes the butter and garlic powder he hands her. "Willow doesn't like her?"

"She doesn't like any of my --" Holy crap. Girlfriends, he was about to say. "So Faith." He ladles some soup into a saucepan. "She's kinda one of those people who vibrate with energy most of the time. Buffy's had a bit more of a sense of the Slayer thing being a burden, but Faith's always liked it." A little too much back in the day, he's tempted to add, but something in him rises to protect Faith from Willa's sharp scrutiny. "She was pretty young when I first knew her, but she's gained a lot of wisdom since then."

"So how'd this split thing happen that made her a Slayer when there was one already. You said there's supposed to be one, right?"

"Right. One dies and the next one gets called from the pool of potentials. So that's what happened. A vamp Buffy was fighting drowned her. I -- she was resuscitated, but by then another Slayer was called. That one, Kendra, was killed a few months later, and then Faith came along."

She's busily buttering slices of bread -- more, it seems to him, than they'll ever eat. "So how'd you get from two Slayers to a whole bunch all over the world?"

"There was a spell."

"A spell. You mean like a witchy spell." Maybe it's the carry-over from the Poppin' Fresh snark, but her tone strikes him as pure condescension. "Like Samantha, like --"

"Like Screamin' Jay Hawkins," he snaps.

"Who?"

"I'm glad you think this is so cute. It changed your fucking life, you know."

"Oh, come on." She sprinkles garlic over the buttered bread.

"How old were you in 2003? In May?"

"Ready for this to go in the oven?"

"Yeah. Sixteen?"

"Yes."

"So okay. You're sixteen. Life's pretty normal; not that you're necessarily happy. After all, hey, sixteen. But you only hate your parents and your teachers and your life the usual amount. Then sometime in May, there's this morning when you suddenly feel different. I mean, from one minute to the next. There's this power that washes over you. And after this, you're stronger, you heal faster when you're hurt. All very nice, but there's the dreams --"

"Stop it."

"Pretty scary shit. Monsters, vampires. Were any of them prophetic?"

"I said stop."

"They didn't stop. Is that when you started drinking? After the dreams began?"

"I mean it, shut up, Xander." Willa moves to leave the kitchen, but Xander steps into her path.

"Did you have dreams about what happened in that alley before it ever happened? Is that why you let your friends get you drunk?"

"Fuck you!" She gives him a shove, and his feet leave the floor. When he lands, a chair clatters to the tile beneath him and splinters.

It's a good day for kindling in the Harris house. Not so great for Harrises.

Searing pain flares through his shoulder, shooting stars across his graying vision.

He's not even out for a blink, but Willa's kneeling beside him when he dials back in.

"Oh god. Xander, I didn't mean it. Are you okay?" She touches his brow, already beaded with sweat, muttering, "Dumb question. No you're not. Xander, do you want me to get an ambulance or take you to the ER myself?"

"No, I'm okay. Fuck."

"Don't try to move. I'm getting an ambulance. Where are you hurt?"

"No ambulance. It's my shoulder. You can pop it back in." How hard can it be? He's helped Faith do it.

"It's dislocated?"

"Yeah. Just hold me. Here." All he has to do is twist, and the shoulder will snap right back into place. He tries it, and his whole body seizes up from the pain. Nope, no twisting or snapping here. How did Faith do that, then have it in her to deflower him? "Just yank until you feel it go back. But be --"

Willa tugs on the arm before he can even finish the warning. An unbelievable flash of pain, then he feels the joint pop back into place. He lies on the floor a moment, panting.

"Shit, I'm so sorry."

"'S'okay." He feels a deep queasiness, the outrage of his cells over the not-rightness of his arm slipped out of joint. Another reminder of how Slayers are on some other physical plane. No deflowering planned for the rest of the night, that's for sure.

Willa helps him up, sits him at one of the surviving chairs. "I think you should see a doctor."

"No, I'll be okay." They'll probably stick a sling on it, tell him he can't do anything with it for a few days. He's got work, he's got his guitar. "Want to get the bread? A big kitchen fire would cap the day off real nice, but I'm a little beat."

She pulls it out of then oven. It stops just short of being Cajun garlic bread, but he doesn't care so much right now.

"I'm so sorry," she says again. "Is there any hope for your chair?"

Cradling his left arm, he doesn't even shift to look. "No, it's kindling. Might get a few stakes out of it." Because hell, a couple hundred is never enough.

"Can I get you something? Aspirin? Ice?"

"Both would be good. There's aspirin in the guest bath." More than the aspirin, he'll be grateful for a moment to himself.

Not so much, because she hurries, racing back with the whole bottle. "Two or three?"

"Three's good." Actually, he's got hydrocodone left after the busted ribs, which would be a hell of a lot more effective, but Xander's not so sure he wants her knowing they're in the house. She hasn't been out of rehab twelve hours.

She hovers as he takes them. "I think you should lie down. I can get you to the sofa or the bed. Then I'll bring the ice."

"Willa, you don't have to --"

"I want you flat. You look really pale."

He feels really pale. "Okay."

She gets him installed on the sofa, bringing him an ice pack, a ginger ale and some saltines, the remote, and a throw before he tells her all her flitting around is making him queasier. She sits on the closest chair and starts with the Frodo eyes. Or in this case, he guesses, it would be the Sam eyes.

He closes his own. "I'm okay, Willa. Really."

"I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I know. I've played with Slayers long enough to know sometimes us regular people get banged up. Faith'll help you learn to throttle back."

"Can I bring you anything else?"

"I just need some quiet, okay? Maybe I'll sleep."

"I think you should." He hears her settle back against the cushions. He thinks he hears her chewing the shreds of skin at her cuticles.

He definitely hears her staring at him.

Why Frodo never kicked Samwise off one of those freakin' cliffs, he's not so sure.

A trickle of icewater down his neck awakens Xander with a jerk, delivering a jolt of pain which reminds him why he's sacked out on the sofa during his usual productive hours.

His faithful Samwise is curled in her chair, asleep. She looks so tiny and vulnerable in the feeble lamplight from the table beside her.

He knows what it's like to be the fuckup, through both accident and choice. Remembers what it's like to be on the other end of the "Good lord, do be serious." Certainly recalls the feeling that your parents couldn't really give a shit, beyond hoping you wouldn't embarrass them in some way.

He feels bad for her, and he wishes she'd go away.

Xander wonders how many times Giles looked on him with his thrift shop shirts and his motor mouth and had just the same thought.

Now that his nausea's calmed down, he's hungry again, but he has no enthusiasm for getting up to graze the kitchen, waking Willa in the process. Instead he nibbles on the saltines she brought him, washing them down with flat ginger ale.

To entertain himself until Sunday dawn, he huddles under the throw and remembers every stupid remark he ever made back in high school and afterward, every exasperated look or sharp rebuke from Giles.

There are more than enough to last until daylight.

Just before dawn Xander carefully rises and goes out to his own front walk to watch the arrival of Sunday morning. He can't say when he last was home at this hour on a Sunday. The quiet's even deeper here, not even a freight train rumbling by.

He reaches for his cigarettes, which are a little worse for wear but still smokable. Lighting one up, he tells himself he should quit. It's crappy for his health, sets a rotten example for Dawn -- though at twenty one she's not an impressionable kid anymore. It robs him of one of his favorite aspects of woodworking: the fresh scent of the paper-thin curls of wood as he glides his plane over spruce or pine. That sense has been dulled almost to the point of extinction.

Cautiously he works his left arm. Stiff and sore, but not as bad as he expected. He keeps moving it, knowing shoulders tend to freeze up if coddled.

He savors the hush. In a week of huge changes, the day will bring another one. No telling how this one would go. He hopes Willa can keep her snobbery to herself, and that Faith can keep a lid on the defensive tough girl.

It's been a bitch having one slayer in the house at any given time.

Xander's not so sure he can survive two.

The idea of a walk suddenly appeals, so he strolls the quiet streets over to Coeur d'Alene, where the ground falls away sharply to the Spokane River far below. When it's green like this, the trees screening the abruptness of the drop, it doesn't bother him much. He never comes here during the winter.

Sitting on a bench along the road, Xander idly wonders what the last five years have done to the crater at Sunnydale. Has the wound healed up and haired over with the kind of scrubby vegetation that comes after a fire? Or is it still dead as if a meteor had hit? He's mildly curious, but has no desire to see for himself.

Are you sure? a long buried voice asks. It's your parents' gravesite.

He doesn't give a shit.

It's Anya's.

Abruptly he rises, turning his back on the steep dropoff to walk home.

When he returns, Willa's in the kitchen with one bowlful of batter, another of eggs. Coffee's already brewed, the remains of the broken chair are nowhere to be seen.

"You don't have to keep atoning. I know it was an accident. Though I think we should institute a no-pushing-on-the-playground rule."

"No, it's not that. I have a hard time staying still when I'm just getting sober. Which is probably why I have a hard time being sober to begin with. Do you really think it's from being a Slayer?"

He gets himself some caffeine, then sits at the table. "I can't say for sure, but it makes sense to me that it's partly what's going on. The two Slayers I know best have an unbelievable amount of energy. It's gotten them in trouble at times, even though they have an outlet for it. With you, it's been all bottled up with noplace to go. Plus the other stuff, like the dreams. Were you able to talk with your parents about those?"

Willa shakes her head. "Not since the first couple. I learned to keep my mouth shut."

"There was a lot Buffy couldn't tell her mother, too; I'm not saying everything would have been rosy if you'd always known who you are. But she could always go to Giles -- her Watcher -- about the dreams."

She lifts a pancake off the griddle with a spatula and adds it to the stack warming inside the oven. "I must be the most screwed-up Slayer of the whole crew."

"Not by a long shot. There was one who was psychotic, had been for years before she was made into a Slayer. She was on the loose for a while, and a superstrong girl with no sense of reality is really not such a great thing."

"What happened to her?"

"She was found. She's being taken care of." Xander warms his hands against his mug, watching Willa tending the pancakes and omelet she's making. She has the patience for omelets, which Xander's never had. "We thought, when we made this thing happen, that it was all good, all woman-power, ass-kicking righteousness. We'd open the power to any girl who chose to accept it. Never even occurred to us that there were girls who weren't in any position to make a choice. Funny thing, how you can look at it all kinds of ways before you do a spell, but the magic can always find a way to bite you in the ass. Especially when you think you know what you're doing." He's never seen it this way before, but he knows it's true. This was the spell to resurrect Buffy, all over again, only it's any number of girls who are paying the price for their hubris.

"Well, there was a reason for it, wasn't there? You all didn't just decide it would be fun to have a whole posse of supergirls to run around with."

"True. We thought it was the only way to save the world. We might even have been right. But still --"

"You're just as bad as me, with the guilt."

He smiles. "I knew there was a reason we got along so well." As he watches her finish making breakfast, everything settles into place for him. It's time to let go of the notion that he knows what's best -- for Willa's sake, for the sake of his own conscience down the line.

It's time he put in a call to Giles.

Willa's a pretty good cook, it turns out, but the thought of calling Giles makes him so nervous he can barely eat. The last time they spoke --

"I'm sorry," she says. "I overdid it on the pancakes, didn't I?"

"Not at all. They're great."

She did something to them that makes them taste faintly orangey, and she's heated up the syrup. "My father hates it when I screw around with food, as he calls it. He likes things to taste honest, he says -- which means don't put anything but salt and pepper on it and don't go wild with that, for instance don't even think of using a pepper mill. He's such a Calvinist."

"Where does he stand on the creativity issue?"

"He's all for it in theory. It's just the practice that he hates. Speaking of which, why'd you tell me you don't do anything creative? When I put the broken chair out in the garage, I saw what you've been working on. How long have you been doing this?"

Xander laughs. "Maybe three weeks. It wasn't even a glimmer in my imagination when we had that conversation."

"It's going to be beautiful, I can tell. But why a guitar?"

"Well, I --" It's strange to hear the throb of his own car's engine pulling into the drive, but he recognizes it immediately. "Faith's back." He rises and hurries out front to meet her.

She's taking the gym bag she packed out of the car, along with a couple of plastic shopping bags with the casino's logo. When she sees him, she lets them all tumble to the driveway and throws her arms around him.

He hisses from the pain. "Careful, sweetie." Strange hearing it come out of his mouth at this stage of their -- is it a relationship? -- but he doesn't want her to feel rebuked.

"You're hurt."

"Dislocated shoulder. Frankly, I don't quite get the aphrodisiac qualities."

Faith gives him a bemused half-smile, half-frown that is sexy beyond belief. "What are you talking about?"

She doesn't remember. Xander stammers, feeling like a complete ass. "You dislocated your shoulder that night we -- I helped you pop it back in."

"I'd forgotten that part. That shoulder's popped out so many times." She smoothes her hand over his shoulder. "Don't worry. I still remember the important part."

She favors him with a lingering kiss whose aphrodisiac qualities are not totally lost on him. "Why don't we get inside and meet your new Slayer?"

With his good arm, Xander helps Faith gather her bags. Turning to the house, he sees Willa standing behind the screen, taking it all in. He gets the Samwise vibe again, an air of bewilderment and maybe a touch of hurt -- and he is so stepping off the Frodo-Sam image train right now, because that would make Faith Gollum, which just disturbs him deeply.

"You're just in time for breakfast," he tells Faith. "Willa's showing off her culinary skills, and there's enough to feed an army."

At the sound of her name, Willa pushes the screen open for them to enter. "You must be Faith. I've heard a lot about you."

"Same here." Faith drops her bags onto an overstuffed chair. "Well, let's get to it before it gets cold." She leads the way into the kitchen.

Xander cuts his omelet in two and slides half on a clean plate, then gets her a couple of the pancakes warming in the oven. She settles in with her coffee at the place he sets for her, across from him, with Willa at the end, next to them both.

"What happened to your shoulder?"

"Patrol," he says, at the same moment Willa says, "It was my fault."

"You did not take her on patrol with no training," Faith says. "I know you."

"Well no, but --"

"I hit him."

"Shoved, really."

"I didn't know my own strength." Tears shimmer in Willa's eyes.

"It's been five years," Faith says quietly. "It's time you learned. Nothing like this ever happened to you before?"

"Well, yeah, it did. It's been a long time. My parents had me ... got me some help."

"Anger management?"

Willa nods.

Faith reaches for the syrup, douses her pancakes with it like they're on fire. "Anger's so much more manageable for people when you turn it on yourself. Look, you've had a bad time. You had shit laid on you that you weren't remotely prepared for. I can tell you -- even Buffy can tell you -- that being a Slayer is hard enough when you have been prepared. So okay, you've been fucked up. So okay, your parents put you away in some genteel nuthatch -- that's what you almost said a minute ago, right? You got help -- they taught you how to take your anger and transform it into shame. Well, later for that shit. Shame won't help you do what you need to do. Anger might. You just have to learn to use it the right way." She gestures with her fork. "This is really good."

Willa blinks, thoroughly steamrollered. "Um, thanks."

"I got history, too. That's why Xander chose me to work with you. Well, that and the fact that I kick the ass of pretty much any demon dead or alive. Xander, are you gonna finish that?"

He surrenders his plate so she can polish off his omelet.

"Fucked up? You betcha -- been there, done that. Psychotic for a little while. Hurt people?" Faith flicks a look at Xander. "That too, except I didn't have the excuse that it was an accident. Not only that, I killed some people. The first? That was an accident. But the rest -- I just went off the rails, that's all. I spent some years in prison."

Willa lets her fork clatter against her plate and leans back against her chair. "What's this, some kind of Scared Straight bullshit? You really believe I need that?"

Faith drops her napkin beside her plate. "I don't care what you think, Princess. Finish your breakfast. In fifteen minutes, we'll start our first workout." She gets to her feet. "Xander, a minute?"

He follows her into the living room, where she gathers up the shopping bags. She jerks her head toward the hallway, and he trails her back to his bedroom. "Look," he says once they're inside, "I know she can be a little --"

"Ah, she'll be alright." She reaches behind him to close the door, then leans in to kiss him. "We've got to develop some projects for her. Homework."

"That's a good idea. I'll talk to -- listen, Faith. I decided to get Giles's input on this."

She strokes his chest, close enough when she speaks that he can feel her breath fluttering on his lips. "That's great, that's fabulous, but that's not the -- we need some fuckin' time alone, babe. I didn't sign on to babysit, just to train her." Then it's not just her breath he feels on his mouth, but lips and tongue and teeth, alternating gentle with light little nips. Abruptly she pulls back. "You didn't ask how the casino was."

As soon as he drags his brain back out of his pants, he forms a question.

"Boring and fun all at the same time," she answers. "The fun part was only because I won a shitload of money. So I bought you a present." She reaches into one of the shopping bags and holds up her prize: a blue wool jacket with black leather sleeves, with a wolf rendered in elaborate embroidery across the back. "I saw it and knew it was you. I mean, it would be you if you had one. So now you do."

It's something he'd never in a million years think of wearing. Or wouldn't if he hadn't seen Faith's shining face above it, so pleased with herself. "Faith, this is wonderful."

"Try it -- I'm pretty sure it's the right size." She holds it for him to slip into. "Careful of your shoulder."

It's worth the twinges in the shoulder to see the light in her eyes when Xander shows her the back and then turns again to face her.

"You look just how I pictured. Sexy as hell." She slides a hand behind his neck and pulls him to her for a long, slow kiss.

He looks, he suspects, like a dork. But he'll wear the jacket until the weather makes it a heatstroke hazard. As long as it makes her happy.

While Faith and Willa work out in the basement, Xander spends the morning not calling Giles. This requires a lot of effort, and yet none at all. He takes the phone into his workshop and sits it on the bench where the braced back waits to be glued to properly bent sides. He runs a thousand versions of the conversation through his head as he paces, rearranges pieces of abalone and wood, doodles more designs for the headstock inlay, re-reads a couple chapters of the Cumpiano, stands in the door to the backyard and smokes.

Next thing he knows, it's noon, which means it's 10 p.m. in London, and too late to call. Relief and irritation with himself sweep through him in one huge wave. He'll call sometime in the middle of the night. That's when he's most alert anyway.

When Faith and Willa take their break, Willa assumes lunch duty while Faith and Xander drive both cars to the rental place. Driving makes his shoulder ache, so once they've returned the rental, Faith takes the wheel. He directs her to Evan's shop to pick up the new sides.

"How was the conversation with Giles?"

"It wasn't. How was training?"

"She doesn't want me to know it, but she's into it. She's been needing someplace for all that energy to go. I don't get it -- what's the deal with you two, anyway?"

"Nothing. No deal. We saw each other at meetings, and she asked me to sponsor her. I said no, because the male-female thing isn't really done, which was good, considering that we --"

"Not with Willa. The deal between you and Rupert. I heard you two aren't speaking."

"Oh. Well, no." He points. "Park here. This is probably as close as we'll get."

Xander gets out and scrounges in his pockets for meter money.

"You and Giles," she prompts.

"You were going to let me just babble on about Willa till you found out whether I'd mention sleeping with her, weren't you?"

"You're still evading." Her hand brushes his, then hovers inches away as they walk. His fingers find it again and curl tentatively around it, ready to release her at the slightest signal, but he finds his hand clasped in hers. Just like that, they're holding hands.

"I'm evading because I'm not sure I know the answer. I was out of my mind, all that time in Italy."

"Well, yeah, but you've been back in your right mind for years."

"I'm not so sure."

"What do you mean? Buffy said you've been sober for what, four years?"

"Sober, sure." He waits as a city bus roars by. "But I thought I had to stay that way by keeping everything at arm's length. And maybe I've been right. I built these walls, and now they're cracking. I don't know that everything that comes through is gonna be good." He's not quite sure why he's able to tell her this. Maybe because it's half a block to Evan's store, then he'll be off the hook.

"You're forgetting something. You've got people on your side of the wall now. I'm here. Kevin. Even Willa, I'm bettin', would stand up for you if some shit came down." She stops walking and tugs on his hand, pulling him back toward her for a tender kiss just two doors shy of Evan's. "Things are different now," she murmurs.

It's hard to tell with a guy like Evan, but Xander's fairly certain he likes Faith from the start. She doesn't try to chat him up, just greets him in response to Xander's introduction, then amuses herself by looking at the guitars while they talk.

"We can't stay long," Xander says. "We're expected for lunch." He gets caught up anyway, telling Evan he was managing to make some fair curves on the scrap sides by the end of yesterday's session.

Evan brings two sets of curly maple sides he'd had the supplier send, and some koa he's just bought for himself. When Faith comes over to look at the differences in grain between the two, Evan goes into teaching mode for a short while.

"I spent the whole morning fooling around with headstock inlay designs," Xander says, "but nothing's really stuck. I'm already thinking about the next guitar I want to make, so I want a trademark of some kind."

"X," Faith says. "Brand X. Mr. X. X marks the spot. X-ray -- which is one of the coolest words in the English language, if you ask me. You could do an X in that real fancy printing like you see on diplomas and that. Or all jaggedy, like a bolt of lightning, if you go for X-ray."

Xander grins. "I've been trying to get this nailed for a week or two. She needs two seconds."

"I need lunch. It makes me quick."

He likes it. Pearl inlay on ebony veneer -- kind of a spooky X-ray effect. He writes Evan a check for the sides, which Faith insists on carrying when they head back to the car. He's still chewing over the suggestions she rattled off, so he's blindsided when she comes back to Giles.

"There was some big blowup with you two, just before you left Italy, that's what I heard. What over?"

"Like I said, Faith, I was a fulltime drunk. I was furious about everything."

"Namely ...."

"Anya, Sunnydale, being half-blind, being somewhere where I could barely communicate ...."

"Why Giles? There's a reason it was him."

"Christ. Could you just lay the fuck off?"

She's unflustered. "How you going to talk to him if you can't even look at what happened?"

"Maybe I won't. Maybe I should stick with my first impulse. You and I can handle this."

She says nothing as he unlocks the car, just sets the stack of sides on the back seat, where he rearranges them to his liking. His shoulder aches as he leans into the car, and throbs once he settles in with the shoulder harness fastened.

Neither of them speaks on the way home.

Lunch is ready when they return to the house. As Faith delivers the new sides to a cleared off spot on the workbench, Willa hangs up the phone and starts ladling soup into bowls. She looks unsettled, trying to avoid meeting Xander's gaze without seeming too obvious about it.

"How was training this morning?"

"It was good, I guess. I'm going to be sore."

"That'll pass in no time. You've got the quick healing, the whole Slayer package."

Faith comes in, washes her hands at the kitchen sink. "Those'll be good on that table out there?"

"The bench is fine for now. The extra pair I'll get stickered so they don't warp, but that can wait till I wake up tonight."

Willa's expression lightens as the corner of her mouth quirks up. "There's one of your signs of a creative person, Xander. Specialized language."

They all sit in the places they occupied at breakfast, working on Faith's soup and Willa's smoked turkey sandwiches, which she's fancied up with some kind of spread Xander's sure he never bought. When he comments on it, she tells him she made it.

"While you two were out, I called my parents to let them know I'm okay. They want me to go out to dinner with them tonight. The writer they had the party for is still in town, and they want me to meet him. I said I'd have to let them know."

Xander says, "You don't have to ask anyone's permission."

"Oh. I know, but ... well, I didn't know if you guys had plans for me tonight."

"I thought I should take you out on your first patrol," Faith says, "but that won't be till after dark. No reason you couldn't go and meet up with me later. It's up to you."

Xander studies her expression, which is none too happy. "What were you hoping we'd say?"

"This writer -- he's got a reputation for drinking and womanizing. I'd likely be the only sober person there. Or else I wouldn't."

"You have to take care of yourself, Willa. No one can do it for you. You can't tell them the two random people you're staying with said you can't go."

"I can't just tell them I don't want to."

"What if you said you're one day out of rehab and you don't feel ready?"

Willa shakes her head. "I couldn't say that."

"Fuck 'em, then." Faith finishes her sandwich, puts her plate and bowl in the dishwasher. "I'm going out for a smoke. Let me know when you're ready to train."

"She's not overly delicate, but she's got a point." Xander puts his own dishes in the washer. "You're the main person who gets hurt if you have a setback. So you're the person who decides. Listen, I'm dead on my feet. See you tonight."

He shambles back to bed, knowing he hasn't given Willa anything that feels to her like an answer. As much as she wishes for an edict telling her she can't have dinner with her folks, he wishes he had some remote clue whether he's doing this right.

As soon as Xander undresses and slides between the sheets, exhaustion deserts him completely. Instead he's got thoughts. An infestation of them, scurrying around in the dark like cockroaches. He no sooner squashes one than another dozen scramble in to take its place.

The first, though it's the least of his worries, is the one that jolts him wide awake. Xander realizes he's completely miscalculated the time difference between Spokane and London, which is only eight hours. Christ, he's an idiot.

So easy to grasp at a stupid mistake when it makes life a little easier, sidesteps something unpleasant. There's a whole world of unpleasantness he'd love to avoid when it comes to Giles. That party. Giles and Catarina smiling and laughing and touching each other. Glasses and glasses of wine. The smell made him want to puke, made his eye throb, but that didn't stop him from drinking it. He has an almost physical memory of standing, swaying on his feet, glass raised in a toast --

Xander pushes the memory away, but hot on its heels comes the Ghost of Fuckups Present. He's screwed up with Faith. One day it's "We'll take our time," the next they're working on the night moves in the early morning in his car. The same classic Harris-style mistake: grab for the quick, wrong action, the one that bypasses the obvious difficulties. Skip the tension and uncertainty of figuring things out between them. Avoid the weirdness of having Faith and Willa in the house at the same time by letting Faith stake a claim on him. Why does he fall into these same passive patterns with women? He just lets things happen -- with Anya, Cordy, Willow, Faith 1.0, and again with the upgraded Faith 2.0. He's Mr. Easy Way -- not Out. More like Mr. Easy Way Into Worse Trouble Than He Was Trying To Avoid.

He's going to fuck things up with Willa, too. This much he knows. He's already let her down. The painful thing is, he knows what this is like from the other end. Xander had stopped expecting much from his own parents by the time he was ten, but he'd always hoped for something from Giles. It wasn't something he knew how to describe, much less ask for. Xander didn't know how to catch his attention the way Willow could, with her brains and her eagerness to please. The only attention he inspired was an exasperated remark. He never found a way to be more than the guy who came in a package deal with Buffy and Will. All along he'd been aware of this, but he never stopped wanting more from Giles. The fact that disappointment was familiar as breathing to him didn't make it any less bitter.

Just as bitter as the certainty that he'll be the same kind of disappointment to Willa. What else can he possibly be?

His shoulder throbs, and he throws back the blanket and rummages in the bathroom cabinet for the hydrocodone. He's not sure it's the wisest move, but it's the standard Harris move.

Go for the end-run around the pain, no matter what it buys you later.

Xander does manage to sleep for a while, but he's awakened by muffled shouting. Hurriedly he pulls on his sweats and runs for the basement, snatching up a couple of stakes on his way out of the bedroom. Halfway through the kitchen he hears Willa bellow, "No!" A pounding starts up at the front door, but Xander keeps barreling for the basement stairs. He's two-thirds down before he realizes Faith's waving him off, saying, "It's all right, it's all right. Just training."

"Tell that to my heart, will you? But get the electro paddle things first."

"Xander, I'm sorry," Willa pants. "We thought it was soundproof enough down here."

"Not quite. I've gotta get the door before someone calls 911." He turns and climbs back up, slipping a stake in his pocket, setting the other on the kitchen table.

When he opens the door, his neighbor Dustin is standing there, clutching a baseball bat. Quiet guy, officer. Kept to himself until, well, you know.... "I heard screams."

"I know, yeah. Everything's fine." It goes against his keeps-to-himself grain, but he steps back from the door. "Come on in. Woke me up, scared the hell out of me too." He calls for Faith and Willa, just to show Dustin everything's all right, scrambling to think of a reason why he's got two women living with him. "Faith teaches self-defense, she was just giving a lesson downstairs." Faith comes into the living room, struggling to keep a straight face, with Willa trailing behind. "This is my, uh, sister, Faith. She's visiting for a while from Boston."

The look on Dustin's face suggests this wasn't the best cover story, that there was at least one witness to the wild, semi-public driveway sex the other morning.

"Step-sister," he amends. "Actually, really more of an old friend." He considers snatching the bat and whacking his own head with it, just to shut himself up. "And, uh, this is Willa. Dustin, from next door."

"Sorry about the yelling," Faith says. "We've been doing some martial arts, but I thought I'd show her the kind of self-defense stuff I teach. We didn't think that would carry."

"Not a problem," Dustin says. "We just keep an eye out for trouble here on the block. Keeps everyone safe." He gestures in the direction of his house. "Well, I should get back home. Jett'll call the cops if I'm not back in a reasonable amount of time."

"Sure. Well, thanks." He shuts the door behind Dustin and lets out a huge sigh.

Faith explodes with suppressed laughter. "Your sister?"

"What do you want? It's the middle of the night for me. Speaking of which, what's with the yelling?"

"Sorry," Faith says, but her dimples are still pronounced enough that he knows she's not that sorry. "It's a part of the work I do. It gets the adrenaline pumping. Plus the women I teach says it does wonders helping them say no in their daily lives too. If she's going to that dinner, it's a good skill to have."

"What time is it?" Willa asks. "I'd better get ready." She hustles off to her room.

Xander eases the stake from his pocket. "That sounds like a good drill."

"Yeah, I think she'll be okay." She steps in close to him, puts her hand on his bare chest. "I am sorry we woke you. You look like shit."

"I'm having a little trouble sleeping."

"Your schedule's way the hell off, isn't it?"

He nods. "Not to mention too much to think about."

Faith touches his face. "Go on back to bed."

"I don't think I'll sleep."

"Give it a try. I'll heat up some milk while she's getting ready, and bring it in."

Xander loathes hot milk, but he says okay and goes back to his room. He falls asleep almost as soon as he pulls the sheet up, and when he awakens next, there's a glass of room-temperature milk next to his cigarettes.

He fumbles for the pack, noticing there's no light leaking around the blackout shades, not even weak, violet-tinged twilight. He's slept late.

Xander has a cigarette halfway to his mouth before he pauses. It's not even eagerness for the first one of the day anymore, it's just a mindless habit. He wakes up, he breathes, he breathes smoke. Maybe he will quit. Maybe he'll just postpone the first drag by five minutes. That'll feel like enough of a victory his first night.

He spends a long while in the shower, working his stiff shoulder under the hot spray. It's Willa's first patrol tonight, and he hates not being there. He's fallen back into his old persona, the guy who's better off fray-adjacent so he doesn't get broken. The Zeppo. What's a breakable guy like him doing thinking he can be Willa's not-quite-a-Watcher? It's not quite the contact sport being a Slayer is, but it's no occupation for pussies. Just look at Giles's medical history.

Keeping an eye on the clock, he dries and dresses, gets his first nicotine and caffeine fixes. It's 6:40 there. Too early to call. He makes a breakfast he can hardly eat, gets online to order some ebony and pearl, drinks more coffee, smokes more cigarettes. Eight o'clock. It's probably a bad time now. Giles will be leaving for his commute to Council headquarters. Xander should probably wait until it's evening there. Everything will be less rushed.

He drifts into his workshop and looks at the maple he's planning to bend tonight, jostling his gooseneck work light to flare on the chatoyance of the grain. Funny how the thing that makes the figured wood so beautiful is what makes it so damn fragile and hard to work with. Funny how the same thing can be said for Willa. For Faith.

He spent plenty of time hounding Evan for advice before he tried bending his first side. With so much more at stake with Willa, shouldn't he be willing to do the same for her?

Digging in his pocket for the scrap of paper he copied Giles's number onto, Xander retrieves the phone from the living room. Quickly he punches in the digits before he loses his nerve. Waiting for the circuits and relays, he feels as though there's a beehive buzzing inside his head. The hum gets louder, higher pitched as he hears the ring on the other end of the line. The double chirp sounds like it's coming from underwater.

It's Catarina who answers, and even though it's London he's calling, memory slams him back to Florence, and it's his clumsy Italian that comes out. "Catarina, come estai -- esta? Sono Xander."

"Accidenti," she says. Wow. This mild exclamation -- from a woman who shouts "suck my dick!" in her ex-husband's northern dialect at errant Vespa riders -- gets to him. She says it in this soft tone of surprise, as if someone's just given her an unexpected gift. "Ksander, che bello sentirti!"

The informal you, the one he'd stumbled over. That's what pierces him, makes it almost impossible to speak. After all he's done --

"It's good to talk to you, too. I was hoping -- Am I in time to catch Giles?"

"Wait." The phone clatters on some hard surface, and then there's the sound of a door and an indistinct shout. In a moment Catarina comes back, breathless. "You almost missed him." More muffled voices, lower this time, and she says, "Here he is."

He hears the phone pass from her hand to his, then the voice he hasn't heard in nearly five years. "Xander? My god, how are you? Is everything all right?"

The question everyone seems to ask when he picks up the phone. And the one he has no idea how to answer. "Hey, Giles." That's as much as he can squeeze out past the tightness in his throat.

"Xander, how good to hear your voice. I hardly know what to say." There's a long pause on his end, and his voice is a little husky when he finally speaks. "There's not an apocalypse, is there? I've been afraid that's what it would take --"

Good. Down to business. "No. No apocalypse."

"Thank god for that. They do become tiresome after a while."

This is new. Giles making with the jokes to lighten the mood. Xander doesn't know what to make of it. He wanders back to his workbench and strokes the surface of the maple. "Developments, though."

"If -- if they're not terribly urgent, I'd much rather hear them after you tell me how you are. You've been -- we've missed you."

"I wouldn't have thought -- after the way I --" This is much too hard.

"Dawn never told you?"

"Of course she did. I just --" He's never believed her. After her heartwrenching rift with Buffy during the last days of Sunnydale, she's grown into a peacemaker, always trying to bring people together. Sometimes she ... oversells a more optimistic view of the truth to accomplish her ends.

"She says she's planning another trip to see you this summer."

"Yeah. We're thinking about doing a few days of the music festival over in North Idaho. Maybe camp out for the duration."

"She always says what a wonderful time she's had after a visit."

"Same for me, too. I wish she lived closer."

There's another pause, though not as long. "Willow said she was out for a visit, too."

"Just last month, yeah. Jesus god, that was painful." He's startled by the burst of honesty -- to Giles, of all people.

"I know," he says. "It was difficult for her, too."

"There's degrees of difficult, Giles. She didn't have to hear her best friend say it feels like she died."

"I know," he says again, ruefully. "She does lack subtlety sometimes when she's upset. You know how she gets."

"I don't need a seminar. I grew up with her. Is that what everyone else thinks too but doesn't have the nerve to say?"

"Not at all. I believe you've needed to retreat from us for a time. To come to terms with what you've lost without all of us reminding you constantly by our mere presence. To grow strong again. Though I was beginning to fear you wouldn't come back to us after all."

This is so not what he's expected, he barely knows what to say. "Why? What could you all possibly need from me?"

"Xander, don't you know?" There's such warmth in his voice, the kind that used to be reserved for Buffy or Willow. Xander presses the heel of his hand against his good eye, willing himself not to cry. "You've always been our heart."

Xander struggles to keep his breath even. "Even when I was a drunken fuckwit? Maleducato?"

"A heart is no less necessary when it's broken."

That's what undoes him. Letting the hand with the phone fall away from his face, he sits on the garage floor and gives into wracking sobs. Only for a moment or two, then he pulls himself together. "Sorry, Giles."

"There's no need." Xander hears genteel nose-blowing on the other end of the line. "The rest of us were so caught up in rushing into our new lives. I've wished so many times that I'd noticed your struggles before things went as they did."

"I don't think you could have changed anything. I might've gotten sneakier about drinking, is all. Did Will tell you? She just found out I was drinking even in high school, and it freaked her the hell out that she hadn't known."

"She didn't tell me that, no. I wish -- I didn't make it easy for you to come to me with your problems, and I wish I could change that."

"Better watch out who you say that to."

"I suppose you're right." He can hear the smile in Giles's voice.

"I'm all right now. Sober four years now, kinda rejoining the land of the living a lot more recently than that. I've got a decent job working with people I like; I've taken up woodworking again."

"I always thought you had a gift for it. I'm glad you found it again."

Xander smiles. "It sort of found me. Kind of like the slayer I ran across here."

All these thousands of miles, and he can still hear Giles's sharp intake of breath. "A slayer? You're certain?"

"Yeah. One of your lost girls. She's twenty-one. I met her in AA. She's been drinking pretty much since she got the power. I just started working with her, but I'm afraid I might be out of my league. I was hoping maybe you could advise me."

"I could come and work with her there, if you'd like. Or if she can manage to get to London --"

"-- I really -- I, um, hoped I could work with her myself. Along with Faith. Willa -- that's her name, could things get any more confusing? She just got out of rehab yesterday. She's really fragile, Giles. I thought maybe Faith and I -- we've been there. She might respond to that. But I was hoping I could call on you for advice."

"Faith is coming there?"

"Already here," Xander says. "They're out on patrol right now."

"So you're setting yourselves up as watcher and trainer." Here it comes. Now he finds out how much Giles likes Xander horning in on his territory.

"Yes."

"I think it makes sense. You both are likely to catch signs of instability that I might miss. I'd like to talk once a week to see how things are going, if that's agreeable."

"You might have a hard time holding me down to once a week," Xander says.

"Whatever you need, Xander. We have some catching up to do. Tell me all about your slayer, this Willa."

And just like that, it's almost as if he never left.

It's after he gets off the phone that the tears overtake him, the shuddering sobs that he'd managed to suppress before. The storm is long and intense, just beginning to subside when he hears the front door and Faith's voice a moment later. "Surprise, he's in the workshop." The door swings farther open and she says, "Xander, you should have --" She takes him in, still sitting with his back against the workbench, flinging up a hand and turning his face aside. She murmurs something to Willa and steps into the garage, pulling the door shut behind her. "Xander, what's happened?"

"Nothing's wrong. Go inside."

Instead she approaches, kneeling beside him. "Tell me."

He turns his left side from her, groping on the floor for the eyepatch he'd pulled off. "I'm fine. Just fuck off."

She touches his face, and he bats her hand away. "Do you think I care if I see you without it?"

"I care."

"It's not important." She touches his face again. "It's not who you are."

Irrational anger seizes him, scraping across all the nerve endings exposed by the phone call. "Then look." He turns to her, trying to stare her down, make her uncomfortable enough to leave him alone. "How do you like me now?"

Faith doesn't flinch; no look of horror or disgust alters her gaze. "It's a scar, it's not you." Her fingers stroke his skin, feathering upward, toward the place --

It's Xander who flinches, pulling back from her touch. "Sorry. Like I told you, fingers near the eyes --"

She reaches back toward him, stroking the skin near his mouth. "I used to think you were a lightweight. Before this happened. I never was very good at judging people."

"I'm still a lightweight."

Those frown lines at her brows, so pronounced even when she was sixteen, make an appearance. "Don't hand me that bullshit."

"How'd Willa do tonight?"

"Fine, great. Tell me what happened."

He shifts to begin getting to his feet. "I really should --"

Faith puts a hand on his good shoulder, her grip like iron. "You're not a guy who flashes his feelings all over the place. So when I find you on the floor in tears --"

"I called Giles."

She sucks in a breath. Her hand lights on his face again, so gentle. "How was he?"

"Nothing like I expected." He smears the tears that well up with the heel of his hand. "He called me 'son.'"

She makes a low sound in her throat and takes Xander in her arms. He lets go in a way that he hasn't since -- well, since ever. He's always been the set of comforting arms. The last time he cried in front of anyone -- really cried -- was when Joyce died. It scared Anya, so he stopped. Her death he'd kept inside. Stuffed in a bottle -- literally.

When this second storm passes, Faith still holds him, murmuring. "Some people are like the shoreline. You batter yourself and batter yourself against them, but in the end, they're still there for you, still unchanged. That's how Angel was for me."

"He has changed. Giles. He even said so." He pulls back from Faith's embrace, mops his face with his shirt tail. "He said he's much quicker to tell people now how he feels. He said that Catarina taught him that. He said I taught him that." Xander looks away from her. "The things I said to him at their engagement party. Actually, I said them to her, but they were meant to hurt Giles."

Faith pushes her fingers through his hair. "That was years ago."

"I hit him, Faith."

"It's the past. I know he wanted you back in his life, Xander." She leans in and presses her lips to his. "You have a slayer in there who wants to tell you about her night. What do you say?"

With a little help from Faith, when Xander emerges from his workshop, he's less of a wreck, if only slightly. He finds Willa in the kitchen with a mug of tea cradled in her hands. She's set out two more mugs and the sampler box of teas.

"Hey, Willa. I'm sorry to keep you waiting."

She looks up and he sees her register his disheveled state. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." He fires up the tea kettle again. "Dealing with some past stuff, is all. Everything's okay. How about you? Faith says you did good."

Willa grins. "I survived dinner with my parents. I can't really decide if it was horrible or funny. I think the fact that I knew I was going out later to hunt and kill vampires tipped it into funny."

"Yeah, this life does make for the surreal juxtapositions. Faith, you want some tea?"

"Mint, if you've got some." She's jittering around the kitchen, poking in the cupboards.

"Something I can help you find?"

"Nah. I'm just -- you know how I get after a patrol. I'm gonna make some cinnamon rolls."

"No fight, then. You didn't find anything?"

"No, we did. But it was Willa's. You tell it, it's your kill." She gets out the baking sheet and slams a tube of rolls against the counter to pop the seam.

"We did some driving around town first, around the place where I got attacked. We checked out Dick's -- I have a whole new take on that place now, I can tell you. Hung around the Big Easy for a while after the concert let out. Everyone there looked like the vamps --" she casts a look at Faith, for confirmation, Xander thinks, that she's entitled to free use of Slayer slang -- "the vamps that went after me. We didn't find any on the prowl, so then we went to Fairmont cemetery, and found one that was --" She looks to Faith again.

"Rising."

"Right. Rising. First thing I saw was this hand, shooting right up from the ground. I kind of froze for a moment while he clawed his way out of the grave, but when he came after me, it all came to me, instinct and today's training. Faith sat there on a headstone coaching me through the whole thing, calm as if it's a day at the office."

It is a day at the office for Faith, Xander thinks, and a boring one. Cemetery patrols she's always scorned as shooting fish in a barrel.

Willa gives him a blow-by-blow account of the fight, which he's pretty sure would've been over in fifteen seconds if Faith had taken the kill. "Then I stumbled over one of those little markers and fell, but when he rushed me, I came around with the stake, and I got him."

"You did great," Xander says. "It's official. Your first kill as a Slayer. I just wish I'd been there."

"Me too, but god, you're hurt, and you can't give them so much as an inch, I can see that." She's revved back up, that Slayer's high he's even had a little taste of himself.

He smiles. "Still, you mentioned making it through the dinner first."

"Oh, god. I didn't mean --"

"Hey, I'm not complaining. You're right, it's major. It's hard to change when the people around you are invested in you staying the same. If they're sending you to rehab, then wanting you to come out wining and dining the day after you're out, you're getting more mixed signals than support."

"That drill Faith had me do helped a lot. I think every woman could benefit from learning to yell No! at the top of her lungs."

The timer goes off and Faith retrieves the hot rolls, slathering them with icing.

"I have never seen such a huge stash of those things in my life," Willa says. "What's the story?"

Faith keeps her attention on what she's doing. "Like I said, I spent some time in prison. Sunday was a big treat. We got bacon, we got cinnamon rolls. Well, unless a few hundred of them mysteriously walked off so some guard could reward some of his cronies. After I got out, I saw one of those Cinnabon places. It occurred to me then that I could have a cinnamon roll any fucking day of the week." She finishes icing them, licks her fingers. "I like knowing all I have to do is walk into the kitchen. Dig in while they're hot, kids."

Xander follows her lead and pulls a sticky roll off the pan. "Who knew freedom smelled like cinnamon?"

"I'm more in the mood for chocolate," Willa says. "I've got an M & M stash in my room. I think I'll have a few and take a hot bath, then try to sleep."

"Goodnight, then," Xander says.

"You made a real good start tonight," Faith tells her.

"Thanks." She pads toward the guest room in her stocking feet.

Xander turns to speak to Faith, who's lost in her own thoughts. "What is it?" he asks.

"Just remembering that day with the Cinnabon."

He cocks his head, studying her. "It wasn't a happy one?"

"Mixed, at best." She hesitates, picking at her roll the way Willa had. "It was the morning after Caleb kicked our asses. I was finally leaving the hospital, but some of the girls were still there. You were still there. I felt so shitty, then I saw the Cinnabon store and had this realization. In the midst of all that pain I had the first real sense that I was free. Now it's the other way around -- when I'm eating one of these things and reminding myself of my freedom, there's always this kernel of sadness. About that night. The girls. Your eye." She looks down at her hands, which have shredded the roll. "Is everything like that? Don't we ever get to experience pure joy without these ... threads of something darker?"

"I don't know. My own personal opinion -- I don't think so."

She traces her fingertips over his lips, leaving just the faintest sticky-sweet trace of icing behind. "How's your shoulder?"

"Aching."

"Mine still pops out from time to time. A massage therapist showed me how to release all that tightness in there. I can try it on you, if you want."

"Sure, let's give it a shot."

"You have to lie down."

"Is this a ploy?"

Faith lifts a shred of pastry, feeds it to him. "Only if you want it to be."

He gets to his feet, reaching his good hand out for her to take. "I'll let you know."

She unbuttons Xander's shirt, so close to him that he catches the scent of her shampoo beneath the sensory overload of the cinnamon. Slipping the shirt off his shoulders and to the floor, she kneads the muscles on both sides, easing off when he flinches.

"Yeah," she murmurs. "That's really tightened up." She has Xander stretch out on the edge of the bed, face down. "Let your arm hang down over the side." She gently turns his palm out toward her, then holds his wrist as she presses her thumb into his armpit.

He sucks in his breath.

"Relax. Relax into it. There. You feel that?"

"Yeah." That's putting it mildly; she's found an incredibly tender spot.

She maintains the pressure until he feels something shift in there and releases the breath he's been holding. "Better?"

"Yeah," he says again, his tone colored with amazement this time.

"I do that to myself when everything tenses up like that. I'll show you sometime how to find that spot for yourself. Scoot back from the edge."

Xander moves in and Faith settles onto the bed to massage his shoulders and back. "I've been wondering if we took things too fast," he tells her.

"With Willa? I thought she did pretty well tonight."

"No, that went fine. With us."

Faith's hands stop. "We're not fine?"

"No, no. I don't mean it that way. I just wonder if moved before we really knew each other well enough. Skipped a few steps."

She sits back. "Compared to most guys I've screwed, you're a glacier. If you're sorry that we --"

"-- I'm not." Xander turns onto his side, reaching for her hand as she gets to her feet. "Faith, it came out wrong." She tugs her hand out of his, and he gasps from the jolt to his shoulder. "I'm not sorry we had sex. I just want to be sure it's built on something solid, you know? I want it to be real." He reaches for her again, this time with his good arm. "Stay, please."

She sits on the bed again, her weight shifted, ready to bolt at any second. "I never met a guy like you. Even the ones I got far enough with to tell them I'm a Slayer, they had no problems with letting it be about sex first."

"I don't always get it myself. Back when you and I first slept together, I was pretty much your typical seventeen-year-old guy. I thought about sex all the time. But I still -- I don't know, I needed it to mean something. What I started to say -- I was afraid we'd rushed things. But tonight it felt like we made up a lot of ground. Thanks for staying with me out there. Thanks for making me let you stay."

Faith puts her hand on his chest. "Well. I've been in that place. Done things so fuckin' out there that it doesn't even feel like I have the right to ask to be forgiven. I've been on the receiving end of grace so unexpected that it made me break down." She looks away, rolling her eyes. "Aw, listen to me. Set it to a fiddle and it could be a goddamn country song."

He reaches up to touch her face. "It's just what I needed to hear."

She shifts to stretch out beside him on the bed. "You okay?"

He adjusts his pillow a little to ease the shoulder. "I'm good, yeah."

Her first kiss tastes of spice and icing, just the faintest bit sticky.

This time with Faith is like none of the others. There's nothing rushed about it, nothing wild, the two of them taking care with his injured shoulder.

Which is not to say it's not amazingly sexy, Faith straddling him, her hair a silky curtain as she leans over him, blocking his view of anything but her. They stifle their cries so Willa won't hear, which makes it even hotter.

After, they lie with their limbs tangled together, her hair fanned out across his chest. He strokes the floral tattoo curving across her lower back. "You mind if I ask you something?"

"Won't know till you ask me, but I'll let you know if I do."

Xander grins. "I never doubted you would." He gives her a kiss. "What was he like, the guy you were with for six months?"

She's quiet for a moment. "Gerard. He's a guy I teach self-defense with. He gets in one of those big padded suits with the huge helmet so women can kick his head in -- have you seen those in news stories and that?"

He nods.

"Gerard's a nice guy. A real true believer about the self-defense stuff, because his sister was murdered ten years ago. He's way more sensitive than my usual, but you've got to be, in that program. It's all very touchy-feely, because you're making these women act out the scariest shit they can imagine. Some of them have been raped or attacked in the past, some haven't. But it's really emotional, you can't get a drill sergeant in there. I mean, while the helmet's on, he's the nastiest fuck alive -- he not only goes through the attack, but he says stuff, that's part of the training too. But when the helmet and the suit come off, he joins the circle and talks along with the women about what they're all feeling." She pauses, presses a few kisses to his chest, and Xander snugs his arm tighter around her. "It's weird. Women are supposed to be the sensitive ones, but me and Buffy, we'd charge into battle, and we hardly ever talked about what we were feeling after it was all over. A little bit when we first knew each other, but it turned out we were so little alike that we kinda stopped discussing it. So Gerard was really different, and I was attracted to that. He had kind of a spiritual thing going, too. I really liked that -- for a while, anyway, then more and more it seemed to me like he was big on talking about how spiritual he was. After a few months, I was all, 'Just shut the fuck up and be spiritual, already.' I think I told him I'm a Slayer because it worked so well screwing things up with the last one. So it was a little awkward after that, which was partly why I was so eager to come to exciting Spokane."

Xander laughs. "We're a pair. You making your living with the touchy-feely self-defense thing, and me spending my time in the rooms."

"Rooms?"

"Oh. AA. Meeting rooms. That's got a whole spiritual bent I'm not quite comfortable with, but I've managed to stay sober, so I go."

"So what about you, have you met anybody since you moved here?"

"Not so much. A few dates, but nothing that went past two."

"One of those nice guys women always say they want and pass up for the shitheels?"

He tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear. "I don't think I come off as especially nice. More a cipher, I think. A mystery, but not in any interesting way."

"Armor. I know what that's about." She kisses him, then yawns extravagantly.

"I rest my case."

"It's been a long day." She kisses him again. "I'm gonna take a long shower, then head for the monk's cell."

He watches her dress and slip out of his room, then he pulls on his own clothes and spends the rest of the night in his shop, where he bends two nearly perfect sides.

The next night he's back on the job. He notices Peg watching him several times during the night. After Faith and Willa drop him off at the end of a lunch-hour patrol, he catches her studying him and wanders over to the checkout stands to straighten the magazines. As he reaches her lane, she asks, "Did you hurt yourself? You're moving kind of funny."

"Dislocated my shoulder a couple of days ago. Fooling around getting ready for Hoopfest. It's better, but I'm still favoring it a little."

She nods. Seems about to speak, then doesn't. She fingers her flip chart with all the produce codes, then says in a quick burst, "How about a smoke break?"

"I've been cutting back."

"Okay. How about a non smoking break?"

No one's been in for the past ten minutes or so. Xander nods and follows her out to the front of the store. A car in one of the darker areas of the lot starts up, drives off. A primer-gray beater with one busted tail light.

"Recognize that car?" Peggy asks.

"No, you?"

"It was here last night. Just cruising by, real slow, a couple of different times."

"Try and get a license number, if you see it again. I've got a friend who might be able to find out something. Good catch."

A freight train lumbers by, sending vibrations through the soles of his feet.

"Listen, Xander --" She lights a cigarette, leans against a pillar. "You're a very private guy. Even if you weren't my supervisor, I'd feel like I was overstepping. But you're my friend too, I get to call you Xander now. So I'm going to bring this up."

He doesn't love the sound of this. "Sure, what's up?"

"There are things about you that I pretend I don't notice. Because you're so private. But I know you're in AA. And lately you've been spending time with different people, you take off at lunch when you never did before. That girl came in looking for you, and she was all bruised up. Then a few days later, you're all beat up."

"Peg, I don't know what you're thinking, but I am not hitting women."

"Xander, I don't know what I'm thinking, either. Not that. But maybe that she's in some kind of trouble that she's dragging you into. This is the second time you've come in hurt in just a few weeks. So I'm worried that maybe you're not taking good care of yourself."

He reaches out and catches her hand. "I promise you, Peggy. I'm not drinking. It's been four years since the last time I did. Yeah, my friend has had some problems, but she's getting things straightened out."

"I'm not worried about her. I'm sorry if I sound harsh, but it's you I care about. When I came out to your house, you were beaten half to death."

She was right, he decides. It is time for a smoke break. He slips a cigarette from the pack and lights it before he speaks. "Okay. I am doing something right now that involves some risk. I can't really talk about it."

"The first rule of Fight Club," she says. They'd just talked about that movie last week, about how you could see the skid marks where the plot went awry.

He laughs. "No, nothing like that. Risky, maybe, but I swear it's not self-destructive."

"I don't normally butt into people's business, you know that. But you're a good boss. A good guy."

"I appreciate it, Peg, I really do." He really doesn't, but he is grateful for the sentiment behind it. When she moves toward him he gives her a quick hug, his hand tightening on her shoulder as he sees the primer-gray car swing back into the parking lot. "Quick, get inside. Call 911."

Four metalheads with mullets pile out of the car, and he'd swear they're vamps.

Waiting for them to swarm him doesn't offer such great odds, so he reaches for the stake he keeps hidden beneath his shirt and rushes the smallest one, yelling like a banshee. His instincts are good; the game face comes out before their bodies collide. Xander tackles him, throwing his arms around the vamp, and stakes him through the back.

"Sonofabitch!" yells the biggest one, lashing out with a kick to Xander's gut that sends him to his knees, gasping for air. Another comes up behind and yanks his left arm up behind his back, popping the shoulder out of joint again. Red haze is all he can see for a few seconds, as the vamp holding him turns his head to bare his neck.

"Want to do the honors?"

"Not yet," says the alpha vamp. "Get him inside."

There are more of them inside the store. One of them has Peg, others are searching the aisles. Xander doesn't see Damon. He hopes he stays wherever the hell he is.

The vamp who's got him brings him up to where Peg is. Xander's arm feels like it's on fire.

"They said that one-eyed kid from the Hellmouth was living in Spokane," says the leader. "I didn't believe 'em, but you proved me wrong. So the Slayer's boy is working at a supermarket now. How'd that come about?"

"Fuck you." The vamp twists his arm behind him, and he'd drop to his knees but for the strong grip that holds him upright.

"You brought those bitches here, didn't you? The Boston whore and the other one?"

"Go fuck your--" He cries out as his arm is jerked upward again.

"Let him go!" Peggy shouts. "The police are coming; let us both go."

"Nice try," says Alpha. "But we had you before you had time to call the cops."

"There's a panic button," Peg says.

"Then we'd better get moving." He calls out, "Stephen. Bring him."

Xander can only hope that doesn't mean -- Shit. Another vampire comes out of the back, half-dragging, half-carrying Damon, who's glassy-eyed, bleeding from the neck.

"Whatever you want from me," Xander says, "leave my people out of this."

"Alex, this guy hurt me."

"What I want," says the leader, "is for you to watch your people die." At his signal, Stephen sinks his fangs back into Damon's neck. "Tell me. Should I turn him, or do you want me to just let him die?"

Peggy shouts and struggles against her captor, and Xander uses the diversion to reach into his slacks for his lighter, which he brings around behind the vamp who's restraining him. He feels the rush of heat beside his hand and he jerks forward as the vamp screams and bursts into flame and then falls to dust. He lunges toward Peggy's captor, only to be brought up short as the leader grabs him by the bad wrist. Alpha jerks him back into an iron embrace with a muscular forearm snugged against his throat.

"Open a vein, Stephen."

"No!"

Damon's failing, his eyes fluttering. "Peg," he says.

"Let him live," Xander rasps. "He's never hurt a fucking soul."

Stephen releases Damon, lets him fall to the floor.

"Take your bitches and leave my town," the leader says. "Or he won't be the last." He gives one last vicious twist to Xander's arm and shoves him to the floor.

The last thing he sees before he passes out is Peggy sprawling beside Damon, pressing her hand to the wound in his throat as she babbles into the phone.

I need an ambulance, now. Damon, baby, don'tdiedon'tdiedon'tdie.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers. A paramedic's tending to him, but Xander's gaze is fastened on the ones working on Damon as they pull the stretcher up to full height and roll it through the automatic doors. Since Peg's the emergency contact on his I.D. card, they let her ride along, and she follows them out to the ambulance without even a backward glance.

Deaconess isn't even ten blocks away, but Xander's not sure he'll make it that far. "God, I'm so sorry."

"We need to get you in for X-rays," says the EMT.

"No. I already popped it back in." Distantly he's aware of more cops entering the store.

"Why don't you let me take care of the emergency medicine?"

"Did those other guys call in and tell them he's O-positive?"

"They found the card." Of course they did. Damon would leave the house without his pants before he'd go without the donor card. He's showed it to Xander a million times. "Let's get you in to the ER."

"I'm going after him."

"You're not going to be any good to anybody right now, pal."

He hears one of the cops tell one of the new ones, "We haven't got much from him yet. They worked him over pretty good. But his coworker says it was some guys he knew."

The new cop crouches beside him. "Xander. Xander." It's Straley, who's been rotated to third shift.

"Kevin. It's all fucked up."

"I know. Was it those guys you were telling me about?"

"He's getting shocky, we've gotta move."

Xander starts to shiver, which hurts like hell. "Yeah."

"Just relax, buddy. Let this guy do his job. These were the meth heads you turned away last week, the ones you mentioned to me?"

Xander tries to focus as the med tech gets him situated on the stretcher. Kevin's handing him a story here, one which will play better than Peggy's. "Yeah. It was them."

Straley rises to talk to another of the cops, and Xander lets himself drift back into the gray.

He's been waiting for maybe half an hour for someone to come with the release paperwork. At the beginning he could hear the ER doctors working on Damon. There was a code blue, leading to general pandemonium, and while Xander's down in X-ray he disappears. He begs several staffers for news before a nurse tells him Damon's been stabilized enough to take up to ICU.

Xander's had his shoulder immobilized and been given prescriptions for pain meds and physical therapy. About the time he's considering climbing off the examination table and walking out, the curtain's drawn back and Straley appears.

"How are you holding up?"

"Fine. Just waiting on paperwork, then I'll go up and check on Damon, see how Peg's doing."

"She's taking this hard."

"I'm fuckin' taking this hard."

"What I mean is, she's blaming you for this."

"That's what I meant, too." It hurts, though. Of all the people he's known in his solitary life here, it's Peggy he's felt closest to. For her to think he's brought this down on them --

He has.

"She said you knew them."

Xander shakes his head. "No. They knew me, though. Knew of me. From Sunnydale."

"What were they after?"

"To tell me to leave and take my Slayers with me."

"How many were there?"

"Seven, I think. I killed two --" The curtain pulls back again and Xander adds "-- birds with one stone."

The nurse hands him his release papers and his insurance card and directs him to the hospital pharmacy. As Straley helps him down from the table, Xander asks, "Have you reached Faith yet?"

"No answer at your place. It's not long till dawn, though. She should be there soon."

"Would you try again? I'm going to head up to ICU, see what I can find out."

"Sure. I'll have to go after that. Still have a couple of hours on my shift."

So does Xander. "Thanks, man."

"No problem. I'll give you a call when I'm off."

He wanders the corridors until he finds a sign pointing the way to ICU. He asks the woman on duty at the nurse's station how Damon is, but doesn't get much by way of a conclusive answer. Peg's sitting in the little waiting area with a wadded Kleenex in her hand. Xander sits next to her, putting his good hand on her arm. "I came as soon as they let me go."

She pulls away from his touch, staring at him as if he's a stranger feeling her up on a city bus.

"Peggy, I'm so sorry this happened. I swear to you --"

Peg stands up and walks away without a word to him.

He begs about as shamelessly as he can, and the nurse lets him have five minutes in the ICU with Damon. There are tubes and wires everywhere, and the sounds of ventilators and monitors are practically deafening.

God, he's pale. Xander touches Damon's bare arm, spattered with freckles. "Hey, buddy. It's Xa-- It's Alex. You hang in, you hear me? We've got inventory coming up, I'm going to need you." It takes a few moments before he can force more words past the knot in his throat. "Everyone here's real excited to meet their star blood donor. They've got you hooked up to some of that good O-positive, so get better soon, all right? Peg's been here. She'll probably be back soon." He gently squeezes Damon's arm, then turns and flees the ICU.

Faith's at the nurses' station when he stumbles out into the hallway. She rushes to him, enfolds him in her arms. "Babe, I came as soon as I heard. Are you all right?"

"No." He buries his face in her hair. "Jesus, Faith. I want to go home." The elevator pings as the doors slide open, and he looks up to see Peg stepping off. Disengaging from the hug, he says, "Peg. I'd like you to meet Faith. She's a longtime friend of mine. Faith, this is Peg, my friend from work."

Peg eyes Faith. "Is she the Boston whore, or the other one?"

Faith draws in a sharp breath, and Xander takes her hand and pulls her toward the stairs, unwilling even to wait for an elevator. "What the fuck?" she says in the stairwell. "This is the one you like so much?"

"I'm sorry." He stops halfway down the stairs, reaches out to touch her hair. "She blames me for all of this. She thinks these vamps knew me, that things I've done in my past brought them after me. One of them said that thing about you."

"About me?"

"That's what this whole thing was about. They told me to take you and Willa and get out of Spokane."

"Well, fuck that shit." Faith pushes the door open and finds herself face to face with a white-coat. "I say we find these cocksuckers and stake 'em." She flashes her dimples at the startled doctor. "What's up, doc?"

They find the car, and Faith buckles him in, then walks around to the driver's side. Xander leans his head against the cool glass, filled with an aching weariness.

"Is there anything you want me to stop and get on the way home?"

A case of wine, he wants to say. He feels like getting good and shitfaced, but he wants to suffer through every second of it.

"No. Thanks. I just want to be home."

Willa runs outside to meet them the moment the car pulls into the drive. Xander's nearly quivering with exhaustion and emotion and the desire for a drink; the last thing he wants is company.

She opens the door and helps him out of the car. "I wanted to come too, but we thought it might be too much."

"Yeah," he says. "It's all right."

"I'm sorry about your friend. Is he going to be okay?"

"Nobody knows yet."

He heads back to his bathroom, where he struggles one-handed with the hydrocodone bottle. The temptation to take more than the one flutters at the edge of his awareness -- just a little blurring of reality, if he can't go for a full-out binge --

Xander stares at the face in the mirror, etched with pain and grief and guilt. He remembers this haunted look from the first days after Sunnydale. The guilt had been sharp then, but it hadn't bitten as deep into his soul as this does. All he'd done back then was survive when Anya hadn't. He hadn't deserved blame for that disaster. Not like now.

Faith's reflection appears in the mirror. She gently rubs his shoulder blade, the right side, over the Viking compass. "We need you out there, babe. We have to know everything you can remember, so we can work out a strategy. Willa's got coffee on."

"Yeah, okay." Xander puts the pill bottle back in the cabinet and follows her to the kitchen.

It takes a while to tell, chopped up into bite-sized sentences. He feels too depleted to string together paragraphs, descriptions, digressions. The phone rings often enough that Faith brings the cordless to the kitchen table, where she screens the callers.

The first is from Straley, which she handles herself. "Yeah, he's home. Uncomfortable, but sitting here briefing us. Listen, we're going to go looking for their nest. We need maps, and need to know where the empty buildings are in town. Good. Bring donuts -- plenty of double chocolate." She thumbs off the talk button. "Kevin's on his way."

Xander says nothing. He understands the need, but the last thing he wants is another body in the house.

"Who's Kevin?" Willa asks. Xander hadn't gotten that far with his story yet.

"City cop. He's a friend of Xander's. He knows what's what; he's already made his first vampire kill." She guides Xander back to the point where he'd left off in telling the evening's events, but he's not far along before the phone rings again.

Faith listens briefly. "It's a reporter. I'll tell her --" She stops, surprised, as Xander reaches for the phone.

"Damon's one of our most valued employees," he says without giving the reporter a chance to introduce herself. "We're hoping for the best. If people want to do something he'd appreciate, go give blood in his name." She starts to fire a follow-up question at him, but he cuts off the connection.

Willa's been working on her outrage over the Boston whore, and she's even more pissed off to be "the other one." "I was born in this town. Where do these lame fucks get off calling it theirs?"

The phone rings again, and it's Xander's supervisor. Inquiring into how he's feeling, telling him to take a couple of days. He says he'll give a call tomorrow, when Xander's had a chance to relax a little, and of course there'll be a psychologist available if he has trouble sleeping, any stress symptoms at all. There's nothing in his boss's voice but friendly concern, but Xander wonders if this is the first hint of an investigation. He suspects his days -- or nights -- at the store might be numbered.

Finally he manages to finish telling his story, and a wave of exhaustion rolls over him. "Listen, when Kevin gets here, you sit down with him, Faith. I'm no good to anyone right now, and you've got the general thing down."

"We don't need a general," she says. "I could be the sergeant, like in the old movies, the one that smacks the shit out of the hysterical lieutenant until he's good to fight again."

"Wait, I'm the lieutenant? Doesn't that mean I get killed in the big battle scene?"

"Well, yes, but you die in a really heroic way."

"Jesus!" Willa yelps. "You guys are freaking me out. Knock off the death talk."

Xander takes Faith's hand, kisses it. "Thanks, Sarge."

The front bell rings, and Faith gets to her feet, squeezing his good shoulder. "I got it."

She lets Straley in, taking control of the donut box.

"Dibs on the maple bars," Xander says. "The dying lieutenant's last request," which prompts another noise of disgust from Willa.

They get settled in with coffee and pastries and Straley's maps, marking empty buildings in cruddier neighborhoods and setting up a route for their raids.

"So we head for these places tonight?" Straley asks.

"Today," Faith says. "We hit 'em in broad daylight, when they're weaker."

"Well, isn't that --"

"If you've got rats in your house, you don't worry about giving them a sporting chance," Xander says. "Your city's infested, Kevin. We've got to stake 'em, burn 'em out, drive 'em into the sunlight, cut their heads off. Whatever it takes. We do it or something else happens like last night. Or worse."

Straley nods, and the four of them start talking strategy.

Once the talk is over, he's left behind, of course. Not even fray-adjacent, but fray-removed. He can't even drive the getaway car. Faith tries casting it in a positive light -- this time the lieutenant's anchoring the base of operations -- but the upshot is, he's too injured to be anything but a liability. All he can do is wait for a call from Straley's cellphone, or from the hospital.

It takes some doing on his own, but Xander frees his arm from the lower part of the immobilizer and heads into his workshop. He sets the phone on one of the shelves, then moves a cinderblock to an out-of-the-way spot to hold the candle he lights for Damon. It's just a plain white emergency candle on a saucer, but he hopes it accomplishes something. Even after all those AA meetings, he's not sure how to pray -- "Don't let him die" feels more like a wish than a prayer -- but the addition of a little more light to this fucked-up world can't be a bad thing.

The only thing he knows to do is make something. He unclamps the sides from the mold to sand the inner surface and trim the scribed ends. The phone rings as he's fashioning the neck and tail blocks of Honduras mahogany.

"Yeah."

"We've hit the first two targets." Straley. "Nothing so far."

"Keep me posted."

He calls the hospital, claims to be Damon's brother in Alabama. No change.

He glues and clamps the sides and blocks, inserting a spreader clamp at the waist. He steps outside to smoke and wish (pray) and think about Peggy. He heads back into the garage, slips a cd into the boombox on the shelf and starts making regularly spaced cuts in the basswood lining. It's methodical yet requires no real thought, almost a form of meditation. His shoulder throbs with use, but he ignores it long enough to cut some side reinforcements from scraps of the spruce.

The phone rings again. "Yeah."

It's Faith this time. "We found a nest. We got the three who were there, but that means there's two still on the loose."

"You're sure they're from last night?"

"Yeah. Kevin gave us a seminar in all sorts of unsanctioned interrogation techniques. They wouldn't say where the others were, though."

"So what's the plan? Wait a sec -- I've got another call, it could be the hospital." He hits the flash button to pick up the other line.

It's Peg. "Xander, you'd better get here if you want to see Damon. He's slipping."

"I'll be there. Thanks." He switches back to the other line. "Faith, I need you guys back here now. Peggy just called. I've got to get to the hospital. It's Damon."

Xander has just enough time to head for his closet, reaching for a sports jacket and tie without quite knowing why. It's past time for another pain pill and his shoulder is screaming, but he doesn't want the fuzzy-headedness the hydrocodone gives him.

When the car pulls in the drive, he can't bring himself to blow out Damon's candle. He sets it in the kitchen sink where there's nothing to burn if it topples, then heads out to the car, cradling his bad arm against his body.

"What the hell did you do with your sling?" Faith demands.

"I just unfastened the lower part. We'll fix it when we get there. Let's go." He piles into the back seat next to Willa, awkwardly reaching around with his right hand to pull his door closed. "I need some help getting this tied."

"Here." Willa takes the tie from him and slips it under his collar, her small hands working swiftly and confidently. It's a weirdly intimate thing to be doing in the backseat of a car, with Faith and Straley in the front. He thinks instead about how a 21-year-old who works in an indie record store gets to be an expert with men's ties.

Straley lets them off at an entrance, says he'll meet them after he's parked. Faith rubs her hand over the Viking rune as they wait for the elevator, rearranges the jacket where it's draped over his bad shoulder. "Feeling pretty rough, aren't you?"

Xander's not sure if she means the shoulder or what's happening with Damon. It doesn't matter. "Yeah."

"You unstrapped your arm to go work on your guitar." He nods, and she asks, "Worth it?"

The question teases a smile from him. "Yeah."

In the elevator she's fussing with the clasp of a silver chain around her neck. Willa takes one last little tug at his necktie. As they reach their floor, Faith and Willa surge out of the car ahead of him, leading the way to the ICU waiting area.

Faith drops into the chair beside Peggy, who's looking at her own clasped hands and doesn't see their approach. "Peggy. There's something I want you to have." She presses something glittering into Peg's hand, watching her reaction carefully.

Peggy looks at the little silver cross in her palm, then up at Faith, bewildered.

Beside him, Willa lets out a breath.

"Wear it all the time," Faith says. "It brings God's protection."

Xander wonders if this sounds as bogus to Peg as it does to him. "Hey, Peg," he says quietly. "I appreciate your calling."

Faith's unexpected gift may have softened her, but not by much. Peggy's expression still carries plenty of blame. "I thought you'd want --" She chokes up. This is where normally he'd touch her arm or even hug her, but nothing's normal now.

"Any change?"

"More systems shutting down."

Xander nods and turns toward the nurses's station to beg a few more minutes with Damon. They don't even make him jump through any hoops, that's how he knows how little time Damon has left.

This time Xander takes his hand. It feels so cold. "Buddy, it's Alex. I just wanted to say, I'm sorry you got caught up in what happened at the store. I've been trying to do what's right, and it seems like the harder I try, the more innocent people get hurt. My friends ki-- caught three of the guys who held up the store, and they'll get the other two." The ventilator hisses and clicks, working Damon's lungs. "You just hang in, all right?" He stands there a while longer, saying nothing, until the nurse makes him leave.

Straley's arrived, and as Xander joins them in the waiting area, he's saying to Peg, "-- wrong about him. He's one of the good guys."

"Kevin." As he turns away from Peg, Xander gently says, "Don't. Let her deal with this however she needs to."

He drops into a chair at some distance from Peggy, and his friends settle in around him, all waiting in silence for Damon to die.

He's never done this before, waiting for someone to die. In his experience it's always come swiftly, unexpectedly. Jenny Calendar, Tara, Anya, his parents. Jesus, even Joyce with her brain cancer went in a flash. Might as well have been a bullet in her brain as an aneurism. He's never had to sit in a room with friends and strangers, listening to the hospital noises, laboring to breathe from stale hospital air, waiting for someone he cares about to stop existing.

His muscles have all tightened from the effort of sitting in this molded plastic chair, trying to keep his injured shoulder immobile. Everything from his midback up feels like it's on fire. He feels shitty for having his coterie of friends by his side while Peggy sits alone, but he knows it's not his place to approach her.

After a while, Willa goes downstairs for coffee and brings up a cardboard carrier tray. She takes the last two cups and sits next to Peg, which makes him grateful. The coffee is beyond terrible, but it gives him something to focus on.

"Babe," Faith whispers. "Why don't you walk around a little? Have a smoke or --"

"No."

"There's no way of telling when --"

"I said no."

"All right. It's all right." She rubs a circle over his good shoulder.

It's never going to be all right again, but he refrains from saying so.

Peg takes her turn for five minutes by Damon's bed. Xander hisses, "I can't believe that stunt with the cross."

"Just making sure it wasn't a trap," Faith murmurs. "That turnaround was awful damn sudden."

"But to think she was turned --"

"You've seen it. We've all seen it."

The elevator doors slide open and the hospital chaplain steps out. She exchanges a few words with the nurse at the desk, then heads into ICU. It's this that makes his eye, itching and burning all morning and afternoon, spill over with tears.

Faith grabs his hand and he clutches hers like she can save him from quicksand. If she weren't a Slayer he'd be afraid of breaking her hand. She murmurs to him, words he can't make out over the sound of his own rough breathing, but it doesn't matter.

After a few minutes, Peg and the chaplain walk out of the ICU, and he knows it's over.

Xander says some words to Peggy, and she says some words to him. The chaplain says words to both of them.

They all just slide off without penetrating.

Faith drives back to his house, dropping Straley and Willa off at the store to spread the word and pick up a deli tray.

Xander wanders into his kitchen, thinking how, when he first moved here, the cupboard and fridge were always well supplied with alcohol. When he was feeling hollowed out like now, he could always get a fire going inside with any number of amber liquids.

He spots the candle in the sink, forgotten, guttering. His lame attempt at a prayer.

Xander pinches the flame out between his finger and thumb.

This is what people do when someone dies. They call, send flowers, gather around those who are left, bringing food and telling stories. Even his family, fucked up as they were, got this right. Xander still remembers when his father's mother died and relatives came from all over. Even once the drinking started, almost everyone had managed to hang onto some idea of decorum. His father, for maybe the first time in Xander's life, cried and seemed human.

For some reason it's Xander's house that becomes the focus of this kind of attention. Damon's got no family, but customers and people from the store seem to need someplace to focus their grief. Xander's name has been in the paper; his number and address are listed in the phone book. By the time the third casserole has come to his door, he calls Peggy.

"I don't know why, Peg, but people are congregating at my place. Why don't you come?"

She's hesitant, and he doesn't know whether to encourage her, or let her be. She's volunteered to make funeral arrangements, which has to be wearing.

"Already I've got more food than we can eat," he tells her. "At least come by and get some so you don't have to cook for yourself."

"I'll see," she says grudgingly. "I've got to run some clothes over to the funeral home. Maybe I can come by after."

Faith is opening the front door to another caller, pushing it far back to make room for Mrs. Priestly and her daughter. She reaches to take the old woman's free arm and help her over the threshold.

"Oh god," Xander says softly. "It's Mrs. P." He feels as though the wind has been knocked out of him, along with any self-consciousness. "Please, Peg, just come. I have to go."

"I hope we're not intruding," Pam says. "He was just so sweet to Mom --"

"No, I'm so glad you came." He accepts a careful hug from Pam, then bends to press a kiss on Mrs. Priestley's cheek. "How's my best girl?"

"Allie, honey, I'm sorry about your boy."

His "boy" was a good ten years older than Xander, but he nods. "Thank you. He was very fond of you, you know." He helps her to a chair and sits beside her as Pam runs to her car for the food she brought. She launches into a story about Damon that never could have happened, and Xander listens, stroking her knotty hand.

Straley brings Xander an ice pack for his shoulder and Mrs. P. an iced tea, crouching beside her chair. "Hello, Mrs. Priestley. Do you remember me? Last time you saw me I was in my police uniform."

"Maybe," she says slyly.

"You were out for a neighborhood stroll, so I came with you."

"Allie walks with me too, sometimes."

"You have a lot of gentleman admirers."

Eyes hooded, she looks away and smiles coquettishly, and for the first time Xander gets a glimpse of ruined beauty. She must have been a stunner in her day, and that's right where she's living now. Maybe the place she's in right now is only cruel to those on the outside, but there's no way to know for sure.

The front bell rings and the door opens without invitation. Xander gently rubs Mrs. Priestley's hand. "Hey, look, it's Peggy." The little silver cross glimmers at her throat. Xander gets to his feet, a process encumbered by his immobilized arm, and touches her shoulder as she disengages from a hug with Pam. "I'm glad you came. Take my seat; I'll bring you something from the kitchen."

Faith finishes up a phone conversation as he enters, wrestling with the ice pack. "Here, let me." She gets it adjusted below a couple of layers of the elastic strapping on his shoulder. "Better? You must be dead on your feet."

"I don't think I could sleep. Help me get a plate together for Peggy, would you?"

"She's here?"

He nods. "I don't know if she'd have come if she hadn't known Mrs. P. is here, but I'm just glad she did." Xander points out some of her favorite foods, and Faith loads them onto one of the Chinets plates Willa and Straley brought back from their store run.

By the time he takes Peg the plate, Pam is telling a story about a kindness Damon performed for her mother, followed by the first-shift manager's tale about the time Damon got to throw out the first pitch for the Indians' game on Rosauers sports mug night.

"He's just baseball nuts anyway," Peg says. "Was. He got a glimpse of Xan -- Alex here with his friend Faith, and thought he was dating J.J. Grimaldi."

"Who?" Faith asks.

"C'mon," Straley says. "First woman player in the major leagues. Centerfield for the Mariners?"

Faith shakes her head.

"Well, he decided since I talk about her I must be sweet on her," Xander says, "and then he saw me with a woman with dark hair, and ..."

They talk about the things he got cranked up about: Hoopfest and the M's; running the floor polisher, aka the Zamboni; riding his bike along the Centennial trail; his favorite songs (pretty much anything that was ever driven into the ground, from "Who Let the Dogs Out?" to "The Macarena," whose lyrics he improvised as "lacca lacca lacca, lacca lacca lacca, hey, Macarena!"); his certificate from the 30-Gallon Club for blood donation.

The subject of blood quiets everything down. "So Officer," says Sean, the day manager, "have they got any leads on this icepick killer? Did you guys know he was with a gang before they got Damon?"

"It's an active investigation," Straley says, "so I really can't comment on it. I've got hopes we'll get these guys."

The awkward lull in conversation lasts only until the doorbell rings again, and Pam takes the interruption as a signal to get her mother home before she tires too much. Peggy relinquishes her plate to Willa, who's busing the abandoned plates and glasses littering the room. "I have to go too," she says. "I have to take his clothes to the undertaker."

"Did you find a suit?" Xander asks. He can't imagine Damon owning one.

"No. I thought that red patterned sweater that he liked so much. The one he wore to see Cats at the Opera House. And a pair of charcoal pants."

"That's perfect. His special occasion outfit. Did you get his lucky socks?"

"Oh, god. I forgot." Finally Peg bursts into tears.

"Hey," he says softly. "It's not a problem. I'll drive you over."

"I'll drive," Faith amends, and it's Xander who searches Damon's rented room for the red socks, and Xander and Peg who sit together in the undertaker's office, going over the arrangements. He reaches over and puts his hand on her arm, and she lets it rest there.

This is what people do when someone dies.

Peg still refuses his offer of the front seat, apparently preferring to be chauffeured than feel like she's riding with friends.

"Xander, those men. You didn't turn them away for trying to buy meth precursors like your friend said, am I right?"

Faith squeezes his leg. "No, that's what happened. I remember Xander telling me about it that morning after work." Her instincts are good, he suspects. He shouldn't give Peggy any signal that Straley's covering for him until he's sure of her.

But his own instincts --

"Peg, what do you remember about the guy with the icepick?"

She makes a dismissive noise. "There wasn't any icepick. He bit that boy."

"Anything else?"

"The leader knew you. From someplace he called Hellmouth."

Xander's quiet for a long moment. "Not personally. He knew of me."

"Xander," Faith says, her tone a warning.

"Back in California, I spent seven years working to keep ... people ... like them off the streets. I didn't realize I was known -- I probably wasn't, or nobody made the connection until recently. Things were pretty quiet here for a long time, then Willa got hurt, and I did some checking around. That's when bad guys realized who I was."

"The mugging," Peggy says.

"Yep. So what happened at the store was about my past, just not in the way you thought. I'm wearing a white hat here."

"Why do I get the feeling you're not telling me everything?"

"I'm waiting for a signal that you really want to hear everything. Once I've told you, you can't unhear it."

Peg looks out the window for a moment. "There's something about you that I really don't want to know?"

"Something about the world," Faith says. "You got nothin' to fear from this man."

"You want to go home, Peg, or back to my place?"

"I need to sleep," she says.

Xander nods, points out Peggy's turn for Faith, who pulls the car into her drive. After Xander gives her the speech about not explicitly inviting anyone inside, especially after dark, Faith idles until Peg makes it into her house.

"I don't know, Xander. I'm not sure I trust her."

"I know. But I didn't really give her any ammunition. At least she's not falling into Sunnydale Denial Syndrome."

It takes Faith only a couple of minutes to reach Xander's house. "You think living on the Hellmouth makes people stupider?"

He laughs. "That would explain a lot. Including my high school grades."

"Not to mention some of the shirts you wore. My whole thing with the Mayor."

There are still cars at his place; they have to park outside Dustin's house. Xander makes no move to get out of the car. "That was youth, not stupidity. You were underage, and Wilkins took advantage of you. If we hadn't killed him, he would have paid for that."

"You think that was about sex?"

"It wasn't?"

"Here's the weird thing. Richard Wilkins loved me. He thought I hung the fuckin' moon. There was nothing creepy and sexual about it -- believe me, I had enough experience even by then to pick up the creepy sexual vibe." She shakes out a cigarette, lights it. "I was so screwed up in those days that I couldn't even separate the two -- I made a move on him. He set me straight, pronto. That's not what it was about." She shoots a stream of smoke out her window, lost in thought for a moment. "I fell so far that year. But at the same time, I had the first person in my life who thought I was something special -- who kept on thinking that, even after he got to know who I was."

"Wow. Wow. I never knew."

"I wasn't exactly makin' it known. He meant a lot to me, though. Still does. I don't know that I'd have made it through prison and the first year or so after without remembering that I was important to him." She slides open the ashtray, stubs out her cigarette. "I guess you should get inside to your guests."

By the time Xander fumbles with his seatbelt, she's at his door offering a hand. Funny how, after all these years, his memories of Sunnydale can still be turned upside down. He takes her hand and walks with her into the house.

Dustin and Jett have come from next door, bringing a German chocolate cake, and Trina Paciorek has turned up with macaroni and cheese and a tearful embrace. His sponsor Patrick has come bearing a bucket of extra crispy chicken. Straley's taken off to catch some sleep, and Willa turns in once she's been relieved as hostess.

"When's the last time you ate?" Faith asks.

"I don't remember."

"Sit. I'll bring you a plate."

Conversation flows around him, and he tunes in and out, too exhausted to follow closely or even do more than pick at his food. Xander feels the benign tolerance of his friends, their understanding of his physical and mental state. Just weeks ago, he'd never have seen this coming. He was the quiet guy nobody really knew, seemed like a nice enough guy, but nobody'd had more than a five-minute conversation with him. Now look: neighbors and customers and AA friends, all here for him, to give something of themselves to him. His eye stings with unshed tears, sending him clumsily to his feet. "I suddenly -- I'm so tired. Stay as long as you like, but I think I need to --" He waves a hand and staggers off down the hall.

Xander manages to hang on until he's sitting on the edge of his bed. Even as he lets go, he maintains enough control over his emotions so his guests don't hear as they murmur their goodbyes to Faith, so he doesn't jostle his shoulder. Crying silently is one of the earliest survival skills he acquired. (Stop that pansy shit, or I'll give you something to cry about!) The old man would be proud on one score, anyway -- Xander has never cried over Tony's death.

There's a pause between the first flurry of goodbyes and the last; he hears some clatter from the kitchen for a while in between. After the last guests finally go, Faith taps at his door.

"I'm all right," he calls out. Translation: Go away.

"I've got your ice pack. Water for your pills."

He mops at his face with his shirt tail. "Yeah, all right."

She enters, setting down the glass and approaching him with the ice pack. "Did you take your pain pill last time it was due?"

"No. I was in the middle of something."

Faith turns on the light, opens his shirt and gets the ice situated.

"I'm sorry to leave you with everything," he says.

She touches his face. Her fingers are cold. "It was just talking to people, cleaning up a little. Jett and Dustin helped with that. They're nice people."

Xander laughs, but it turns into a hitch in his breath. "Only took me four years to find that out."

"Baby, we all take our own sweet time gettin' wise. It's what humans do."

He turns his face away as tears start sliding down his face once more.

Cool fingers on bare skin draw him back toward her. "It's all right," she murmurs. "Baby, it's all right." For the second time in a few days, he sobs in her arms, and when he's finished and hollowed out, that's where he falls asleep.

He wakes in the dark as a weight lifts off his injured shoulder. The gel ice pack, thoroughly warmed now, which Faith has taken as she rose.

"Hey," he says sleepily. "Time is it?"

"Almost three. I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's the middle of the day for me." He rolls onto his back, his breath catching as stiff muscles protest. "I'm surprised I slept this long. You're not leaving, are you?"

"Just a quick run to the kitchen so this'll be cold when you need it again."

Xander props himself up as she goes, turning on the bedside lamp. He feels oddly calm, and decides to just be grateful and not analyze it too much.

When Faith comes back, she's carrying a tray with two huge pieces of German chocolate cake and two glasses of milk. As soon as he sees it, he realizes he's ravenous. He crosses his legs and she sits facing him, the tray between them. "I don't know how you knew, but this is just what I needed." He takes a huge bite of cake, closing his eyes at the tastes and textures of cake and coconut pecan icing.

"How is it?" she asks.

"Better than German measles."

Laughing, she rubs her hand over his knee. "I'll tell Jett."

"Or maybe not." He takes another couple of bites and says, "This has been really weird for me."

"What?"

"The fact that it's taken death for me to come back to life -- not just Damon's, but the discovery that there are vampires in Spokane. I don't know how long I'd have been content to live the life I had, working at the store, coming home, having as little contact with people as possible."

"It's been hard for me to imagine you living so solitary," Faith says. "Since I met you, you've been a people guy. The one who came to me trying so hard to make a connection."

"A lot of times I haven't gotten to connect the way I want. Somewhere along the line it got less painful to stop trying."

"Why, who didn't you connect with? Besides me, I mean -- I know how that one worked out."

He chases a crumbled bit of cake around the plate with his fork. Not so easy with just one hand. "God, Faith. Everyone. For something like two years I was hoping Buffy would see me in a different way, fall for me as completely as she did Angel. I hoped Giles would treat me like a son instead of a mosquito bite. Hell, I wished my parents would treat me like a son. About half the time we were together, Cordelia saw me as a project." He lets the fork clatter on his plate, stares down at this hand. "Then after I started drinking a lot, I didn't really want to be around my friends, didn't want to see myself reflected in them, you know?"

Faith laces her fingers through his. "But after that?"

"I guess I told myself that was the only way I could stay sober. I went to the meetings, but I didn't really talk to anyone but my sponsor. At least until Willa, who wouldn't exactly take no for an answer."

"She changed everything."

Startled, Xander looks up. "She did. The first I knew of vampires here in Spokane was from her. Though she'd already started yanking me out of my cave by that time."

"That's your mojo."

"What?"

Faith polishes off her cake and downs half her milk. "You always liked to say you're the one Scooby who's got no special abilities. I think you've been wrong all this time."

"What, my special ability to get broken in half every time I'm in a fight? That one's as razor-sharp as ever. Or my superpower that guarantees if there's a female demon within a hundred-mile radius, I'll find her and date her? That one's gotten a little rusty."

"You're not far wrong." She rubs her thumb over the back of his hand. "Only it's Slayers you're drawn to. Or we're drawn to you. You think it's an accident that you happened to learn the deal with Buffy and got involved with slaying? Or that out of all the people in Spokane, Willa found you to tell her story to?"

"Not all the people in Spokane. Just all the people in AA."

"That's your other superpower," she says around a bite of cake.

"What?"

"Selling yourself short. Hell, Xander, I don't know if it's a mystical thing, or if you just aren't scared shitless of strong women. But here you are for the second time in your life, at the center of the Slayer thing. This time after you ran as far from it as you could."

A half dozen disclaimers spring to his lips -- "It's just that --" "But that doesn't mean -- " but he bites them back. "I don't know," he says slowly. "I never really thought of it that way."

"Maybe you and Giles should talk about it."

"Maybe." He wonders what time it is in London. Decides he doesn't really care right now.

Because, mystical or not, there's a Slayer that he's drawn to this very minute.

He leans toward her over the tray, touches his lips to hers.

She tastes like coconut pecan icing.

Xander feels off balance all through the next day. The funeral's scheduled for the afternoon, at an hour when he's usually asleep. Peg has been on the phone to him about this more than once, upset that she hadn't been sharp enough when the funeral home people set the time to insist on something friendlier to third-shifters. "Not just for us at the store, but what about customers who knew him who came in on their work breaks?"

"Peg, it'll be all right." He wishes these calls were proof that things are okay between them, but he's not so sure. There's just no one else who'll understand exactly what's making her upset.

"But I should have said something, now it's too late."

"It was perfectly natural that you didn't. Death is so shocking that we can't imagine we have a say in any of it. Things'll turn out fine." As fine as a funeral could.

"You've been through this before," she says.

"I've known quite a few people who died. I wasn't in on the funeral arrangements of that many."

After he gets off the phone, he thinks about all the people he loved who didn't even get funerals. Anya. His parents. Jesse, whose parents thought he'd run away. Every time Xander had run into them in town, they'd ask if he'd heard anything, if Jesse had called or emailed him. It had gotten so he'd dart in some other direction if he saw them coming soon enough. They're dead too; they had been among the holdouts in the last days of Sunnydale, insisting they'd stay where Jesse could reach them if he decided to call or come home.

Faith's off with Willa doing errands. Picking up his suit from the cleaners and getting Willa some funeral clothes from home, finding something suitable for Faith to wear. Xander ghosts around the house, restless, finding himself at last in his workshop. He fumbles with the clamps on the sides of the guitar, considering unstrapping his forearm so he can get to the next step when the phone rings. He sighs, wondering if it's Peg again, or the funeral home, or if Faith and Willa have run into a snag.

It's Giles. "Xander, I heard the news about your friend. I'm so very sorry."

"He wasn't just my friend, Giles. He worked for me. I was responsible for him."

There's a brief silence on the other end, then: "That's a terrible feeling. I wouldn't wish it on anyone."

"Well, it's even worse, because it wasn't just a random attack. They were after me. They came to tell me to take my Slayers and get out of Spokane."

"You're a success, then, if they've come to see you as a threat in such a short time. What have you decided to do?"

"Decided and done. Faith and Willa and our associate Kevin Straley raided a nest, killed three of the five who were left after their attack. I would have gone myself, but --"

"I heard you were badly injured."

Xander twitches a smile. "I have a new set of standards for injury. If I've got all my parts at the end of the day, I'm not that badly hurt. But yeah, I'm out of commission for a little while. Dislocated shoulder."

"Yet you managed to make a kill at the scene of the attack?"

"Two. Staked one, lit one on fire. Too late for Damon, though. Fuck, Giles, he was -- he was an innocent. There aren't many people in this world who can say they've never hurt a soul. God knows, I'm not one of them. But Damon was. He was a sweet guy who cheerfully worked his ass off. I couldn't protect him, so instead I got to watch him die."

"I know there's nothing I can say that will make that any less bitter, Xander. But I am sorry."

Of course he knows. He saw Buffy die, after all. Xander remembers now how Giles patrolled with them all summer, but seemed to drift farther and farther away as time passed, and finally he left. Xander understands that now, the need to get away from all the walking, talking reminders of the one person who matters who's not there anymore. He'd understood it after Anya, but this -- this is so much sharper. Damon was his charge, in a sense, if not in the same way Buffy was Giles's.

"You said you have an associate. A civilian?"

"Not quite. Kevin's a city cop. He helped me out the last time I got my ass kicked, and I told him what was what. He ended up killing a vamp out on his own during his shift, and after the attack he went on the daylight raid with Faith and Willa. So I guess he's in the Northwest branch of the Scoobies now."

As Xander fills in the details on what's been happening, he starts getting a little antsy, checking his watch. They should be back by now.

"Is there anything else on your mind?" Giles asks when he finally winds down.

"Well, if you were concerned about the quality of crack to be found in a small city, worry not. Faith's tapped into the good stuff. She said last night she thought I have some kind of mojo that draws me to Slayers."

Xander's almost certain he hears glasses-polishing over the phone. "Since our last conversation, I've been wondering myself if you might have developed some skills that would be useful to a Watcher."

He nearly drops the cordless. "A Watcher?"

"Possibly."

"Me?"

"It's worth exploring."

He shoves up the eyepatch, rubs at his ruined eye. "Giles, can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"How much would I weigh on your home planet?"

"We'll talk this out later. I think you have enough on your mind at the moment."

Xander hears the throb of an engine -- his own car's -- pulling into the drive, and he feels the tension ease in his shoulder. Though he expects to hear the door opening, the doorbell chimes instead. "Hang on a sec. Someone's at the door."

He awkwardly transfers the phone to his bad hand and opens the front door. "Oh my god. Holy --" Xander remembers the phone, takes it in his other hand and speaks into it. "Holy shit. It's Dawn."

Then the phone bounces on the carpet and Dawn is inside the house and carefully taking him in her arms.

"Oh, Xander. I had to come."

Somehow he makes it through the service. It's better than he expected, in some ways. Worse, in others. Xander can't believe how many people showed up for this one supermarket stockboy with no family. Some he knows, some he vaguely recognizes; other faces are completely new to him.

He sits up front with Peggy, Faith at his blind side. If he had his way, he'd be far in the back. Peg asked one of the customers to give the eulogy, a Catholic priest in his thirties everyone calls Father Bill. There's nothing wrong with the guy -- he's well-loved in the neighborhood, as far as Xander can tell -- except he's a young man wearing a Roman collar. Xander has always done a fade whenever Father Bill comes in for his Monday morning bagel, or in the middle of the night after attending to some emergency. Damon loved him; he seems to have an infinite patience for having the same conversations over and over again, generally about the Mariners.

It's a beautiful eulogy, full of personal knowledge and affection, yet all the while every cell of Xander's body rebels at sitting so close to the priest. If it weren't for Peg, he'd bolt. But her kid's a typical broke college student, and he's got exams, so Xander's the only family she's got today. He gets through this by concentrating on the warmth of Faith's hand resting on his good shoulder, the little squeezes she occasionally gives it. He gets through this by knowing Dawn, who understands, is right behind him, sitting with Straley and Willa. He gets through this by looking anywhere but at Father Bill.

At the end of the service, he wants to shove his way to the exit, but he stays by Peg. The priest sticks to her too, and the three of them form kind of a reception line. Xander fights his rising nausea and makes it through, then six men with working shoulders -- including Straley and Father Bill -- carry Damon's coffin to the waiting hearse. After the graveside service he does what he has to: shakes Father Bill's hand and tells him there's a gathering back at his house. Xander thinks he's managed to sound halfway sincere.

"Thanks, I'd like that."

During the limo ride back to his house, Xander's physical relief at being away from the priest is so intense it's almost as painful as the tension. He begins to tremble, trying but unable to catch a deep breath. Peg sits facing him, so he can't say anything. Dawn sits next to Peg, tears shimmering in her lashes, clutching Xander's hand. "It's okay," she whispers. He knows what she means but can't say here: Caleb's dead, there's nothing to fear. "You did fine, Xander. You did so well."

Faith's hand rests near his knee. "That was a nice service," she says to Peg. "Not one of those terrible one-size-fits-all things."

"It was the least he deserved," Peg says. "He wasn't like anyone else."

"Remember Mom's funeral?" Dawn asks Xander. "Totally canned. That made me feel almost worse than her dying that way. I said something to Buffy about it in the chapel, and this horrible old lady who came to all the funerals pulled me aside and told me it was Mom's fault, that if a preacher didn't know her, then God wouldn't either, and she'd go to Hell."

His head jerks up. "I never knew that."

"Well, it felt too awful to tell. I was, I don't know, embarrassed or ashamed or something."

"How come the people who should feel ashamed are rarely the ones who do?" Faith says.

"There's a question for the ages, for sure," Dawn says.

Peg studies the three of them, connected by touch. "You've known each other for a long time, haven't you?"

"A dozen years with Dawn," Xander says. "I've known Faith ten."

"I don't really think I've ever seen you with people you have more history with than me."

"I sort of flunked history for a while," he says. Borrowing a line of Faith's.

Dawn gently raps the side of her fist on his knee. "Well, your tutors are here. We'll get you up to speed in no time."

The limo pulls in front of his house, and he steels himself for another long afternoon with people who care about him. For more glimpses of that clerical collar in his own house.

"Too bad," Faith murmurs as Peg follows Dawn out of the limo.

"What?"

Faith leans in and whispers a suggestion about what they could do with the last of their limo time, teasing a grin and a kiss from him.

"Too bad," he echoes, and accepts Dawn's help to climb out of the car.

He barely remembers most of the conversations he has after the funeral, feels them slipping from memory even as he breaks away from each interaction. He eats little because he's too restless to sit still, and with his arm strapped he can't carry around a plate.

Father Bill doesn't stay very long, but before he goes, he finds Xander staring out the kitchen window. "Is it Alex, or Xander?"

Xander turns toward him, tensing. "Depends which set of people you ask. Alex is fine. It's how Damon knew me." It's not a lie, but it feels like one. He doesn't want this guy using the name Xander.

Father Bill nods. "I was wondering if we could have a word. Somewhere private, if possible."

"Sure. I could use a smoke." He leads the way out back and lights a cigarette, offers one to the priest, who shakes his head.

"Alex, I can tell my presence here is a problem for you."

"But it's not for Peg. Stay as long as you normally would." He waves off a bee. "It's nothing against you personally. Just ... associations."

"I'm aware of that. If you've ... been injured or preyed upon by a priest of this church --"

"Oh, he wasn't a Catholic, Father. Just an evil fuck, pardon the language, who liked hiding behind a collar. And what he did -- it's not what you're thinking."

Father Bill waits for a revelation. Xander guesses he's used to having confessions drop into his lap. Finally he says, "If there's anything I can do -- counseling, or a referral, I hope you won't hesitate to call on me."

Xander forces himself to look at him. "Thanks. Actually, I appreciate what you did for Damon. Today and before. He thought you were pretty great."

"He talked about you, too, Alex. He didn't exactly put it into these words, but he loved you."

Xander turns on his heel and walks away, going over to fuss with the garbage cans. By the time he finishes, Father Bill has headed back into the house, and in a few more minutes he's left for the parish house.

By the time afternoon fades into evening, Peg has left, along with neighbors and friends and coworkers. Even Jett and Dustin, who've again stayed to clean things up and drag his garbage cans to the curb, have gone on home. Xander's lying on the sofa, a just-finished plate on the floor beside him. Straley and Faith are sprawled in chairs, Willa's seated on the floor, where Dawn is stretched out in jeans and button down shirt.

"This is my dad and his brother-in-law on Thanksgiving when I was a kid." Dawn unbuttons the top button of her fly and gives out with a huge groan. She caresses her belly like a pregnant woman and adds, "Braaaaaaaaaack! Of course, to get the true effect, there should be football."

He laughs, though mere belching would have been a refreshing change for most of his childhood holidays. "How is your dad?"

"Absent." Her tone is laced with a false lightness. "Working on getting it right with the next batch."

Willa, who's been studying her without being too blatant about it, blurts, "Are you a Slayer?"

Dawn sits up, startled. "No. Slaying's a piece of cake compared to the destiny I was handed. I'm the little sister of the Slayer." She smiles. "My Old School is showing -- I still say the Slayer."

Willa glances at Faith and back to Dawn. "You guys are sisters?"

"No, my sister is Buffy."

"You saw her picture," Xander says.

"The redhead?"

"The blonde."

Willa nods. "So what was that like? Being her sister?"

"Oh, exciting, intense, totally infuriating most of the time."

As she launches into a story, Xander hears a noise out front. As he rises and heads for the door, Faith catches his eye, raising her brows. He shakes his head, gesturing with two fingers that he's stepping out for a smoke.

He stands on the porch, lighting a cigarette, scanning the street. Nothing to see, except a car he doesn't recognize parked at the curb, whose interior light goes on as the door opens. It's Evan, with a brown paper sack. "Evan. Hey. How's it going?"

"Sorry I couldn't make it earlier. I saw on the news what happened. I'm sorry to hear it." He offers the bag. "Brought something for the wake."

Xander peers inside, though he already knows what's there. For a moment he just breathes in the idea, how good it would be to smooth out his jangled feelings, erase just a small amount of the tension of the funeral, of his proximity to Father Bill. "Ahh, thanks. But, uh, well ... There are a couple of friends of Bill W. living here right now. I can't really have this in the house. One's pretty shaky yet, and I have my moments."

"Oh, hell. Sorry."

"You didn't know." He hands the bag back. "Well, hey. Come inside, meet people. Faith's here."

"Sure, yeah." Evan looks around for someplace to set the bag.

"Just stash it behind the bush there. Just don't forget to take it."

The liquor stashed, Evan follows him inside. Xander makes the introductions, catching Dawn in the midst of a raucous story.

"You go on with your story," Evan says, once greetings are exchanged. "I came in to see Xander's project." He declines Xander's offer of a soft drink or some food, accompanying him into the garage and closing the door behind them.

"I was in the middle of unclamping this, then stuff happened." He takes off more of the clamps as Evan leans in to look.

"Look at this." Evan examines the glued and blocked sides, closely checking the joints. "This is solid work. Which set of sides?"

"The second."

"Good job. I was pretty sure you'd break those, too. You've got a real feel for this."

"I had to glue down a small fracture at the waist, right here, but I caught it before it went really wrong." He runs his finger along the inside surface of the side.

"Oh, yeah. Never see it, though. Nice repair."

Xander rests his good hand on the metal shelving beside the workbench, then notices the box of stakes is sitting unevenly, cocked up on something. Probably happened when Faith and Willa outfitted themselves for the raid on the vampire nest. As he reaches to adjust it, the box rolls on top of whatever's underneath and tumbles onto the floor, sending stakes scattering everywhere like pickup sticks.

Before he can even utter a curse, Xander hears a hiss behind him, and by the time he turns, Evan has backed completely across the garage, and he's all fangs and yellow eyes.

"Jesus!" Xander says, in perfect unison with Evan.

Xander snatches one of the stakes from the floor and goes for Evan, who throws his hands up.

"Wait." He shakes off the game face.

Xander's foot lands on another stake, which rolls beneath it. He goes to one knee, skinning his knuckles on the cement floor as he flings out his good hand, still clutching the stake.

"Xander, wait," Evan says again. "I'm not a threat."

Xander draws in a breath to call for the others, but checks himself. It is true that Evan hasn't moved from his position of retreat. He slowly gets to his feet, balance thrown off by the arm strapped to his body. The bench is within reach, but he's not about to let go of the stake to pull himself up. "Shit, Evan. When did this happen?"

A ghost of a smile. "Long before you knew me. Long before you were born. I'm not a threat. Not to you or those people in there."

"Don't bullshit me. Vamps don't have arthritis. If you had it when you were turned, it would have cleared up long ago."

The smile broadens just enough to show a seam in the weathered skin of his lean face. "You know your stuff." He flicks a glance at the stakes scattered on the floor. "Obviously. Do you know about the ancient ones?"

"Are those the ones that talk you to death? Because I'm not too comfortable with the chitchat here."

Evan ignores the interruption. "The very old vampires eventually develop cloven hands and feet." He holds up his knotty hands. "It's an extremely long process."

"You're telling me you're, what, hundreds of years old?"

"Close enough."

Xander's clutching his stake so tightly that his hand begins to cramp. "Thousands, then. Ooh, I'm impressed. Tell me again why I shouldn't stake you?"

"I'm not going to hurt you. I've had plenty of chances, if that's what I was after. I'm not."

"And that would be why?"

"I don't kill."

The garage door opens then, and Evan tenses, same as Xander. Faith begins, "You guys have been --" She takes in the stakes on the floor, in Xander's hand. "What the fuck?"

Xander keeps his voice carefully neutral. "Evan here is just telling me how he's an ancient vampire who doesn't kill people."

"The fuck?" she says again.

"Beats me. We were getting to that. All I've got so far is he's maybe thousands of years old, he's working on cloven hands and feet, and the not-killing-people part. I'm guessing if Penn and Teller were here, they'd tell me this is bullshit."

"It's not," Faith says, her eyes fastened on Evan. "At least the cloven hands thing. That fucker Kakistos had 'em. I saw him tear my Watcher apart with 'em."

Evan begins to laugh softly. Next thing Xander knows, she's got a fist full of pearl snap shirt and Evan's backed up against the unfinished garage wall. Her with her hair up, still in her funeral dress and heels.

"What the hell is so funny about that?"

"My luck. First human I let myself get a little close to in decades, and his girlfriend is the Slayer. You wouldn't think I'd have lasted this long."

"You maybe don't have so much longer," she says.

"Kakistos, he was a savage. I didn't have much of a problem with him being killed. You're the one who did that?"

"Hell, yeah."

He smiles. "I knew there was something about you."

"So tell us about this non-killing business," Xander says.

Evan shrugs. "I lost the heart for it."

Xander snorts. "Oh, god. Not another vampire with a soul."

"Please. That's an old wives' tale."

Faith shoots Xander a look. The door opens again and Evan takes a step forward, and Faith shoves him back into the wall.

It's Straley. "Hey, what's --" His tone changes as he takes in the scene. "What's wrong?"

"Vamp in the house," Xander says.

"He's got a story," Faith says.

Xander snorts again. "They've all got a story. Tell you what, I'm not loving the threat of violence in the same room with my guitar. Let's move this inside."

Straley steps in with the transporting-the-prisoner moves, and gets Evan into the kitchen. "Got any ropes or anything?"

"Sit him down." Xander reaches into the freezer for a bottle of CA, snips off the cap. "Give me your hand."

Evan laughs again, barely distinguishable from a dry smoker's hack, as Xander squirts a little superglue in his palm and plants his hand against the underside of the heavy oak table.

"The woodworker in me hates doing this, but ..."

Evan doesn't struggle; he knows as well as Xander that he's already bonded and won't come free unless he loses a lot of skin.

"You're kidding, right?" Faith asks.

Capping the CA, Xander sets it on the counter. "He's not going anywhere for a while."

"This is why this kid's my best student." The weird thing is he's more or less handcuffed to the table, surrounded by three pissed-off humans who've snatched up stakes, and Xander gets the sense that he doesn't really give a shit.

Willa and Dawn wander into the kitchen, still laughing. "Where'd everybody -- whoa," Dawn says. "We've missed something."

"Vamp," Xander says.

"Uh huh. And he's not a pile of dust why?"

"Well, he's as good as tied up, for one thing," Xander tells her. "And I know him. Evan -- Dawn, Willa, Kevin."

"This is the guitar guy you've emailed about? And he's a vamp?"

"Ease off, okay?" Xander scratches under the shoulder immobilizer with the point of his stake. "Could happen to anyone."

"I've been passing for hundreds of years."

"But still," Dawn says.

"As unofficial little sister, it's her job to make me feel like a dumbass."

This strange, sad expression crosses Evan's face. "So I remember."

Xander squelches the surge of sympathy that rises up. "You were starting to tell us your story. That you've given up the hard stuff."

"I don't kill humans. I haven't for maybe three hundred years."

"Do they give out chips for that?"

Faith touches his arm. "Let him tell it," she says softly. "What happened?"

Evan smiles. "Was I struck blind on the road to Damascus? Whacked with some mythical soul stick? Nah. I killed a guy I sold a guitar to. Last time I worked on credit. He went down great and all, but there was all this music that I knew wouldn't be made anymore. Humans make music, and they make paintings and poems. They make bourbon, and trouble. They used to make Cadillacs with fins. I'm fascinated by all of it. I want to be in the middle of that. Immortality's boring enough without making the world a duller place. I'm not the only one. Just the only one you've found out." Compared to Evan's usual mode, this is a filibuster.

"So there are vampires all over the place, living quietly among humans, not causing any trouble? How many?"

"Who's to say? We don't show ourselves. We don't go near the vampires who prey on people, and we don't go near each other."

"So what are we gonna do?" Dawn asks.

"Vampires do what they do, Dawn. You'll never get me to believe that's not true."

"What about Angel?" Faith asks.

He shakes his head. "I've never been sold on him. He works that soul angle, but there is nothing you can say that'll make me trust that."

"He saved me," she says simply. "I was out on the edge of the world, and he reeled me back in. I tried killing him, and he still did that for me."

"And don't forget Spike," Dawn adds. "Even before the soul."

Xander's temper flares. "Aw, he was chipped."

"That only meant he couldn't hurt people. It didn't make him fight on our side, or look after me the summer Buffy was dead --"

"All of us looked after you that summer!" He's shouting, and he doesn't give a shit. "All of us fought with Buffy. But fuckin' Spike is the one who matters, because he went all Pinocchio. The rest of us -- of course we were on her side. It was our place, wasn't it?" He waves a hand in disgust and stalks out the back door for a cigarette.

It's silent in there -- he's close enough to the kitchen window that he'd hear if anyone spoke. He wonders what Willa and Straley -- hell, Evan too -- are making of this discussion. He tamps out his smoke and steps back inside. "We're not talking about chips. We're not talking about souls. What we've got here is a vampire who's a thousand years old, maybe more, and he's telling us he went on the wagon, just like that. Because we provide entertainment."

"That music store's been on Howard for as long as I can remember," Straley says. "How long have you lived here?"

"Thirty-seven years."

"Xander, the so-called icepick killings only started a few months ago."

"So he's clever. Stands to reason; he wouldn't be a card-carrying member of the American Association of Retired Vampires if he was stupid."

"I have an account with a butcher," Evan says. "You can check it out; check several, if their accounts go back far enough. I switch every few years. The latest thinks it's an alternative therapy for the arthritis."

"Any more arguments?" Dawn asks.

"Only one -- he's a fucking vampire." Xander rubs his forehead, which is thundering. "Listen, there's shit all over the floor of my shop. I'm going to go take care of that."

Faith shifts from the counter she's been leaning on. "I'll help--"

"No. I need a while." He steps into the garage, closing the door behind him.

Xander's halfway through his solo game of pickup sticks when he hears the door open behind him. "Faith, if you don't mind --"

"It's me," a small voice says. Dawn.

He straightens and turns toward her, just as she starts to cry. "I never wanted --"

He moves to her. "Sweetie, what?"

"I don't want you thinking I don't appreciate -- what you did." She wraps her arms around him, so careful not to hurt his left side.

He strokes her hair, still so long and silky. She's never felt the need to change it every fifteen minutes like Buffy or Willow. Or Anya. "Honey, it's okay. It's all right."

"No it's not. You've always been there, and I've treated you like that was nothing."

Releasing her, he steps back to look at her. "You've hung onto me all this time. That's worth something."

Her glance slides away. "That's just selfishness."

"What are you talking about?"

"Buffy and Giles, they knew you needed time apart from us. That you couldn't be pushed into healing. I couldn't -- I needed you too much to let you go. I was afraid."

"Afraid? Dawnie, of what?"

She bends to pick up a few stakes, tosses them back into the box. "Afraid that I'd ... disappear or something. If you stopped thinking about me."

"What? Dawn, that's nuts."

"Is it?" She picks up another stake, toys with it as she speaks. "My whole history, up to the point where I really came to Sunnydale, is made up. I had a childhood because Mom and Dad and Buffy remember that I do. Mom's dead, and Dad doesn't care, so that leaves Buffy carrying the whole weight of my existence, up till I met the rest of you guys. Xander, you were always the one who'd never let go. I knew I'd always be safe, as long as I had you. You hang on tight to your friends, and even tighter to your enemies. So when you cut off your friends, it really scared me. I went after you and made you relate to me because I love you, but also because I was scared of ending."

Stunned, he can think of nothing to say to make this better. He just reaches his good arm toward her and enfolds her in an imperfect hug. "I'm not going anywhere," he finally says. "And neither are you." Xander lets her go, brushing her tears away. "Got that?"

She nods.

"Good." He gently tweaks her nose, the way he used to (except he didn't) when she was small. "Think I should go back in and deal with my captive vampire?"

"Could I see your guitar first? Just a quick first look? Because I want you to tell me all about it when there's not a vampire glued to the kitchen table."

He leads her to the workbench, where the sound of her gasp makes him grin.

"Oh. Oh, wow. Xander. How did you get it to look this way?"

"I didn't. That's the way the wood grain is."

"It's so beautiful."

"I'm glad you like it." His fingers practically itch with the desire to pick up the lining, start gluing it in place. Tomorrow maybe he'll try unstrapping the arm, see how it feels. "Tell you what. I'm going to try and work a little tomorrow. If you want to hang out with me and watch, I'll tell you anything you want to know about it."

They toss the last of the stakes into their box, and head back into the kitchen. And Xander still doesn't know what exactly he plans to do with the vamp he's got glued there.

Evan sits there like a vaguely interested observer while they discuss the fate of his unlife. Until Faith says, "I know how you feel about Angel, but remember how valuable he was back in Sunnydale. He knew the prophecies almost as well as Giles, had an encyclopedic knowledge of demons. Evan's got a thousand years of knowledge beyond that. This guy's an unbelievable resource --"

"No I'm not," Evan says quietly. That gets everyone's attention. "I understand your war. But I'm not in it. Not on either side."

"Well, that simplifies things," Xander says. "We kill him."

"How can we do that?" Willa asks.

He ticks off on his fingers: "Stake, fire, beheading --"

"You know that's not what I mean. He's committed himself to nonviolence. What does that make us if we kill him just because of what he is?"

"It makes us not a bunch of suckers. What he is is a killer. It's what all vampires are. Some of them can charm the ass right off of you. They can mimic humanity, sure -- it's how they attract their victims." Xander waves his good arm toward Evan. "Take a look. Doesn't have a care in the world, does he? That's because he knows he's sucking you in."

Willa puts her stake down on the counter. "I don't think I can stay here if you do this."

"What's this, a declaration of policy, or just a kneejerk reaction? I certainly get the appeal, you've got a patron of the arts here. Or at least a guy who abstains from eating artists. He says. So okay, you oppose discrimination against undead-Americans, if they don't actually follow their nature. Except what about that vamp you staked your first night out? You got him fresh out of the grave, so what was his body count?"

"That's different."

"Different why?"

"He rushed me, and his face was all fangy."

"I see. So a vamp who's never killed but looks threatening is more stakable than one who's sitting here calmly with, what, Evan? Tens of thousands of bodies behind you?"

"That's just it," Willa says. "They're behind him. He doesn't kill anymore."

"So it's just a bunch of people who talked funny, dressed funny. They don't really matter." Xander flicks a glance at the bystanders to this argument. He's making his friends uncomfortable, but he doesn't care. "What about any future people he kills? Say he sees who wins American Idol and he thinks, 'Ahhhhh, fuck it. Music and art aren't worth the pig blood after all.' That would be a bad thing, wouldn't it? Unless, of course, Fox makes a really cool reality show out of it. Are you ready to take on the weight of the lives he takes before you track him down again? What if it's a hundred years from now? What about those people? They'd have lived, if not for you."

"You don't believe in anything, do you? The idea of redemption doesn't mean a thing."

"Oh, for fuck's sake. No one here has mentioned the R-word. I don't think Evan is even making a claim to that. It's one thing in his favor, as far as I'm concerned. Some days maybe I believe in it. Not when I've buried the latest in a long, sad parade of people I cared about. Tell me again, Willa, how many friends and lovers and family members have you lost?"

Her face crumples, breaking the trainwreck-watching spell the others have been under. Straley steps forward. "Let's all simmer down a little. Maybe take a break. Xander, why don't you come out with me, have a cigarette?"

Straley starts to urge him toward the back yard, but Xander gestures toward the front of the house. "This how you usually keep the domestic peace?"

"It goes a long way. I'm usually a little quicker, though."

Once they're outside, Xander says, "Another thing you should know about vampires. They have really finely tuned senses. Hearing, for example. You don't smoke, do you?"

"Not generally, but I'll take one." He takes a cigarette, leans in to accept the light Xander offers. "Listen, Xander. Before I knew you very well I thought any number of times that you must've been on the job sometime. And you have -- you just never got recognized for it. I remember talking to you that day at the airport about this disconnect that happens when you've been a police for a while. How you start seeing people as either citizens or scumbags. And it's hard to tell who's a citizen -- might be dangerous to make the wrong call, so you find yourself assuming it's all scumbags, except the guys you work with."

Xander remembers their conversation. Straley saying it was hard to resist this mentality, but he tried. "I see where you're taking this," he says quietly. "But Evan's not 'people.'"

Straley sighs. "I know. But he tells a story that we can try to verify, at least in part. I'd feel better if we did."

"What do you suggest?"

"We call the butcher shops he says keep him supplied. We look into unsolved deaths and disappearances over the last four decades, especially centered around his neighborhood. What else could we do? Didn't you say there's some kind of organization that keeps historical records or something?"

"The Council."

"Maybe they know something about this vampire. Maybe they can tell us if he did drop out of sight 300 years ago or not."

"Yeah, maybe."

Straley's quiet for a moment. "I just don't know that I'm comfortable being the kind of cowboy who sets himself up as judge and jury too."

Xander turns and regards him for a moment. "There is no official law for this sort of thing. That's what you have to remember."

"I get that, yeah." Straley crushes his cigarette, half-finished, in the espresso can full of sand by the front door. "What happened in there, anyway? How'd you make him?"

"I've got a box of stakes in there. I knocked it over, they went flying, and he vamped out."

"Which means what?"

"The teeth, the face."

"Okay. Then what? Did he attack?"

"Well, no. He kind of flew back from me, and shook off the game face. Said he wouldn't hurt me."

Straley scratches his jaw. "You know, if this was a bar fight or something, this is a story that wouldn't hand you a whole lot of justification."

"Yeah, well, it's not a bar fight."

"I know. There's a lot -- well, at stake. And I've got to respect your experience. But it sounds like this is something you've never encountered before. Couldn't hurt to find out as much as you can."

Xander nods. "Mind letting me have a few minutes?"

"Sure." Straley goes back into the house, and Xander drops his first cigarette into the can, lights another, taking a seat on the porch railing. Straley makes sense, he knows that, but there's the irrational feeling that everyone in the house is against him. He wonders if this is the sort of loneliness Buffy felt, especially toward the end of the fight with the First.

Suddenly he remembers the bottles he had Evan stash just a few feet away. Even before this thing with Evan, he'd felt the seductiveness of just one drink, just enough to make him feel a little less ragged. He rises and steps off the porch, crouching behind the bushes to retrieve one of the bottles from the brown paper sack. The heft of the bottle in his hand is in itself a comfort. He fingers the paper seal, letting himself imagine the smell, the fire.

Xander pictures himself back inside with the others, swaying on his feet as he lets fly with the kind of speech he'd uncorked in Florence. Hell, he's already brought one person to tears tonight -- why stop until he's lacerated Dawn and Faith, too? Dawn's already seen this act. She was there at Giles's engagement party. She'd cried then, tried to get him to shut up. Nothing stops him, though, once he gets going. He's like his old man that way.

For the first time in a long while, he thinks about his father, the drinking, the rants, pounding away at his point until everyone in earshot felt about three inches high. He's a fucking chip off the old block, isn't he? Not with the people who work for him at the store -- just with the people who matter, the work he cares most about.

For the first time ever, he wonders about Tony. Whether the outbursts came out of the same sense of loneliness Xander feels right now. He hasn't felt sad about the old man's death, but this fills him with sorrow. On some deep level he knows he's right, and he knows to a great degree it's a self-made loneliness. Xander would have leapt at any connection Tony would've tried to make, from the time he was a small kid all the way up to -- well, who's he kidding? Up to now. If Tony Harris surfaced on his next internet hunt, sober and genuinely interested in knowing his son, Xander would take him back in his life in a heartbeat.

Another moment, and he becomes aware again of what he's holding in his hand. He pitches the bottle back behind the bushes to thud heavily against the dry ground. Xander climbs the porch steps and goes back into the house.

Xander walks into the kitchen, where Straley and Faith watch over Evan, who sits with eyes closed. Faith reaches for Xander's hand, gives it a squeeze.

"Where's Willa?"

"Down the hall, with Dawn."

Xander nods. He should go in to her, try to start making things right. "Why did you come here, Evan?"

A trace of a smile. "Been asking myself that." His eyes open, a washed-out blue Xander's never really noticed before. Studying Evan, he sees why no one seems to have noticed a guy working out of the same shop for 37 years and never getting any older. He's got the lean, weatherbeaten look of some of the rare cowboys you can still find just east of here, prematurely aged and perpetually ageless. All he lacks is the browned skin. A casual observer could take him for 33 or 57. "I came because I like you. I respect your craftsmanship and your feel for working with wood. And I know what it feels like to lose people like that. Half my family was dead before I was turned. Three of my sisters." Evan shakes his head. "I think this is a sign I've been living among humans for too long."

Xander sits at the kitchen table, as if sharing a cup of coffee with a neighbor (something he has never done, until the last few days.) "Damon's not my first, by a long shot." The anger has seeped out of his voice. "Understand this: People have died or disappeared around me my whole life. When I was sixteen, I finally learned why. When I was seventeen, the Slayer couldn't bring herself to dust one particular vamp because he had the face of her lover. Angel killed one of my friends and god knows how many others because of that moment when she couldn't do what she needed to. This is why I have a hard time with the 'but he's reformed' argument. I let you walk, and anyone you kill is my responsibility."

"This Angel you keep talking about --"

"Yeah?"

"There were rumors a hundred years ago about a vampire named Angel. The story about a soul."

Xander nods. "That's been the rumor for a good century after, too. Except of course for the few months when his soul got lost, and he went on his little killing spree."

"You're telling me this was true? I'll be damned."

"That kind of goes without saying. But yeah, even though I can't say I'm a big fan of Angel's, I do believe in the soul, because I've seen him with and without, and one of my best friends is the witch who put it back in him."

"Twice," adds Faith.

Evan shakes his head. "You've had an extraordinary life for a mortal kid."

"Can't say I feel like a kid anymore."

"Believe me, you are. But you've seen things I never have."

"Well, you get out there and fight the fight, and things come to you." Xander gets to his feet and steps out into the garage, rummaging on the shelf for a moment before he returns to the kitchen. "The thing I can't figure about you is the sense I keep getting that you don't give a shit whether I dust you or not. Is that real, or is it some mystical smokescreen you're throwing up?"

Evan shrugs. "I've been in the world for centuries now. I lost my pleasure in doing what vampires do a long time ago, and watching what humans do is a little too full of loss." He holds up his free hand, turns it over. "These are the last thing I had left to lose. Things got a little interesting when I picked up an apprentice, but at this stage, I could go sunbathing or not. Don't much care one way or the other."

Xander tosses him a shop rag he brought in from the garage, and steps up to the table. "I can't keep you glued to my kitchen table forever. I've got no way of locking you up, and Kevin can't exactly haul you in on suspicion of murders three hundred years ago." He leans down and squirts a stream of solvent where Evan's hand joins the table, filling the kitchen with the stink of acetone. "This hurt, what's happening to your hands?"

"Like a bitch," Evan says. He rubs at his hand with the rag, then returns it to Xander.

"There's soap on the sink that'll kill some of that smell." He hears a sound and turns to see Dawn and Willa have reappeared, faces scrunched at the chemical odor.

"What is that?" Dawn asks.

"Nail polish remover," Willa whispers.

"I'm letting you walk," Xander says. "Like I said, we can't exactly keep you here while we're checking out your story. You kill anyone, and I won't stake you. I will come and set you on fire, and I will burn every guitar you've made. I'll get on the internet and track the rest down, and I'll buy them and burn them. It won't begin to make up for one life, but I think it's possible you'd care."

"It won't be necessary." Evan dries his hands and passes the towel to Xander. He nods to the others and makes his way to the front door.

Xander hopes he's not making the worst mistake of his entire life.

Evan turns at the door and says, "The name you want the Watchers to look for is Ieuan Goch."

For a moment Xander stands staring after him, blinking. Then he turns to the others. "Faith, I want you to tail him until sunrise. Do you have a cellphone?"

When Faith shakes her head, Willa says, "I do. You can take it." She peels off to retrieve it for Faith.

"Dawn, you have a cell too, right? I need you to call Willow, get the spell to disinvite him. Kevin, do that search on unsolved murders and disappearances since, what, 1970? I'll have to call Evan, get those butcher shop names, and we'll run that down, but the other's got priority anyway. I'm going to get on the phone to Giles at the Council."

Willa comes back with her phone, which she demonstrates to Faith, who heads out, along with Straley. "So what about me?" "Right now, stand by, if you would. Any one of these searches might generate something that needs some kind of follow-up." Xander sees a shadow cross Willa's face at that, but then she nods. He adds, "There's something I'd like you to do first."

"What can I do?"

"Accept my apology for pounding away at my point like that, with you between the hammer and the point. It's one of my less charming habits. That's not how I act with the people I work with, so I thought I'd just gotten all new and improved over the last few years." He smiles, though he knows it looks pained. "Guess it takes certain subjects to bring that out. I've got a lot of experience in this -- even more than Faith, though I'm not a Slayer. I want that acknowledged and listened to, yeah, but not at the cost of rolling over my friends."

"So why'd you let him go?"

"Instinct, I guess. Mine, yours, Faith's. Maybe there's a reason we he didn't set off alarms with any of us." Xander unstraps his lower arm from the immobilizer, carefully tests it. "Instinct isn't just pulling some notion out of your ass, it involves a lot of observation and analysis you don't even know you're making. I want you to read The Gift of Fear, by the way. Learn to rely on your intuition when it's warning you of danger." The arm starts to ache after just a few movements, so he settles it back in its cradle. "I've got that side pretty highly developed. It's the opposite I don't trust -- when instinct tells me nothing's wrong, I tend to figure it's broken. So I finally listened past that. I don't think he's a danger tonight. In the meantime, we're learning all we can. Speaking of which, I'd better call Giles."

The last time he remembers using the phone was in his workshop. He steps into the garage, flipping on the top light instead of the full-spectrum bulbs he usually uses for his work. The place depresses him in the yellowed glare. He spots a stake on the floor that he and Dawn missed, bends to pick it up and toss it into the box.

His guitar still waits for the next step, gluing in the linings and fitting the top and bottom to the sides. A fresh wave of sadness washes over him. In a way Xander feels as though he's lost two fathers tonight -- Tony, whom he's understood for maybe the first time ever -- and Evan, who'd taken him on as the next generation guitar-builder. It was an adult-to-adult kind of fathering, mentoring with a strong thread of respect for what Xander already knew, for his feel for the work. It wasn't a relationship he'd ever even dreamed of having -- he hadn't known this existed, not until it exploded into dust like a vampire run through with a pale dagger of ash. Ash to ash. Dust to dust. He's had more than enough loss for one day.

He finds the cordless phone. Begins punching in Giles's number.

It's Catarina who answers, which makes him glance at the clock and realize Giles is probably at the Council. He identifies himself, and her voice warms.

"Ksander, Rupert told me about your friend. I'm so very sorry."

"Ah, thanks. It's been hard. He was a sweet guy. Didn't know what was happening to him, or why." He has to stop speaking, before he loses control of himself.

"Succhiatori," she mutters. This is one he still remembers: cocksuckers. It makes him feel a tiny bit better.

"Giles must be at work by now. I was wondering if you could give me his office number."

"No, he's home today."

Xander shakes his head. He's lost all track of the days.

Muffled sounds of the phone passing from hand to hand, then Giles's voice. "Xander, what a surprise to hear from you again so soon. Is everything all right?"

"That's just it. I'm not sure. More developments. I need information. Can you find me anything on a vampire named, ah, Ieuan Goch?" Of course not, Xander decides. Evan was most likely saying anything that improved his chances of leaving on his feet rather than in a dustpan.

"Red Evan." Holy shit. Giles goes on: " I didn't realize you'd taken an interest in history. I'd have to do some research, but off the top of my head, I can tell you he was a very old vampire when he met his fate."

Xander lets out a breath. "So he's dead."

"Well, there's no record. He'd had encounters with Slayers before -- it's uncertain whether there were two or three -- but he survived them all, in one case killing the Slayer. But then he dropped out of sight some centuries ago. I can't tell you how many evenings that would come up over a bottle of port. Almost any time Watchers or students came together. We'd speculate over what might have happened and where."

"Well, Giles, whoever guessed 'retires to Spokane' wins the set of dishes."

The pause on the other end of the line stretches so long that Xander finally grins. There's a bit of stammering, then: "You've seen him?"

"Let me ask you something else. Have you ever heard of vampires going off the human blood and passing?"

"As human, you mean?"

"Yeah."

"Rumor and speculation, nothing more."

"You think that could be because they're really good at passing?"

The garage door opens and Dawn pokes her head inside. "Holy water?"

"Faith's got her supplies in the basement."

She nods and goes.

Giles is still attempting to wrap his mind around all this. "You believe that you've seen Red Evan, and that he's passing himself off as a human."

"Well, that's what he says. As for passing, yeah. I've been in his place of business, he's been in my house. Let me repeat that, Giles: He's been in my house. Faith was around him for a while once too, and neither of us figured him out."

"Good lord," Giles says. "You must do a spell to rescind the invitation."

"Dawn's on it, as we speak." He sighs. "Tell me I haven't made a huge fucking mistake, Giles."

"What have you done?"

"I let him live -- I mean ... you get what I mean. Hell, you know me, Mr. The-only-good-vamp-is-a-dead-vamp. I let him walk."

There's a pause, during which Xander imagines Giles calculating all the millions of ways in which Xander is the world's biggest fuck-up. While polishing his glasses. "How did his true nature come to light?"

"Totally by accident. Evan -- he goes by Evan Davies now, spelled like the Kinks, but pronounced like Davis --"

"Yes, that's how the Welsh pronounce it."

"So he came over tonight, you know, the condolence visit. My judgment is for shit after all that's happened; I invited him in. We were looking at some work I've got going in the workshop, and I knocked over a box of stakes. He vamped out. But he backed off from me, instead of coming on, and he defanged almost immediately. Evan says he's been clean for three hundred years."

"This is extraordinary. Did he offer any explanation?"

"No soul, if that's what you're wondering. He thought Angel was up there with Santa and the Fang Fairy, until I told him otherwise. He just, as he put it, lost the heart for it. Apparently to some we're better as entertainment than as food. He's an art lover. We're checking out his story in as many ways as possible, including anything we can find on his history."

"I'll need to consult the library. And perhaps some of my colleagues can --"

"Giles." Xander takes a breath. "Jesus, I can't believe I'm saying this, but don't expose him. Not yet. If he's telling the truth, he's been living among us for centuries without hurting anyone. If not, he'll be dead soon enough."

"Perhaps you should capture him. The things he could tell the Council --"

"I'd kill him before I'd put him in prison," Xander says. He longs for a cigarette, but the garage is full of chemicals: solvents, finishes. "Look. I know I'm confused as shit about all this. Crazy as it makes me to admit it, he was my friend. I'll dust him if I have to, but -- just get me some information."

"I'll ring you as soon as I have anything concrete. And Xander -- trust your instincts. And listen to your friends."

Yeah, the only problem is which set of instincts? The stake-em-all-let-God-sort-em-out, or the live-and-let-live? He hopes the cost of figuring that out isn't too high.

"Just in time," Dawn pronounces as he emerges from the garage. "Where do you want your cross hammered up?"

Great question for a doubter like him. Xander thinks of the joke Patrick told him during one of their many conversations about this higher power business. "How do you run a Unitarian out of town? Burn a question mark on his lawn." That's him. Question mark guy.

"You can do what Willow did, put it behind the drapes." Dawn grins. "You don't even have to worry about your mother finding it during spring housecleaning and threatening to send you to the deprogrammers."

Xander winces. "Not as funny then as it sounds now." He catches sight of Willa, with the forlorn, half-expectant smile of someone who's totally left out of a conversation. "The perils of being a teenaged Jewish vampire fighter. Our friend Willow. The redhead in the pictures."

Nailing it in plain sight feels like pretending to be something he's not; hiding it somewhere just seems chickenshit. "How about over the door?"

He gets it put up -- not too obvious but not hidden -- and Willa makes with the Latin incantation. Done. Evan's de-invited. Simple, really. He wishes it were this easy to get rid of obnoxious customers.

Xander rummages in the fridge for the bucket of chicken. Again he's lost track of the last time he ate. Now that he's shut Evan out of his house, he feels oddly trapped.

"So what did Giles say?" Dawn wants to know.

"Well, he had to jump into a phone booth to change into his Librarian Man suit. Which, god, probably will lead to an indecent exposure arrest. No wonder there's a shortage of superheroes these days."

Dawn picks through the bucket in search of dark meat. She's weird that way. "No, London phone booths are still all right." She glances at Willa, who's looking lost again. "Oh, this is just classic Xander. He's been gone for a while, but he's on his way back."

"Stop that." He uses two fingers to stripe war paint bands of chicken grease on her cheeks.

"Ew." She scrubs her face with a napkin. "You'll pay for that, Harris. But not till after you're asleep."

"So did he tell you anything yet?" Willa asks.

"Evan's very old, and the Council lost track of him. And Ieuan Goch apparently means Red Evan. Giles says it's kind of a Council parlor game, to try and figure out what happened to him. Everyone assumed it was some kind of dusty death, though."

"Wow," Dawn says. "Maybe this'll make you famous."

"Watcher-famous? Hold me back. That's even better than babe-famous. Anyhow, he'll call when he's read up. One thing he remembered. Before he disappeared, he tangled with Slayers more than once. According to the record, he killed one."

That's all it takes for the room to go a little more solemn.

Late as it is, nobody's ready to go to sleep. It's strange having company in the wee hours of the night. They forage through the funeral food, eating whatever tastes good cold. They play a few hands of cards, but lose interest early on. They speculate a little about Evan. "He's up there with the Master and Kakistos in the age department," Dawn says. "I mean, he hasn't gone pure demon-ugly, but he says he's headed that way. So why doesn't he have minions? Those two were all about the hierarchy."

"Maybe he does," Willa suggests. "You think the guys who attacked at the store could be his?"

"He doesn't seem like a minion sort of guy," Xander says. "Hell, I'm as close as he got to having a minion, and he didn't exactly jump to take me on as an apprentice. Plus those vamps at the store -- I hate to say this, given what happened, but those guys weren't that bright. I doubt Evan would waste his time with them."

"Well, isn't that the definition of minion?" Dawn asks. "If they were Einsteins, they'd have 'em, not be 'em."

"Why would he send his crew to kill one of my employees and rough me up, then show up at my house with booze for the wake?"

"He brought booze?" Willa asks.

"I didn't let him bring it in. Come on, though, is that something your criminal mastermind usually does?"

"Why did he come here at all?" Dawn asks.

"You're assuming he knew who I am."

"The other vamps did. That's what you said."

"I don't think Evan's exactly in the loop. He didn't even seem to know Angel is still around."

"If he's telling the truth," Willa says.

"Faith and I were in his shop. Neither of us got any kind of vibe off him. And I don't think he guessed she was a Slayer -- hell, I remember thinking he liked her. You didn't see his reaction when all those stakes hit the floor."

"There had to be more than a hundred of those things," Dawn says. "He'd have been freaked out even if he knew who you were."

"I'm still not convinced he did." Xander glances out the kitchen window, sees the first pink streaks of the oncoming day. "If he was responsible for that attack, why did he come here alone? If I was the local vampire boss and my intimidation tactics bought my people a daylight raid, that would be the end of the chitchat. Evan had plenty of time and opportunity in the garage. Hell, he could've snapped my neck while we were talking on the front porch. Whatever he is, whatever he wants, I think he's in this on his own."

They sit in silence for a while, the girls riding that wave of stupefied exhaustion that hits after an all-nighter.

"Are we making coffee," Dawn finally says, "or are we going to bed?"

"This is strictly decaf hour for me," Xander says. "I think you two should get some sleep. I'll be joining you in a couple of hours."

"Ooooooh," says Dawn.

"You are so twelve."

"I learned from a master of twelve, if you'll remember. So where do I sleep?"

Damn. They'd never gotten that sorted out. "Faith made a little room with a cot downstairs, but she could stay with me --"

"If you want a real bed, you could share with me tonig -- um, today," Willa tells Dawn. "Since that's where we stashed your bags. The bed's big enough."

"You sleep in a little ball smack in the middle of the --" Ah, shit. Both Dawn and Willa are staring at him. "I, uh, know, um, because of that one time. You were in the guest room. I, uh, looked in on -- let me get you some towels." He peels off down the hallway to the linen closet.

Dawn goes to collect her things from Willa's room, but collapses on one side of the bed. "I'm going to lie here for just a minute." The next second, she's unconscious.

"I know how that kid sleeps," Xander tells Willa. "You just got yourself a roommate."

"I don't mind. I offered. Oh. I brought you something." She darts into the room for a moment, takes a book off the bed. "I got this at the apartment to give to you. Some poems by Federico Garcia Lorca. He wrote some really gorgeous poems about gypsy music and guitars. I marked one for you."

She flashes around him into the bathroom, and he stands in the middle of the hallway, opening the book in the dim light.

Riddle of the Guitar
In the round
crossroads,
six maidens
are dancing.
Three of flesh
and three of silver.
Yesterday's dreams search for them,
but a golden Polyphemus
is embracing them.
The guitar!

He is still standing there when he hears his car pull into the drive and the soft thunk of its door. Faith's back.

She comes in with a bakery sack, wafting the scent of hot cinnamon. "I know I have hundreds of the bastards here in the fridge, but they taste extra special when they're as big as your head." She kisses him, already flavored with spice and icing. "I brought you one. Figured the girls would be conked out by now."

"They are." Xander starts a small pot of decaf. "How'd it go?"

"It didn't. He didn't. I followed him home, and that's where he stayed."

"Where's he live?"

"Looks like he lives above the store." She sets out dessert plates, puts a Cinnabon on each. She's not far wrong about the size. "I'm not sure if it's a legal set-up -- nothing else in the area looked like it had living space above. What I could see of the room facing the street looked like an office. There's a room -- maybe more -- back behind that. I could see movement in the light back there, not much else. Before dawn, something sealed that light off, no cracks or chinks shining through."

"Makes sense. I wondered how he got to the store. His hours start in the mid to late afternoon, and sometimes he's there earlier than that."

"I wonder what brought him to Spokane." She swipes a finger across the icing and licks it off. "What brought you here?"

"Nothing," Xander says. "That's pretty hard to find, you know."

"You mean you were looking for nothing?"

"Different kinds of nothing. Nothing supernatural, nothing that reminded me of Anya, nothing that made me feel like getting hammered every night. Someplace where I could just fade into the background."

"You think that's what brought Evan here?"

"Could be."

"It makes sense to me, if his story's true." She cocks her bare heel up on the seat of her chair and hooks an arm around her lower leg, which makes Xander nearly dizzy with desire for her. "Did you get anything from Giles?"

He fills her in on what little he knows. "He's hitting the books, and will be in touch. What do you think? About Evan's story?"

"It's been nagging at me all night. Because -- it's not the shape of story I'd expect it to be. I'm not saying it's not true, not yet. Just that -- well, I'm used to the redemption story. Or the attempted-redemption story, actually. Angel says we'll never really find it, neither one of us, but we can't ever stop working toward it."

"Angel said that?"

Faith nods. "I know there's a lot of bad blood between you two. But he's important to me. The idea of redemption is important to me -- whether or not I think I'll ever get any for myself." She tears off a piece of pastry, pops it into her mouth. "Can you ever believe in it?"

This is a crucial question, Xander knows. It's important to give the right answer. Even more important to give the true one. "I wish I had an easy answer for that."

"Maybe I'm glad you don't. Go on and give me the complicated answer."

The coffeemaker wheezes, and Xander rises to pour two cups of decaf. "Sometimes I feel like this is what my life's about -- that itchy, uncomfortable suspension between doubt and belief, which I think just mixed some really unmixy metaphors." He sets one of the mugs in front of her and sits down with his own. "I spend all this time in the rooms -- not enough lately, Willa and I both need to be hitting more meetings -- yet the whole higher power thing is something I'm still on the fence about. It's really uncomfortable, but I go, because it's that or drink and maybe never stop."

"Which is maybe like working toward redemption even if you don't think you can attain it," Faith says. "Because what happens when you don't is so much worse than uncomfortable."

"You went to the cops on your own, I heard."

"Yes and no. I mean, yeah, I walked into the precinct house alone, and I knew why I was there. But I couldn't have done it without Angel showing me why that was worth doing. Why I was worth trying to save."

Xander fusses with his mug for a moment, gaze fixed on the pattern of brown rings he's making on the tabletop. "Do you feel saved?"

She laughs. "I don't know. I do feel safe. As in 'not a danger.'"

"Would you do it again? Turn yourself in, I mean."

There's another long pause while she busies herself with her pastry. "I would. In a way, when I went to prison I was the least scared I had been in a long time. Don't ask me to explain that, cause I know I can't."

"So what you've been through, that's why there's something that feels off about Evan's story."

She shifts in her chair, lowering her foot to the floor and tucking the other beneath her. "Not 'off' in the sense that I think he's lying, necessarily. Like I said, the shape of it doesn't fit the kind of stories that hit us as humans." Faith waves her hand dismissively. "I know I'm making no sense at all. We tell certain stories, over and over. Redemption's a big favorite. But that's not what he's telling. He hasn't seen the light. He said himself, he wasn't struck blind on the road -- I know some Bible guy is who he's talking about, but I don't know which. Evan just decided he didn't feel like killing anymore. Is that something we trust? If we don't, is it because it doesn't follow the kind of myth that means something to us, or because it's actually invalid? If we decided to kill him just based on what he's done in the past and the idea that he can't change, is that just because we aren't speaking the same language, or because he's got a nature that won't ever change? How the fuck do we figure that out? That's what I was trying to work out while I was sitting out there watching his place."

Xander shakes his head. "You're making my brain hurt."

She looks away, coloring. "Faith's gone all deep an' shit."

"Hey." Reaching out with two fingers to touch her chin, he gently turns her face back toward him. "They're serious questions. They need to be asked. We're maybe seeing something that's never been encountered."

"Or maybe it has been, but the Council's kept a lid on it. You never know with those bastards."

"I'd never thought of that. You, on the other hand, have been doing a lot of thinking."

"Picked up that nasty habit in prison." She flashes her dimples. "Can't masturbate all the time."

Now it's Xander who reddens. "Jesus!"

She takes another swipe of icing and licks it off, then offers it to him in a kiss as she deposits herself on his lap. "We can philosophize when the kids are up. I got other thoughts about right now."

So does Xander, and they tie in with the lap and the leg thing she'd been doing and the friction of her sugary tongue against his teeth and the sticky fingers she's threading through his hair. Maybe also with the aphrodisiac qualities of cinnamon, which he's read something about. Definitely with the word "masturbate." He makes a low, helpless noise in his throat.

"I guess you'll be needing some help with this immobilizer thing," Faith murmurs. "And your shirt buttons."

"I think so," he whispers. "All kinds of help."

She slides off his lap, still hovering over him. "We'd better get right on that," she says, offering a hand to help him up and draw him down the hall to the bedroom.

It's hard to top the rush he gets from just having the immobilizer off, but Faith manages. She helps him undress and urges him onto his back, where she teases him with feathery strokes, so light that it feels more like the warmth of the molecules between his skin and hers than her actual touch. His brain is adamant that he inform Faith he's capable of -- talented at, even -- other positions too, which he'll gladly demonstrate once he's healed. But his body is so happy with conditions as they are that he's speechless, or at least sentenceless.

Afterward, they lie tangled together, sweat cooling on their skin.

"How's your shoulder?"

"Sore, but better. I'm going to leave off the immobilizer for a while once I get up, see how it goes."

"You need to get back to your guitar."

Xander smiles. "Yeah."

"You did some thinking too, while I was out."

"You mean the switch from 'stake now' to let's investigate'?"

Faith nods. "Was it Willa?"

"Not so much. Some, maybe. I don't actually think there's a line of reasoning that would make sense to anyone, even me. I just started thinking about my father."

"Was he like Evan?"

"God, no. I think -- I think he was like me. Which I've never actually thought about before. I used to think maybe I was like him; I was afraid of becoming like him."

She puts her hand over his heart, one of the gestures he loves most from her. It pulls him out of himself, and at the same time connects him to the best part of himself. "What was he like?"

"Scared. Lonely. If you'd asked me this just a few days ago, I'd have said 'scary.' But suddenly I saw him in the way I attacked Willa, in how I went after Evan. I saw myself in the way he used to be. All I could ever think of before was how scared I was -- it never occurred to me he probably was just as terrified in his own way."

"What was scary about him? Did he hit you?"

"More of a yeller. A ranter, a hurler of crockery. With a minor in sarcasm. Which is not to say I didn't come in for the occasional smacking. You know, palm-of-hand-meets-back-of-head." He demonstrates with an air smack. "The international sign language for hey, dumbass." "Big drinker?"

"It's family tradition."

"I can't get too worked up with compassion for him. Sorry."

"I've gotta admit, it's a weird feeling. And a few years too late to do me much good."

"Except somehow this translates into you not killing Evan."

Xander flips a hand in a not-excruciating approximation of a shrug. "Plus he says 'cat'."

"Cat?" she repeats, riding on a laugh.

"Yeah, you know, as in 'I was talking with this cat at the gig....' Years ago I was watching some show on VH1 or something with Carl Perkins, and it was this cat and that cat, and I thought it was about time that made a comeback. Except if you're not Carl Perkins, you can't really say it without sounding like an asshole. Unless you're Evan. So one day we get into this conversation about making things, what's practicality and what's art, and he starts off a sentence with 'Cats like Michaelangelo....' It sounds kind of stupid when I say it, but he pulls it off, and holy fuck."

"What?"

"For all we know, he knew Michaelangelo."

She's quiet for a moment. "No kidding, holy fuck. If it's true, that makes the whole abstinence thing make a little more sense, doesn't it?"

"If it's true. We need to talk to Giles before we get too carried away."

"That Giles cat," Faith says, going all dimpled.

"Some people are never cats," Xander says.

"I don't know about that."

"Not a cat."

"He married an Italian chick. Anything could happen." Her hands start roaming again, accompanied by little flicks of her tongue.

"Anything but that. Giles is not a -- hey, quit that."

"What?"

"You can't win an argument by playing the nipple card. It's un--" He sucks in a breath.

"We're arguing?"

"Not, um ... Not anymore." He reaches for her, drawing her closer for a kiss.

He'll worry about that cat Giles later.

He sleeps hard and dreamless after going so long without rest. It's like a tar pit, and he drags himself out slowly and with difficulty. He's alone in his bed, curled in on himself with a pile of pillows supporting his bad arm.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he reaches for the cigarettes before he stops himself and picks up the phone instead. When Peg answers after four rings, Xander stumbles over his name, making a false start with "Alex." "I wanted to see how you're doing."

"I don't know. I thought I'd go in to work tonight. It's too hard to sit around at home. But then thinking about being at the store without Damon being there --" She starts to cry.

He's good with the holding and murmuring meaningless encouragement, but his phone comforting skills are for shit. He rides out her tears, then says, "Peg. Honey. If you don't want to be alone, you're welcome to come here. I don't know if this is encouragement or warning, but if you come, you'll be a full member of the club."

"The things Faith said I might not want to know?"

"Yeah. You'd have to be prepared for them. We've got things we'll be discussing. Nothing we can put off."

"I don't know. I'm not sure I'm ready." Is it that, Xander wonders, or does she still blame him for what happened?

"It's all right. Come if you want. Before dark would be better." He gets off the phone and reaches for his cigarettes. The smoke makes his eye burn and his vision blur. Xander sits on the edge of the bed thinking about how things were with Anya way back between the wedding disaster and the honest-to-god disaster disaster. How it felt to have lost someone while still having to see her and talk to her every day. That's about where things with Peggy feel, except for the sex part and the almost-marrying part. The love part is there -- a radically different sort of love, but it's there. He should give up this love shit. It never does anything but burn.

Xander stubs out the cigarette and heads for the shower.

When he emerges, there's coffee (hi-test) and a note saying there's a fritatta in the fridge he can heat up. He heads for the basement instead. Faith and Willa are training, while Dawn sits down there with a couple of open texts, scrawling in a notebook.

It's been a while since he's watched two Slayers training together. It's nothing like Buffy whaling on poor, padded Giles. The rough-and-tumble would make him cringe (especially now, battered as he is), except for the obvious joy in their bodies and strength that he senses from both Faith and her student. He wonders if Willa's ever had a chance to revel in this, to feel her power without being afraid or embarrassed by it. He watches them for a moment, paused halfway down the stairs, until Faith notices him and calls a break.

"Any of the cats heard from?" he asks her.

Faith grins. "Just Kevin. He'll be here in about an hour."

He nods. "All right. I'll be in my workshop till he gets here." Xander takes his insulated mug into the garage, laces his feet into his workboots, and contemplates his guitar. Impatience surges through him. He'd thought he'd be so much further along. Evan, he knows, would tell him to take a step back, that guitars take time and rushing guarantees nothing but a flawed result. Yeah, well, Evan's got time for guitars -- being immortal will do that for you. Xander takes a couple of boxes of binder clips off the shelf, and begins to glue the linings in place, clamping each section with a big black clip. All he'll manage this evening is lining the back, but there's time to do a decent job of it before Straley appears.

Time to fall back into the rhythm of the work, to a place where time ceases to matter at all.

Xander's just finishing scraping the excess hide glue from around the lining when Straley arrives, the bearer of a Krispy Kreme box.

"Sorry," he tells Faith when she fixes him with a look. "This isn't an hour for fresh donuts anywhere but there. My local place closes at three."

"At least you brought enough for everyone," Dawn comments. "Unlike the Cinnabon people, who think only of themselves."

"You were asleep," Xander says.

"I do wake up, you know."

Faith ruffles Dawn's hair. "Deal."

"See that, Kevin?" Dawn says. "See the compassion?"

Once everyone is sitting at the table, Kevin launches into his report. "Evan's either telling the truth, or he's unbelievably good at flying under the radar. I checked out a lot of possibilities, couldn't find any patterns. First, I looked up murders involving icepicks or neck trauma of some kind. Both solved and unsolved, since there's always the chance of someone getting dragged in as a suspect when things don't otherwise make sense. Other than the ones that just started happening here, I only came up with a couple. Both seemed pretty straightforward -- bar fight type of thing, where the killer's found standing over the victim with a bloody knife in his hand. I looked at the coroner's reports on those, just in case, and there's nothing approximating a puncture wound, just slashes. The kind of thing where it's just an unfortunate accident that it's a murder instead of assault and battery. I hung around until I could talk to the detective in charge of the current investigations, and he didn't remember ever seeing anything like this either. So it looks like our guy's not littering the city with bodies."

"What about other unsolved cases?" Xander asks. "Any chance of neck trauma being overlooked when there's some other clear cause of death?"

"I took a look at those, too. Found nothing noted in the autopsy reports. With the exception of two cases where bodies were found in remote locations and were too badly decomposed for a clear determination." Straley flips a page in the small memo book where he's scrawled his notes. "Those look consistent with our Portland serial killer, though. I made sure they got flagged for the task force to take a look at."

Xander asks, "Do you have an ID on the victims in those cases?"

"Yeah." Straley squints to read his handwriting. "Both methamphetamine users, sometime-prostitutes. Pretty much the typical victim of this guy."

"I doubt it would be Evan," Xander says. "True, that's the sort of victim who's not missed the way someone who's more rooted in the community would be, but the blood is adulterated. There was a doping scandal on my high school swim team, and the first the Scoobies knew of it was when a vamp caught one of these guys and wouldn't even drain him."

"There are drugs vamps will absorb," Faith adds. "But the strongest ones are magical in origin. Kind of a symbiotic thing, where a human doses up with the stuff, then the vampire feeds. Not, of course, to the point of death. It's a pretty powerful high for both." She picks a donut out of the box. "That's the word, anyway."

"That ring a bell, Kevin? Anything in the toxicology reports that didn't add up?"

"Not that I saw. Just meth. There's a lot of it around; our guys know what to look for."

Xander nods. "I'd go with your intuition on that. Probably the Portland guy. I don't think Evan got to be a thousand plus by eating junkies. So what'd you find on disappearances?"

"Not enough to account for an active vampire. Just a handful that weren't solved, and most of those had a real smell of something that explained everything, but there wasn't enough evidence to go on. Like a husband that looked pretty suspicious, or a teenager disappearing who'd always talked about running away to Hollywood. We investigate those until there's nothing left to go on, but can't always get them closed."

"Okay," Xander says. "So everything you've found seems to support Evan's story."

"Seems to."

"The next question's going to be, how much do we weight that against whatever Giles tells us."

"So your history guy hasn't called yet," Straley says.

"No. Which either means there's nothing, or there's a lot."

"If the Council made a parlor game out of what speculating about happened to him," Dawn says, "there must be a lot on him somewhere."

"Could be. But there's no guarantee it wasn't all lost when the Council headquarters blew up five years ago."

Willa, who's been silent up till now, asks, "What's it matter what his history turns out to be? Now is what's important, and Kevin's got proof that he's harmless."

"Not exactly," Straley says. "I've got no proof that he's harmed anyone. It's not the same."

Willa thumps her coffee mug onto the table. "Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?"

"Oh yeah," Faith says. "That's the tagline to some tv show, isn't it? Cops, I think."

"He's got no rights because he's a vampire?"

Xander meets her challenging gaze. "Believe me, Willa, he's gotten way more consideration these last 24 hours than I would have given him a few years ago. One thing you have to understand is, we'll never know that he's harmless. Even Angel, who appointed himself some kind of fanged avenger for the forces of good -- when he lost his soul, he left a trail of bodies behind him. Including one of my friends. You can't ever assume a vampire's been neutered."

"We're waiting till we know more, Willa," Faith says. "It only makes sense."

"Fine," Willa says. "I'll shut up now."

"No one's trying to shut you up," Xander says. As appealing as that sounds. "We're not sitting here planning a commando raid, are we?"

"No. Just biding your time until you hear from your Watcher friend and then you can plan it. Go ahead and pretend that's not what's happening, but don't expect me to play along." She stands up and peels off for her bedroom.

Xander sighs and looks at Faith. "Did I at some point during this Boy Watcher thing give off the impression that I think I know what I'm doing? Because I have no fucking idea what I'm doing." Rising, he goes to the back door, lights a cigarette and blows the smoke out the back.

"She's learning," Dawn says. "You've seen hundreds of vampires; she's seen a handful."

"Tell that to her," he snaps. "Far as I can tell, it doesn't mean shit to her."

A hurt expression flickers across her face, but she says nothing.

He sighs again. "I'm sorry, Dawn. I'm just unbelievably frustrated here. I think I'm getting the payback for all the gray hairs your sister and I caused Giles."

"I get what you mean," Dawn says. "Though I've personally never had any experience with someone I care about being a complete rockhead." She flashes big, innocent eyes at him.

Pitching his cigarette into the sand-filled can by the door, he turns back to the others. "We have two vamps left from the store attack. What do you say we plan how we're going to find them and kill them?

Toward the end of the strategy session, Xander notices the time and excuses himself. "If we go now, Willa and I can make the 6:30 meeting. With all that's been going on, we've missed too many. I know I can't really do a good job with her unless I'm taking care of myself."

Willa agrees without an argument to go, though the ride to the church is nearly silent. At the meeting itself, he finds himself at the center of attention before things get started. Everyone's read or heard about Damon's murder, has seen Xander's picture in the Spokesman, the Rosauers headshot from the Employee of the Month board, with his wary half-power smile. He gets more hugs than he'd have expected, more than the shoulder can take, but he manages not to yelp.

Coming back, the atmosphere is a little less heavy. "I finally get why you never say anything during the meetings," Willa says. "I had you figured as some kind of Gary Cooper figure. Silent but strong, you know? But now -- well, you can't really talk about anything, can you?"

He's surprised how much this stings. If she'd laid the Gary Cooper on him when she first asked him to sponsor her, he'd have been the first to tell her that wasn't him. But her realization of this now is just another sign that he's losing influence with her.

"I mean," she goes on, "you can't say, 'I nearly got myself killed by a vampire last night.' Not without looking like you had a major relapse."

"Well, no. But for the past four years, I haven't had anything remotely like that to say. Just boring life stuff. Work, bad dates, grief."

"But you couldn't really talk about what tipped you into drinking. Not without editing."

"Bad genes tipped me into drinking. Wanting to blunt the pain I felt. It's not all that different from everyone else's story."

Willa's silent for a moment, then abruptly asks, "Did you ever do any of those magical drugs Faith was talking about?"

He shakes his head. "There's not a high on earth that would make me get that close to a vampire." But then he remembers that girl he met on his summer road trip. Vaughnie the vengeance demon, with her magic-laced weed that stretched time to a slow crawl, that made him believe they were having phenomenal sex. "Wait. Now that I think of it, I did. Not the stuff Faith mentioned, but I smoked some weed I thought was plain old grass. It made me believe certain things happened that really didn't."

"Where'd you get it from?"

"A girl. Who turned out to be a demon." He remembers how hazy it had made everything, perpetually wrapped in a golden, late afternoon light. Beyond that and the vast quantities of earthbound shit he'd taken in Sturgis that summer, he hadn't been one for drugs so much as alcohol. But the memory of Vaughnie stirs up a fierce longing for that golden glow, the stretched taffy quality of time. The sense that everything was all right, that he was with someone who understood him perfectly.

"So you killed her, right?"

Xander laughs sharply. "No. She ... got away."

Shuddering, Willa makes a noise of disgust. "I wish you hadn't told me that. The idea that you can be talking with someone, or something more -- I mean, you knew her well enough to share drugs with her -- and then they could turn out to be a demon. Jesus, I'm going to have nightmares now."

What would she think if she knew about Anya?

Well, she won't. He'll see to that.

She pulls the car into his drive and he's halfway out the door before she gets it put into park. As he steps onto the porch a patch of faded brown on the ground catches his eye, and he realizes Evan left his bourbon stashed behind the bushes when he took off last night.

Willa's right on his heels, so he continues into the house without giving a sign. Better to have Faith or Dawn get rid of it, someone who can pour it out without the smell curling into her memory and fucking with her head.

When he enters the living room, Dawn's sprawled on the couch with the phone, in the middle of an animated conversation. It makes him smile. Apart from the occasional existential freakout, which she more than anyone is completely entitled to, she's grown into a happy young woman. The monks did something right, giving her the capacity for joy despite the things she's seen and endured. Sometimes he wishes they were still around so he could ask them to install that in him -- or screw with his memory, anyway. Maybe it wasn't them, though. Maybe it's the essence of what she really is. He'd like to think that cosmic energy is pure joy, though he's not quite come around to believing it.

"Oh! He's here." She scrambles up from the sofa. "I told you it wouldn't be long. Give Catarina a big hug for me, okay? And save one for yourself." She thrusts the phone toward Xander. "It's Giles," she says unnecessarily.

"Hey, G." It's impossible not to pick up her energy. "Have you been at this all night?" Must be four or five in the morning in London. "Just like old times, huh?"

"I must be losing my edge in my advanced age," Giles answers. "I did have to stop and sleep for two hours."

Xander drops into the nearest chair, massaging his shoulder. "Thanks for your time, Giles. What did you find?"

"There's a reason he's remembered and speculated about even today. Ieuan Goch cut quite a swath through Europe in his time, ultimately becoming as notorious as Angelus was in later years."

Xander sighs. "That's a comparison I really didn't want to hear."

"It's even suggested in some texts that Angelus' predilection for ... showmanship was an attempt to cut an even bolder figure than Red Evan."

"So you're saying Red Evan was a sadistic fuck, something on the order of puppy-nailing Angel?"

"Not at all. That's apparently where Angelus thought he could outshine his role model. As far as I can tell from the texts I've found, Red Evan was coldly efficient in his killing, not inclined toward excess as a perverse sort of art form."

"Gee, that's a relief." He looks up to find Dawn standing over him with the ice pack, and he realizes he's been rubbing the shoulder from the moment he entered the house, maybe even before. He lets her settle the gel pack over his shoulder. "So it's just body count we're talking here. He was a product of his day, then, all Bravehearty barbarianism and --"

"No. He was a product of his demon nature. Welsh society around 900 A.D. produced great works of literature and laws that were remarkably forward thinking. Perhaps the cultural respect for civilization and intellect had something to do with his eventual decision to stop preying on humans, if you believe that's in fact what he's done."

"Well, that's the thing, Giles. Kevin here's just been over the police records for the past 40 years in Spokane -- that's about the time Evan says he moved here. There's nothing that seems to support the idea of an active vampire until the last few months, which is when we started seeing typical Sunnydale-type vampire activity -- along with typical Sunnydale-type vamps. I've killed three, Kevin killed one, Willa killed one, and then there were three more dusted in the raid after the attack at my job. He's either reformed or he's way smarter than any of us. And if he's that smart, why aren't we dead?"

"This is very difficult for you, isn't it?" Giles asks gently.

"I've only known the guy a few weeks, and it's not like we got to know each other in any deep way, not like I know my AA sponsor. But yeah, he was my mentor in a very specific realm, and in a strange way it feels like I've lost a father." It feels weird to be admitting this connection to Giles after all the years Xander spent longing for a similar connection with him. "Every five minutes I flip back and forth between Evil Dead Must Be Destroyed and Hey, Who's He Hurting? Is it enough that he's not hurting anyone? He's not helping. Evan refuses point-blank to take sides. Is he participating in evil if he won't take the other side? I come up with a different answer every time I ask myself this. Does that mean I'm losing sight of everything I've learned?"

"It means you've learned new things since you thought you'd learned everything."

Xander is silent for a moment before he says, "I know that must be wise, because it makes my brain hurt."

"Back in Sunnydale, especially during the first few years, you saw things in black and white. You were young, it's only natural. I viewed things in a much more clear-cut way myself, and was encouraged to do so by the Council. We've both experienced a great deal since then. Faced enmity from those we thought were our allies and forged alliances with those we'd viewed as the enemy. It's maturity that makes this situation so painful for you."

"So pain is the free toy surprise that comes with being grown up. Thanks for warning us, all those years ago."

Giles laughs softly. "I do believe I did."

"Well, there's one bright spot. No matter where my feelings happen to lie on this matter at any given second, I know Willa's right there, certain that I'm 100 percent wrong. She's managed to make me feel like a war criminal and a bleeding heart sap, all in the space of a half-hour. I think you'd better get someone else to do this, Giles. I have no control over this girl at all."

"She disagrees with you?"

"Always."

"Heavens. That's completely unsuitable. Next she'll be making caustic remarks. Ignoring your advice. Lying to you or neglecting to tell you everything. Bashing you over the head to keep you out of danger."

"All right, all right, I get it."

"An adversarial relationship between Slayer and Watcher may be inevitable. Excepting Kendra, of course. The strength and force of will that makes a girl suited to being a Slayer is bound to cause friction. It's possible we had the most fractious relationship of any Watcher and Slayer, but I don't think it's a coincidence that Buffy has lived longer than any other Slayer in history. Don't be afraid to talk things out with Willa. Don't be afraid to trust your own instincts."

This isn't the first time he's said this to Xander. Faith's told him the same thing. You'd think it would be easy advice to follow -- why is it so damn difficult?

"I know you're tired," Xander says. "Tell me what else you found out about Red Evan, and I'll let you go."

He sits on the bed as Dawn packs, getting caught up on her classes, a couple of potential boyfriends, and Buffy. Her trip to Australia is coming up next week.

"Knowing me and my letter writing skills, I won't get a card out to her before she goes," Xander says. "Tell her I said thanks for the flowers." She wasn't the only one who sent them -- Giles and Catarina had also sent an arrangement, as well as Willow.

"They've got this crazy new invention now called the telephone," Dawn says. "You can actually use it to talk to people on the other side of the world. Instantaneously."

"Funny."

"She misses you."

Xander doubts that.

"Don't make that face. She does. If you could get on the phone to Giles, I don't see what's so hard about Buffy."

He's rescued from having to answer by a clatter from the kitchen as Willa and Faith come up from their training session in the basement. Dawn leaps to her feet. "I've gotta jump in the shower. Those two are such bathroom hogs, and I have to be in bed at a reasonable hour."

He rises too. "I'm sorry you have to leave so soon."

"Yeah, me too." She slips her arms around Xander and holds him close.

"I can't tell you how much it means that you came out here. I know school's really busy for you right now."

"Glory and all her scabby minions couldn't have kept me away, buddy."

His throat tightens. "That's all very touching, but please don't bring 'em with."

Dawn releases him, favors him with a smile. "God, you're so sappy. Make sure I'm up by 5:15, okay?" She flits into the bathroom. After a moment he trails behind her to the hallway, then follows the Slayers' noise into the kitchen.

"There's the man I want to see." Faith looks up from the fridge, hands him a store-brand soda. "How about a smoke?"

"Sure." They step onto the back porch, Faith moving past him to the pair of Adirondack chairs in the yard. They'd come with the house, those chairs. At the time he bought the place, he'd never have thought to buy more than one. "How's it going?"

"She's picking up the fighting real well. She's still working her way through the other stuff."

"At least that's going well. On the other hand, I don't have the faintest fucking clue what I'm doing."

"You're just working your way through some stuff, too. What did Giles say?"

"More or less the reserved British version of 'I always hoped your kids would turn out just like you, neener neener.'"

Faith laughs, and the weight seems to lift from his shoulders a little.

"What did you want to talk to me about?"

Faith shifts in her chair. "Did I say I wanted to talk to you about something?"

Xander thinks back. "You said, 'There's the man I want to see.'"

"That's because you're the man I want to see. Otherwise I would've said, 'There's the man I want to talk to about something.'"

Xander tips his head against the wooden back of the chair, content for a moment to sit here with Faith, sharing a smoke. After a companionable silence, he says, "Somehow I get the feeling there's a story."

"There's never not a story. Now what the hell are you talking about?"

"That drug you told us about. That vamps ingest filtered through people."

She grunts. "Orpheus. Yeah, there's a story." She's silent for a long while, her cigarette winking red in the gathering dark.

"Listen," Xander finally says. "I won't pry. We've all got shit we don't want to tell. Forget I asked."

"Nah, it's all right." She draws her legs up, Indian-fashion. "Yeah, I had an experience with Orpheus. Not exactly how you're thinking, though." There's another long pause. "It had to do with Angel. I know he's not your favorite topic."

He laughs. "You don't have to protect me."

"Maybe it's not you I'm protecting." Her voice is so quiet he knows she's deadly serious.

"I think he can handle anything I can --"

"I'm not talking about him either." The red dot glows. "Angel's important to me, Xander. I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for him. And either you deal, or eventually we have problems." It's just light enough that he can see her chin rise as she fixes him in her gaze, but he knows she can make out no more than his shape.

"All right," he finally says. "I can stop being a dick about him, for you. Maybe I can even give him a chance."

"Don't strain yourself," she replies, but he can hear humor in her voice, and he thinks it's okay. "So while you all were busy fighting the First, before I got there, they had their own end-of-the-world shit going on. You'd think the forces of evil would try and coordinate their efforts a little more or work their schedules out better, but I guess it's like the Russians and the U.S. trying to get to space first. It's not good enough that the world ends, it's got to be your bunch that does it." Faith's not much for running off on tangents, so the fact that she's on a Harris-sized digression is not lost on him. He reaches out, takes her hand. "To make a long story incomprehensible, Angelus came out to play."

Xander sucks in his breath. "Jesus."

"Yeah. Maybe it'll tell you how bad things were that it was the good guys who brought him out. They thought he'd have some inside track on how to kill this demon they were facing."

"Weren't they forgetting a little detail? Like Angelus, big fan of world-endage?" He's trying to walk a line here, not say anything against Angel, but this piece of information just begs for the description mind-boggling. "And, you know, evil?"

"I know. File it under Desperation, Complete, and maybe it makes a little sense. If you squint. Anyway, where I came into it was when they couldn't manage to get the genie back into the bottle. Got another coffin nail?"

He hands over the pack and his lighter.

"I do get it now, why it's hard for you to let your thing with Angel go. That fucker Angelus knows just where to stick in the knife, and of course all the knowledge he's using came from Angel's head." He hears her take in a mouthful of smoke, then slowly release it. "He played all sorts of psychological games with me, not to mention beating me down. In the end, he bit me." Another pause. "I spiked his drink. Shot myself up with this Orpheus stuff. It was like ... like we took the fight inside. I was in his head, it seemed like I was there physically walking through his history." Another wink of red. "Angelus sure loves living in other people's heads, but he hates having someone walking through his own. I nearly died doing it, but we brought Angel back."

"You ever had the desire to use that stuff again?" He understands the seduction of certain shit, even when you know it'll kill you.

"No way. It's different for Slayers. It gets amplified somehow. It dragged me down into a coma they didn't know if I'd ever pull out of. You know how appealing I find comas. They thought I'd die. I thought I'd die."

"Wow. You risked a lot for him."

"Wasn't anything I didn't owe him."

This is a bond he'll never be able to share, and it makes him feel petty and small that this inspires some jealousy, much as he tries to stifle it.

Faith's hand finds his in the dark. "Angel wasn't the first to believe in me. That just happened to be the first time it took."

He squeezes back. "Guess we should get inside. It's vampire weather all of a sudden." They rise and walk back to the house, still holding hands. "You think Angel would have some perspective on Evan? Maybe we should give him a call."

Xander lays out the reasons why it's best that Faith make the approach.

"Sure, I'll call him."

She heads to the basement to find her address book. Willa's sitting at the kitchen table with a poetry book and a diet soda. There's some indefinable something he's picking up from her, a mood he can't quite name.

"How's the training going?"

"I'm sure you just asked Faith the same thing." She doesn't even look up.

"I would have been asking Faith what she thought about how it's going. Now I'm asking you what you think."

She lets the book fall closed. "It's good. I think. Faith mostly tells me I'm doing well."

"But?"

"It's weird for me. I've spent my whole life excelling at academic stuff, not the physical. My parents sent me to schools where they didn't even play games that had winners and losers. This whole fighting and beating people up thing takes some getting used to. The idea that they aren't even people takes some adjustment, too."

"Maybe it doesn't sink in until you see someone you knew, see the difference between who they were and the thing they are now. They take on aspects of the people they were, but it's all kind of broken up and turned all weird, sorta like a kaleidoscope. It's just a dark and ugly one. I hope you'll never experience that."

"Then how does somebody like Evan seem so human?" The question seems less of a challenge this time than an attempt at understanding.

"That's what we're still trying to figure out. Faith's going to give a call to her friend Angel. I'm not altogether certain there is 'somebody like Evan.' He might be the only one of his kind. He might not even be what he says he is. The evidence is stacking up on his side, but we still don't know."

Faith thunders up the basement stairs, battered address book in hand. "Hope this is still good. Can't just dial 1-800-EVILLAWYER anymore if it's not." She rounds up the cordless from the living room and punches in numbers. Waits a moment, then breathes. "Angel. Hey, Angel, it's Faith.... Good, fine.... No, not anymore. I'm out in Washington state, working with Xander. We're training a new Slayer he found here.... Yeah, yeah, it's good. Listen, there's something Xander wants to talk to you about." She thrusts the phone at him and jerks her head toward the door. "Willa and I are goin' on patrol."

He mouths a silent hey! but she's already halfway out the door, Willa in tow. He sighs, then lifts the phone. "Hello, Angel. It's been a long time. How's life --" he winces -- "uh, been treating you?"

"Things are all right. You know, I'm not so much into inflicting pain anymore. You can skip the small talk."

Xander laughs. "I'm trying something new. It's called being pleasant."

"Not that new," Angel says. "I remember the flowers you sent for Cordy's memorial, and your note."

Hard to believe it's been four years. "I've always been sorry I missed that. I really wasn't in any shape for it, though." He hadn't been drinking then. He'd had a shiny thirty-day chip which he'd set on the kitchen table as he wrote, like some kind of talisman.

"I heard some bits and pieces. Things are better?"

How weird is this? Talking to Angel about things that really matter. Somehow it's possible over the phone. "Some better, some worse. My life's pretty much on track, but I just buried a friend. Someone who worked for me."

"Xander, I'm sorry. Was it ... related to your work with your Slayer?"

"It was vampires, yeah."

"How can I help you?"

"It's not about that, but it's vampire-related. I was wondering if you'd ever heard about vampires who go off human blood. Other than the souled and the chipped."

There's a brief silence. "Well, I suppose there's Harmony."

"What's that? Some kind of movement?"

"No, just the one, thank goodness. My secretary, when I was at Wolfram & Hart. Harmony Kendall. She kinda went on the patch now and again, nothing longterm--"

"I'm talking hundreds of-- Harmony Kendall? Harmony Kendall was your secretary?"

"Well, yeah. She wasn't without skills."

"That was the word in high school, but I wouldn't know. She stopped drinking blood?"

"Human blood, yeah. Intermittently. You said hundreds--?"

"Right. Sorry. Have you heard of any vamps renouncing it for good? As in centuries."

"There've been stories."

"Know anyone who's ever claimed it?"

"No. In vampire circles it's only likely to get you killed."

"Those the circles you're traveling in these days? Tell me, do they sit around trying to guess whatever happened to ol' Ieuan Goch? The Watchers do, you know."

"Well, that's not exactly the crowd I'm running with, no. But with a few exceptions, vampires are a pretty live-for-the-moment bunch. Not all that much reminiscing over the glory days."

How disappointing for you, the old Xander would have said to the old Angel. Doesn't seem necessary now. "You were always pretty up on your history. Know him?"

"Oh yeah. Red Evan. He was notorious in his day. Ranged throughout Europe, left a lot of bodies behind him. Sired a good many vampires, too. Far as I can tell, he outlived most of his known progeny. He was a very smart vampire."

"Smart enough to still be around?"

Angel laughs. "That's a quaint notion. Red Evan disappeared around three hundred -- Wait a minute. Are you suggesting what it sounds like you're suggesting?"

"I'm wondering. But this isn't a parlor game. I've met a vampire who says he's Red Evan, and I'm inclined to believe him. About that. He's old, Angel. He's working on the cloven hands thing, though they look pretty human still."

There's another pause, longer this time. "And he says he's given up the hunt."

"That's what he says. I've had a friend go over the police records for the city, and there's nothing that makes a liar out of him. And that's in the forty years he's lived in this city." He fills Angel in on the rest of it -- Evan's self-proclaimed history, how Xander learned he was a vampire, the ongoing debate about his fate. "If we do decide to believe him, is it enough that he's not a threat now? Are his reasons for not killing good enough? He's not claiming any high ground, just stating what's what."

He's still a master of the broody silence after all these years. Xander waits through another pause. "Xander, I made a lot of mistakes when I started out in LA." A dry chuckle crackles over the line. "Well, actually I never stopped, but I moved on to different sorts of mistakes. When I first started this ... mission, I saw things -- demons -- in a more black and white way. Once I killed a demon I thought was abducting a woman, and learned he was her protector."

"Evan's not protecting anyone. He's neutral, he's made that much clear, and he has no intention of changing it."

"And so the question you're posing is, can you execute someone for neutrality?"

Execute. The word rocks him back. It's a moment before Xander speaks. "I think I've just answered that. Which poses another question: If he becomes active again after I had a chance to stop him, how do I live with myself?"

"It's been three hundred years since he's fed."

"But his body's changing. How do we know that won't put stresses on him that he can't handle?"

"We don't. You're right. This is completely new territory."

This acknowledgment makes Xander feel both better and worse.

"The thing is," Angel says, "no matter which thing you do, I'm not sure you'll ever have the luxury of knowing you did the right thing."

Execute. Three syllables that reverberate in his head.

Xander knows now which potentially-wrong thing he's going to do.

END

Lilac City 3: the Watcher

Summary: Continued from "Lilac City: the Artisan," five years after "Chosen." As Xander gathers a team of vampire fighters around himself, he confronts the fact that people he thought he knew are more than they seemed -- including Xander himself. And an epic battle will be waged in the streets of his adopted home.
Rating: R
Author Notes: This story began with a drabble that ran away with me, and was originally serialized in Live Journal, Dickens-style. Its structure and flow stems from that, and I've left those alone. Thanks to all the readers who chimed in with support, questions, corrections, meta, arguments and little tidbits that added to the whole -- and sometimes pushed the story in surprising new directions. I never thought this ride would last so long, or that I'd have so many great people traveling with me. Thanks to Luddite Robot for handing me an idea that branched in so many different directions in two different stories and for other helpful tidbits; Malkin Grey for the help in sorting out Ieuan Goch and his history; Moosesal for the Lorca poems; Superplin for Italian help (Xander's butchery of Italian here is his and mine alone). Many thanks to Automatic Badgirl, Herself and Luddite Robot for listening to me work through the story and helping me find my way, one chapter at a time. A huge thank you to my anonymous luthier friend who went above and beyond the call with on-the-spot beta services and many other forms of help. Xander sounds much more like a luthier because of you. Anyone interested in the art of instrument making should check out the Musical Instrument Makers Forum at www.mimf.com, an incredible resource.
Story Notes: Though Spokane is a real city and most places mentioned here are real (plus a couple of people in walk-on roles), this is an imaginary version where a certain grocery is open all night and other anomalies exist. All inaccuracies regarding Spokane and its haunts are mine. Spoilers: All of BtVS and AtS, and early s3 "Alias." (One small joke, not a crossover.) Warnings: language, het, character death, discussion of alcoholism and drug use; much abuse of nicotine, not to mention caffeine and sugar.
Disclaimer: All BtVS and AtS characters belong to Joss, Mutant Enemy and various corporate entities. I'm just having a bit of fun with them. The poems and songs mentioned herein belong to their authors and/or copyright holders; no copyright infringement is intended in any case. All places, people, news organizations and the like from Spokane are used in a purely fictional sense. But guys: you might want to take that big ol' vampire invitation off your tourist map -- some beings you don't want to "just fit right in and make yourself at home."

Strange days. He gets off the phone feeling like the world has tilted off its axis. He's got another ally now, in the last place he'd expected to find one. Nearly as unsettling is the feeling that his own stock has gone up with Angel as well.

Plus: Harmony Kendall.

He's got to remember to tell that one to Dawn in the morning. Nobody else in the house will appreciate the richness of that.

The memory of the Sunnydale rich girls' mafia makes him miss Cordelia in a way he hasn't for years. He's not sure why he never thought about going to see her in LA -- well, other than being a smalltown kid scared shitless of the big city. Other than his certainty that she was traveling in circles way too important for the likes of him. Other than knowing he'd well and truly blown it with her, not that he'd ever really felt good enough.

He'd gotten a couple of Cordy stories out of Angel, with the promise of more. Even over the phone Xander could sense his eagerness to talk about her to someone who knew her as more than just an abstract concept.

Visions of people in trouble, huh? The conduit for what Angel calls The Powers That Be. An even stranger notion than Harmony answering phones and drinking gourmet otter blood. "Cordy was really something, Xander," was how Angel summed it up, and in that bare framework of a sentence, he sees the truth, that Angel was in love with her. He's not sure he wants to know what it means that he and Angel seem destined to care about the same women.

He wanders out to the garage to check on the guitar. Tomorrow he'll glue the linings for the soundboard onto the sides, and after that, he'll glue on the back. Both Cumpiano and Young say to do the soundboard first, but Evan says he always starts with the back. "Whichever you glue on first is the only one you'll get to clean up," he told Xander. "No one'll see the underside of the soundboard, but if you look in through the soundhole, you'll be able to see beads of squeeze-out around the edge of the back."

Xander reaches for the phone, but there's no answer. Evan turns off his phone so often Xander's not sure why he has one. He'll swing by sometime tomorrow, maybe before his first shift back at work.

Despite the Madre della Madonna!-sized coffee from Starbucks, Dawn's more sleepwalking than navigating as Xander sheepdogs her through the terminal. He's glad they had some time last night to talk, since this morning mfffff is about as much as she can manage. When they make it to security, she turns and clutches him tightly.

"God, it's been good to see you so much better," she says into his chest.

Xander blinks. "I didn't know you thought I was unwell."

She releases him so she can look at him. "You haven't seemed like you. You're what held us together, and once you stopped, we've all gone flying off in a million different directions."

He doesn't know what to say to that. That's just wrong.

"But now you're all recharged, and people are being drawn to you again. It feels weird that none of them are people I know except for Faith, but it's kind of neat."

"Look, that's nothing to do with me--"

"Oh, as if." She crushes him in another hug. "I love you, buddy. And I want you to come see me next time."

"Love you too," he says into her hair. He wishes he could ask her to stay, maintain that bridge between his old life and friends and this unsettling new territory. Funny, though. The other end of that expanse is buttressed into nothing, false memories that feel more solid than much of his life the last five years. It's not her place, though. She's not a bridge, no longer a key. Much as she worries sometimes, she's got her own destiny.

He kisses her forehead. "You'd better go," he tells her. "You've got shoes to remove, pockets to empty."

Xander stands on the steps to the cafe and watches her go.

The house is empty when Xander returns from the airport. For a moment it feels like he's stepped back into his old life. He lets himself walk through that life, pretending he's just come back from the morning meeting. Rummaging in the cupboard, he finds his little silver espresso pot, letting his eye slide on past the large coffeemaker he recently bought. Tamping espresso into the basket, he listens to the ruckus of birds in the backyard. The Nelson Muntz bird makes its mating cry. HAH-ha! Peg hears it as Hi, sweetie!, which tells you something about her fundamental world view. She can find love and an extra syllable just for the looking. She's told him the real name of the Nelson Muntz bird, but he keeps forgetting.

It takes a bit of searching, but he finds a breakfast burrito in the freezer and sticks it in the microwave. As he waits for the burrito and the espresso and the water to heat, he pulls one of the slim volumes from the book rack -- one of the old ones, not the Lorca that Willa gave him. He's trying on his pre-guitar self again, just to see how it fits.

Though he'd been making an effort to cut back, he lights up a cigarette. All this, the organic fast food, the smokes, the poems, the single Americano at a time, all had formed the ritual of a man who lived alone. Now the house is full of life and clutter and noise, home to a set of new habits. None of these new routines have yet achieved the status of ritual, not yet. Though Xander thinks Faith's cinnamon rolls may be close.

Something feels off, and he realizes the television should be prattling. He pads barefoot into the living room and raises Katie Couric. Her voice washes over him, serious but reassuring. There's bad news, but a familiar face has come to break it to him.

The microwave beeps, and Xander returns to the kitchen. Assembles his coffee, retrieves his egg-in-a-tortilla, and carries them into the living room. Huggies commercial, minivan commercial, Egg McMuffin commercial, and suddenly he realizes there's a difference between Faith's rolls and his Americano. Her pastries do qualify as ritual -- they are distillation of emotion, the complex (he assumes) range of feelings that surround her freedom. It's five years since Angel and his people got her out of prison, yet a reliable supply of cinnamon rolls are still a security blanket for her, a reminder of something she'd lost and regained. Can routine be called ritual if it's more about the suppression of feeling than the celebration of it? That's what his measured life has been, until recently: a way of being numb without resorting to chemicals (well, except for the nicotine and caffeine).

He reaches for the remote and cuts Katie off mid-sentence, and scrapes the rest of his burrito into the garbage pail under the sink.

Xander has his answer, he guesses. His old self isn't such a great fit -- at least he doesn't want it to be. As he hears his car pull into the drive, he reaches for the coffeemaker and fills its carafe with water.

HAH-ha! comments the Nelson Muntz bird.

When the front door bangs open, Xander turns to greet Faith, unable to suppress a grin.

"Hi, sweetie."

Straley and Willa trail behind her into the kitchen and on to the basement to stow the weapons.

"Those would be a lot handier if we found a place up here for them. I could do some retrofitting of the coat closet." He slips his arms around her waist, accepts her kiss. "How was the daring daylight raid?"

"Good news and bad news. We cleared out a nest of four, but I don't think that's all of 'em from the store attack."

"There were seven that I know of from the store, and this makes nine."

Straley emerges from the basement stairs. "Yeah, but the guy you described as ringleader wasn't there."

"I think he's busy making himself lots of new friends," Faith says. "We tried to get a location for him out of them, but either they lied or he's moved on."

"He's been quiet too long," Xander says. "I'd like to get him before he comes to us again. And speaking of quiet ... Willa, do you have anything to report?"

She raises her head. "They're the experts."

"You're the Slayer," Xander says. "It's not a question of who's an expert and who's not. You learn this gig as you go, that's the way it's always been. I was doing this for seven years before I took my break, and I'm still on the phone with Giles and Angel trying to get this Red Evan thing sorted out. The most important thing I learned from being part of the Scooby gang, and it was a radical concept in the history of the Council, is that you'll survive a lot better as part of a team. That doesn't mean handing your power to someone else, saying, 'Oh, well, they're the experts.' You draw their power to yourself, you lend them yours. This is why Buffy's still alive, why she was the longest-surviving Slayer in Council history. There's no fading in the background here, Willa. That's a luxury we don't have. Contribute something, even if it's a question."

"I've got one, then. Why do the vampires we run across hang out in the equivalent of crack dens? I mean, they're immortal. If I'm immortal and have powers, I'm not sleeping in a dump."

"Damn good question," Faith says. "I've wondered that myself. For every vamp with taste, like Angel, you've got dozens doing their not-living in shitholes."

"You watched Evan's place," Willa says. "Is it like that?"

"I didn't get a real good look," Faith says, "but it didn't look like it. I don't think it was super deluxe, but it seemed decent."

"There's one thing you have to remember," Xander points out. "A lot of these guys aren't immortal. Yeah, sure, in a perfect vampire world they live forever, but the ones we find in nests, they aren't the brightest bulbs in the chandelier. They were stupid enough to be vamped in the first place, and for the most part, they aren't looking past the easy score. As Angel said last night, they're the live-for-the-moment dead set. Vamps like Angel and Evan who've survived for centuries, they have some talent for strategic thinking, some conception of the future."

Willa's mouth quirks up in a smile. "So somebody could write a great academic paper exploring the correlation between interior design and longevity in the vampire world."

"Well, let's think about that," Xander says. "Maybe we're not finding our ringleader because he's too smart to live in a shitheap. We need to expand our search parameters. Where do we find some living areas protected from sunlight and too much attention, but not necessarily a derelict building?"

"I'll do some asking around," Straley says. "I'll say I'm looking for a place I can rent when I'm on third. I'm thinking cheaper is better."

"I'm thinking you're right. Not stupid, but not job-holding. He's probably supporting himself on petty crime."

"I'll get on that before tonight's shift." Straley grins. "After one more unsatisfying day's sleep I can bitch about."

The meeting of the Scoobies Northwest breaks up, Straley and Xander to their pre-sleep routines, Willa downstairs to train with Faith. Faith lingers long enough to slide her arms around Xander before he puts in some time in the workshop.

She raises a hand to his face. "You're doing fine, baby." She touches her lips to his. "You give good speech."

Two more lingering kisses, then she heads downstairs to train with Willa.

His sleep is fragmented, splintered by dreams and flashbacks to the night of Damon's murder. Finally Xander drags himself up for a long spell under a pounding shower, then he shambles into the kitchen.

"Coffee?" he asks Willa, who's sitting with a book and a half cup of something pale and milky.

"No thanks. There's some already made, but I think it's old."

Sniffing the pot, he dumps it out and works on making fresh. "So you're getting started on that interior design paper?"

She laughs. "I think there's a lack of source material. Have you read this?" She closes the book and turns its cover toward him. "It's Susan Cheever's biography of Bill Wilson."

"No."

"You can borrow it if you like. I've read it; I was just looking up some stuff."

"That's all right. I find I can use a tool without needing to know a lot about the guy who invented it." Especially Alcoholics Anonymous, a tool which does the job but doesn't quite fit him. It chafes and makes him tired, but he hasn't yet found anything which works better.

"Did you know he took LSD?"

"Who?"

"Bill Wilson."

He pauses in his rummaging through the cabinets. "Huh-uh. I hadn't heard that. Just one more hypocrite, huh?"

"See, I don't think so. LSD was different in its early days. There were a lot of incredibly bright people in America experimenting with it."

"Willa, there are a lot of incredibly bright people crawling into a bottle every day. Incredibly bright people -- and I count myself in that number -- can be stupider than anyone when it comes to fucking up their heads."

"I'm talking about before the whole 'Watch out for the brown acid' thing. All these guys at Harvard thought it was going to bring the human race into the next level of consciousness. It wasn't just something to do on Saturday night."

Xander wishes he knew why every single conversation with this woman ends up in an argument. "Tripping is tripping."

"Richard Alpert used it as a stepping stone to God. He ended up bringing Eastern philosophy to the masses. Who's to say he'd have found it himself if he weren't looking for something that worked better than the LSD?"

"Who?"

"Ram Dass. Be Here Now."

Xander snorts. "The man who launched ten thousand hippies."

"Go ahead and scoff. I happen to think looking for knowledge has a lot more merit to it than looking for numbness."

Ouch. "We kid ourselves all the time about what we're looking for. Making one reason to get stoned more moral than another isn't gonna lead anywhere but another round of rehab."

Her face darkening, Willa gets to her feet. "I'm going out for a run." She bangs into her room to change.

Xander grabs his sketchbook and his ebony and pearl and heads to Evan's shop.

The metal gates are down when he gets there. Xander backs up on the sidewalk, looks up at the windows above. No lights are on, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. Faith told him Evan has some way of sealing out the sunlight. Works both ways. Still, he has a bad feeling about this. He approaches the gates again, peering in through the grillwork over the peephole.

He squints, trying to see through the colored film put up to protect the guitars (protect the vamp who owns the store) from the sunlight. Shit. Several of the guitars are missing. He knows from the position of the empty metal stands that it's the expensive ones, the custom guitars, that have vanished.

Xander slams his hand against the grate. "Fuck!"

"Aw, man," says a voice to his blind side. Xander whirls to face the speaker. It's the guy who owns the store next door. "You had a big deposit down with him?"

"Not exactly, but I wasn't expecting this. Do you know anything about it?"

"Nope. Just that he didn't open yesterday, and his car wasn't out back when I came in this morning. It's always out there. I'd almost suspect it didn't run, if I hadn't seen him take it out now and again."

"You think maybe he's just taken a vacation, had an emergency?" Jesus, hope makes you stupid. Yeah, maybe he's on a nice sun-drenched Jamaican holiday. Evan's had an emergency all right. Xander just hopes it's not going to be the kind of emergency that threatens his own life.

As he expected, the shopkeeper shakes his head. "Never taken any time off since I've known him. Could be an emergency, I guess, but he didn't leave me any information. And from what I could see looking in the window, he's taken some stock. Sorry."

"Yeah. Thanks." Xander slips his wallet out, hands the shopkeeper his business card. "Would you mind giving me a call if he comes back, or if you notice anything unusual going on around here?"

"Sure thing."

There's time to hit the 6:30 meeting, and he drops in, but he finds he can't sit still. The speaker's telling a rollicking story about his own history as a burglar and con man, but all Xander can think of is how badly he's fucked everything up. As the speaker winds up to his climax, Xander stands and slips out the door.

He finds a pay phone that works and calls Straley's number. He doesn't identify himself, just says, "Evan's bolted."

Straley meets him in the cafe at Auntie's. It's fairly deserted due to a reading upstairs, but they find a corner table near a noisy heating duct, where they hunch over their espressos, voices low.

"Padlocked the fucking door," Xander says again. "Taken his best guitars and run. I should've staked him when I had the chance. Christ, how could I be so stupid?"

"You gathered as much information as you could. Haven't you told me that's what your Watcher friend used to do?"

"Not when it comes to vampires. The library's for the end-of-the-world prophecies, sorting out your Harbingers from your Sisterhood of Jhe. Vampires are simple. You encounter 'em, you dust 'em. It's when you deviate from that plan that life gets complicated. Anyone he kills from here on out is on me."

"I'm not completely convinced he's left to go on a killing spree," Straley says. "He picked this place to live because it's quiet, he can blend in. Now he's been exposed, and there's a pair of vampire slayers in town, plus some newly arrived vamps, and there's what looks to be a war heating up. Would you stick around, if you were Evan?"

Xander's silent for a moment. "I am Evan. Except for the butcher's blood habit, I mean. I came here because I was tired, and I just wanted to be left alone. So yeah, I'm here and the war's come to me, but I'm sticking around."

"You have a soul," Straley points out.

"I'm not convinced that's the key to everything. I've seen plenty of bad shit carried out by people with souls."

"Okay, then, you've been a warrior on the side of good. What you're doing here is rejoining the fight. You've pretty much told Evan he can't be neutral. He's not going to make the leap from killer to neutral non-killing vamp to demon fighter. But he may not be willing to fight on the other side, either. Best thing then is to disappear."

"How much longer can he blend in?" Xander asks. "He's slowly losing the form that allows him to pass. Soon he's going to be forced to take sides, and it's not going to be with the people who'll know he's an outsider."

"But how long is soon? Could be decades. He's still passing now."

"Shit, I don't know." He rubs at his good eye with the heel of his hand. The noise level rises as the reading breaks up and people head into the cafe.

"I'll see if we can pick up some information on his car, keep my ears open for other information that might lead us to him, or at least let us know what he's up to."

"I'd appreciate that."

"And I'm still on that nest hunt. I'll see what I turn up there."

"Thanks." They both rise and throw out their napkins and empty cups, and Xander prepares himself to walk back into the scene of Damon's murder.

Xander arrives twenty minutes before his shift begins, taking a quick tour of the outside before he walks in. Nothing unusual that he can see. He enters at the deli end of the store, giving him a chance to scan each aisle as he walks across and back to the office. He waves at the checkers, accepts a couple of hugs. Peg's arrived too; she's sitting on the bench near the entrance, deep in conversation with Bobby, the kid who's taking Damon's job through the summer after being a bag boy his whole high school career. He's a college boy now, quick-witted and smooth with the girls -- it'll be a whole different dynamic from Damon.

Continuing on to the office, Xander checks in with the second shift manager, who has nothing unusual to report. He asks how Xander's doing, how the arm's healing.

"Good. I'll have to be careful about some things, but that's why I've got Bobby. How does Peg seem to you?"

"I'd have given her more time, but if she doesn't want it, you can't make her take it, I guess. She'll be fine once she gets started for the night."

Xander goes over the paperwork he'll be working with, checks the delivery schedules, then heads for the deli espresso counter. He's wired already just from being back, but he gets himself another coffee, rings it up. The second shift checkers are closing out their drawers, and Peg and Bobby are winding up their conversation. Bobby gives her a hug and a few pats on the shoulder before they break it up. Not exactly what he'd have expected from a slick operator like Bobby, but it's nice to see.

"Hanging in?" Xander asks her as she approaches. He makes a gesture that offers a hug if she wants one without being obvious enough to others if she rebuffs him. To his relief, she steps into his arms and wraps hers around him.

"I'm just not going to be stupid about the family I have left," Peg murmurs. His breath catches, and Peg gently pats his back before she lets him go.

"It's going to be different," he says.

"It is. But Bobby's a sweet kid."

They slip into their routines, subtly altered by Damon's absence. He finds himself forgetting now and then, and when there's a light knock at the office door, he looks up, half expecting to see Damon. "Hey, Bobby. What do you need?"

"There's a message I'm supposed to give you. From Darius."

"Darius? I don't know any--"

But his question is answered as Bobby's face transforms. "He said to tell you this isn't over. The retard was just the first."

Xander thinks of Peggy folded in a hug by not-Bobby. How easily he could --

It still sounds like Bobby's laugh, with a new edge that sounds like the ring of clashing swords. "What's wrong, man? You're looking a little green. This is nothing. By the time we're through--"

He clearly underestimates Xander's willingness to punch a stake through the chest of a kid he knows. As his dust spills to the floor, Xander slams out the office door and runs full tilt to the front of the store, stake in hand.

"Peg!"

"Xander, what on earth--" She gets a look at his face. "What's happened?"

No one's in the store. "Excuse me," he says, and touches two fingers to her neck. He doesn't need to find the pulse there, a little wild. The warmth of her skin floods him with relief.

"What's going on?"

"You know the stuff I wasn't going to tell you until you felt you were ready?"

Peg nods.

"Screw ready," he says. "I'm going to tell you now."

First thing he does is call his house. After seven rings he hangs up, cursing. He's getting everyone cellphones in the morning.

"What's going on? Where's Bobby?"

"Bobby's gone."

"What do you mean he's gone? He was here five minutes ago."

Xander takes her hand thankgodit'swarmthankgodit'swarm) and gives it a little squeeze. "I'm going to tell you things that sound nuts. Trust me. This is something I know even better than I know my job here."

"I'm listening," she says.

"Bobby's dead, Peg. I know that sounds crazy, you just were talking to him. That's what's got me so freaked out. The kid you were just talking to and hugging is -- was -- a vampire. He was sent here by the leader of that gang who killed Damon, to let me know they could get to you anytime."

"Why? What do they want?"

Xander doesn't think for a second that she believes him, just that her question is designed to figure out just how entrenched his craziness is. "You heard. They want me to take Faith and Willa and leave."

She shakes her head. "Why you three?"

"Faith and Willa are vampire slayers. I'm -- well, support staff. We're a threat to them, so they're trying to drive us off. I'm sorry this has put you in danger. And god, I'm so sorry about Damon and Bobby. You have to know what's happening, they'll gun for you as a way to get to me."

"I don't understand what you're saying. That wasn't Bobby?"

"Not anymore."

"He knew who I was. We talked about things only he would remember."

"He has Bobby's memories, yeah. He can even put on a convincing act. But it's not Bobby inside that body. It's a demon."

"Demon," she repeats.

"I know. It sounds --" The doors glide open then, and he opts to quit talking rather than drop his voice. He straightens magazines, neatens the candy racks while he waits for the customers to conduct their business and go. It's not the last frustrating interruption; each time he gets some momentum going on his explanation, gets maybe a little trust or at least a certain amount of logic built up, he's forced to stop. "This isn't how I'd have chosen to tell you," he finally says. "But you can't protect yourself if you don't know what the deal is."

"Demons and vampires," Peg says.

"You said yourself. It was a bite that killed Damon, not an icepick. You saw."

"Is Damon going to be a vampire now too?"

"No. He wasn't turned. There's a ritual that has to be followed. The leader threatened to do it, do you remember?"

"No." She looks out the big front windows, to the parking lot with its pools of light. "I wish you hadn't told me this."

"I wish I hadn't had to. But it's reached the point where you can be happily ignorant, or you can be safe."

"Am I safe?"

She's too damn sharp for him. He wants to lie, but it sticks in his throat. "We're working on that." Xander puts the stake in her hand. "Go for the heart. Like this." He mimics the stabbing motion he can do practically in his sleep. "You can also light 'em on fire. That's how I killed the one in the store the night -- the other night. Driving them into the sunlight works, but isn't quite practical most of third shift. Beheading too, but that's a little hardcore. Keep this at hand. Don't stash it in the till, you need to grab it at a second's notice."

"What about you?"

He almost laughs. "I've got more."

Peg looks at the stake in her hand, then back up at him.

Xander twitches a smile. "Welcome to the Scooby gang."

He'd like to put in a call right now to Giles, but he's unwilling to leave Peg alone in the front of the store. A couple of stock boys are working in the back, but right now he trusts no one. Halfway through his shift Faith and Willa appear.

"We made the rounds and thought maybe we should swing by here too," Faith says.

"I'm glad you did." He walks his Slayers back to the deli area, to one of the cafe tables there. He buys them sodas and they split a submarine sandwich. "We had a message. One of my workers was turned. He had Peg in a big Mr. Sensitive hug and made sure I saw it, then showed himself to me. Said a vamp named Darius had sent him. Ever heard of him?"

"Can't say I have," Faith says. "Did you get any more out of his messenger?"

"Just the posturing, then I dusted him."

She gives him a look. "Think you might've gotten a little more if you'd been less trigger-happy?"

"No. This kid was at Damon's funeral, out in the bright sunlight. He'd only just been turned. He was just the delivery boy, not a member of any inner circle. Speaking of which, I told Peg everything. Or as much of everything as I could between customers walking in. How much she's actually taken in, I'm not sure."

"You think they'll be back tonight?" Willa asks.

"Who can say? I think their plan is to unnerve us -- me -- as much as possible, so I'm expecting unpredictable. How was patrol? Anything happen that might bring us closer to this Darius?"

"Not so much that, but we dusted a couple of his new soldiers as they were rising," Faith says.

"I'll take that any day. Good work. I'm hoping Kevin turns up something that leads to this guy before anyone else gets killed."

"I'm sorry," Faith says. "About this guy who worked for you." She rests her hand on his arm. "Were you friends?"

"Nothing like with Damon. He worked here summers for years, but mostly different shifts. He was just a kid, though, first or second year of college."

"Just a little younger than me," Willa's voice sounds distant.

"Yeah." He's silent for a moment. "We've got a war going now. If we're not gaining ground, we're losing it."

"Why don't you check in with Giles, see if this Darius guy is on his radar," Faith suggests. "Willa and I will hang here, keep an eye out."

"Good plan."

Faith catches his hand as they get to their feet. "Shitty night for you, with Evan and now this. I'm sorry," she says again. He'd called her at the house after he'd left Straley and told her what happened. "Want me to do a little breaking and entering, see if we can learn anything?"

"I like that in theory, but I need you here when it's dark, and that's pretty exposed for daytime."

"Never said I was going to scale the side of the building. I didn't read all those Kinsey Milhone mysteries for nothin'. I'll see if I can work up something that looks like a uniform."

"Still, be careful. The guy next door knows he's bolted, and knows who I am and that I'm interested."

Faith and Willa move off to cover the front of the store as Xander heads back toward the office. He gives a customer in the produce aisle a hearty enough greeting to make her visibly nervous. Well, better she's nervous than half asleep.

The call to Giles turns up no actual information, but lets him know this Darius is not a big noise in the vamp world. Giles thinks he'd clearly like to be -- he's got a sense of history to have named himself for one of the great kings of Persia. Xander thinks maybe he just likes Hootie and the Blowfish. By the time he gets off the phone, he's not sure whether Darius is the ringleader at the scene of the attack, or someone calling the shots who hasn't shown himself. But at least he's not dealing with rivers of blood, one of those vamps who cause the dark ones to fear, blah blah blah. Not that a wannabe big noise isn't dangerous enough.

By the time he steps outside for his sunrise nicotine gum, nothing more has happened at all. He knows this tactic is supposed to jack up his tension level, make him wonder when the next attack will come and who'll be the target.

It's doing a damn good job.

Xander has clocked out but hasn't left yet when Straley calls the store. Evan's car has been found by Lake Coeur d'Alene.

Straley's swings by after he's changed into civilian clothes to head to Coeur d'Alene. Xander slides his name tag into his pants pocket and installs himself in the passenger seat.

"We stopping by your place?"

"No need. I let Faith know I'd be back late, but didn't say what was up. I'll wait till we have the full story. I had to promise we weren't going to bust up a nest without her, though."

Straley laughs. "She likes a scrap, that girl."

"She does. Wasn't so funny, the first years I knew her."

"Why's that?"

"She was a lot less concerned about which side of things she was on." Funny how he's so careful in what he reveals of Faith's history to Willa, yet he's fine with telling Straley. "You didn't want her for an enemy."

"I still wouldn't."

Xander changes the subject, filling Straley in on Darius and his messenger. "Ever happen to hear that name on the street?"

Straley shakes his head. "I'm going to find more excuses to swing past the store while I'm working third."

"I wouldn't turn you down."

The weather is having a tough time deciding what it wants to be as they head into Coeur d'Alene. Dense, dark clouds pile up overhead, with patches of bright blue here and there. The lake water looks dark and choppy as they pull into the parking lot at Independence Point. As he steps out of the car, he spots a few seagulls hunched against the wind at the edge of the water.

Evan's big old boat of a Pontiac squats at the end of the lot nearest the lake. A guy in a uniform hitches the tow bar of a truck to the bumper, while a city cop looks on. Straley introduces himself and Xander to the cop, who tells them the car was seemingly abandoned, parked there yesterday morning in the pre-dawn hours. There was a dollar stuffed in the corresponding payment slot, to cover two hours of parking. The doors were unlocked, the windows rolled down. Nothing of value was found in the car, but anyone could've had access to it during the last 24 hours.

Xander turns and walks away, up the grassy knoll overlooking the lake. (Does anyone ever think of the phrase "grassy knoll" in any good context?) There's a circle of wooden benches, and one scrolled concrete bench that resembles the capital of an Ionic column, with a sunburst plaque on the side and a pole sticking up out of the top. Maybe it's from growing up in Sunnydale, but he can imagine all sorts of nefarious purposes for such a structure. Is this where Evan would have chosen to greet the first sunlight to touch his skin in a thousand years -- if that's what he'd decided to do? Or would he have walked down to the floating boardwalk to let his ashes drift into the waters of the lake? Xander sees no scorch marks up here.

There's a chance that Evan faked this all. Left the car, left the business, walked away to start over again. Xander's mind organizes everything into movie scenarios, but the only one his mental card catalog turns up is Hannibal Lecter's escape in The Silence of the Lambs. Not a good reference point.

His chest feeling hollow, he walks on down to the pier. Kiosks for lake cruises, small plane tours, parasailing crowd the dock, shuttered still. He's not sure whether to mourn, feel pissed off and duped, or what, so he settles on all of the above.

After a while he hears footsteps on the wooden planking, coming to a halt beside him, on his good side. Xander doesn't need to look to know it's Straley. Both stand silently for a moment, then Xander asks, "Who's Alene?"

"What?"

"Heart of Alene, right? She was some homesick French explorer's girlfriend or wife, maybe daughter?"

Straley laughs softly. "Not even close. It's the name the settlers or the fur traders gave the local Indians. It means 'heart of an awl.' You know, awl, the tool."

Xander considers this a moment. "Sharp. Basically, French for 'These Indians aren't nearly so easy to screw over as those guys who sold Manhattan for $24.'"

Straley laughs again. "Something like that."

"So do we know anything?" His ears are beginning to ache from the wind.

"Can't say we do. Do you have a feeling one way or the other?"

"Yeah. 'One way' on odd numbered minutes, 'the other' on the even. You?"

"Well, he didn't get to be a thousand by being stupid. He could easily set something like this up. On the other hand, what you said last night about it getting harder for him to pass. Didn't he say something that night you found him out, about getting bored with immortality?"

"Yeah. Which could've been the truth, could've been setup." The bright sunlight that warmed him a moment ago is submerged again in charcoal piles of cloud. He shudders in the sudden chill. His California bones were not made for this. "Why don't we get the fuck out of here?"

Straley's got some follow-up to do on his search for Darius' lair, so he drops Xander at the store parking lot. Xander makes a quick run inside for groceries, only to get caught up in a conversation with the day manager. "So Bobby flaked on you last night, huh?"

"Yeah. Stepped outside on his break and just didn't come back."

"Huh. He's never done anything like that before, always been pretty conscientious. Think maybe it was third shift?"

"Could be, I guess. Some people can't hack it. That was, what? His third night?"

The day manager nudges Xander. "Well, it's harder to meet pretty girls at three a.m. Maybe that was the problem."

"Yeah, right." He hates standing here cracking jokes about Bobby's fondness for flirting while the kid in question is currently mingling with food crumbs and dead bees in the office Dust Buster. "I'd better get going."

"Sure. See you, Alex."

The house is quiet when he lets himself in. He unpacks the groceries, heats some leftover soup and toasts some bread, feeling worse and worse as the morning wears on. About Bobby, who's going to be reported missing before too long. About Evan, whose absence might be noticed by a few, but who probably won't be missed. But really, before the last couple of months, Xander could have said the same about himself. He'd never really thought about how lonely a life it was, living among people you didn't consider yourself part of, until he regarded Evan.

Suddenly he remembers the bottles Evan had brought the night of the funeral. He steps out to the front porch to retrieve the bag, a little soggy from the nights outdoors. Clutching it against him, he heads to the garage, where he deposits it on a shelf. He'll deal with it when he knows Willa's out of the house. Though he tries not to look, he finds himself contemplating his guitar, still exposed, awaiting its back and soundboard.

Xander begins removing the binder clips bristling all around the curves of its sides, already mourning the loss of his mentor. He can share this process with Faith, or Straley and Willa, but it's not the same. None of them can advise him, walk him through a difficult procedure or help him make an informed choice. None of them can know, when he's finished this instrument, what it was like to create it, how it felt to pour hundreds of hours into a labor of love.

Whirling, he seizes a piece of scrap and hurls it at the garage door. He grabs a hammer and one of his practice sides, one of the later ones with fair curves, and pounds it into splintered pieces. He's tugging another curved practice side from a jumble of scraps when the kitchen door flies open and Faith cries out, "Your guitar!" She crosses the garage faster than he'd have believed, and yanks the hammer from his hand. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"I -- the guitar's okay. I just -- Evan's gone. He might be dead."

Gently she tugs the maple from his other hand and lays them both aside. "Tell me."

"They found his car, that's all. Abandoned yesterday by Lake Coeur d'Alene, sometime before dawn."

"Where's this, out in the wilderness somewhere?"

Xander shakes his head. "No, there's a park right in the city, on the edge of the lake." Evan made his exit the same way he's spent the last few hundred years -- in the middle of things, but unseen.

Made his exit. No way to tell how permanent an exit it was.

"So you're thinking, what, he went there to wait for the sun to turn him into a six-foot Zippo?"

"Maybe."

"You sure that's the only way it could've been?"

"Anything could've happened. The city dock's right there. Or he could have walked over a block or two and stolen a car. Hell, he doesn't have to breathe; he could walk across the bottom of the lake, swim up the St. Joe and emerge in St. Maries."

Faith strokes his cheek. "But you don't think so."

"No. I really don't." His jaw pulses under her hand and his eyes burn.

"I'm sorry. You liked him, I know. I could tell he thought a lot of you. He came here after Damon's funeral. He took that risk for you."

Xander wishes he hadn't, wishes life were still as simple -- relatively speaking -- as it had been before he'd made Red Evan's acquaintance. His lips twist. Now there's a wish with some zing to it. Where's a vengeance demon when you need one?

"Why don't we do something today?" Faith blurts. "Go off somewhere and be together. Sit by the river, get in the car and get lost, play goddamn putt-putt golf. Whatever suits you, baby."

"What about Willa? Why aren't you training?"

"She went to her meeting this morning, then was going to go to her parents' house for the day. They asked her to come, and I figured it'd be good to give her a break. Give us all one. Things have gotten a little intense lately."

"Between her and me, you mean."

"In general. But that too. Nothing a little time off can't cure."

Xander would like to believe that's true. There are so many things he'd like to believe, but he just doesn't have it in him.

He decides to start out by believing a little thing. Surely he can manage that, looking into the dark eyes of a woman named Faith. Time off -- he'll believe in that.

"That would be great," he says. "Just give me a couple hours to crash, then let's go."

After Xander takes Faith to a late lunch at the Steam Plant Grill, they walk to Riverfront Park. The restored 1909 carrousel impresses her less than the vacuum-powered garbage-eating goat. Outside the carrousel house they sit on the concrete steps down to the water, and Faith digs in her bag for the heel of stale peasant bread she brought from the house. They're immediately mobbed by aggressive geese, until Faith throws the rest of the loaf into the water and they flee.

"There's a reason I'm suspicious of nature," she tells him. "I'd rather be dealing with vampires."

He leads her to the catwalk over the falls, which are roaring this time of year. The air temperature seems to drop several degrees as they let the mist settle over their skin. Xander slips his good arm around her waist and she leans into him.

"Harris," she says abruptly. "Are we having a date?"

"Do you want to be having a date?"

"I hate dating worse than I hate nature. I mean, you go out with a near-complete stranger, often doing something you'd never do with one of your friends. You spend the whole time either thinking you might be having a good time if you were with one of your friends instead of the loser you're with, or that you could at least say, 'This blows, let's leave.' And the only thing worse than all the blank spaces between you is the awkwardness of trying to fill them. 'So -- do you have any brothers and sisters? What's your favorite movie? Tell me about your tattoo.' All that horseshit. Jesus, it's unbearable. Much easier to screw 'em and cut 'em loose."

Xander grins. "I don't know, Faith. Once you say the words 'putt-putt golf,' you've entered the realm of dating, as far as I'm concerned."

"The garbage goat doesn't cancel that out?"

"It might've, but geese-feeding cancels that out."

"Shit."

He settles his hand over the base of her spine. "So tell me about your tattoo. It's new since our date involving the Sisterhood of Jhe."

Her dimples come out of hiding. "Now that was a date." After a pause, she says, "I got it after Sunnydale. I was already planning on it before, though, after Angelus and Orpheus and all. I came so close to dying, and the drug took me to a place so dark ... I wanted to mark the fact that I survived that. It kind of ended up being about surviving both of those things." She peers at him. "You don't have that look on your face."

"What look?"

"The must-I-hear-about-Angel look."

"I told you, I've decided to stop being a dick about him. I'm dick-free."

"Don't go totally dick-free. You might want that later."

He grins. "How much later?"

"How long does it take to get home?"

"I know a ploy when I hear one. Sorry. No ejector seat on this date. I think we've got some putt-putt golf to play."

They end up playing laser tag at the Armory instead, and Faith of course racks up a score that Linda Hamilton in full Terminator-chick mode couldn't touch. Xander gives up on not being multiply killed, and develops an out-in-a-blaze-of-glory strategy, blowing up enemy HQ a few times. When he gets his scorecard, he feels all Linda Hamiltony himself.

They turn in their gear, flushed and breathing hard and horny beyond all thought.

It takes, they discover, three and a half minutes to get home.

When they emerge from the bedroom, Faith starts a pot of coffee while Xander goes into his workshop and turns on the hot pot. At her suggestion, their date is winding up here, with Faith hanging out while he glues the back on the guitar. Though he's grateful that Willa wasn't around for the last hour or so, he can't say he's not concerned by her absence.

He steps into the kitchen, gets some frozen cubes of hide glue to drop into the applicator bottle. "Did Willa say when she'll be back?"

"In time to patrol; don't worry." She follows him back into the garage, setting his silver mug in its spot, then perching on the wooden stool with her own coffee.

While he waits for the glue to heat, he begins dry-clamping the back in place. "It's getting almost that time."

"It's working on getting dark, that's all. Nothing says we have to head out right at nightfall."

"I don't know. Wouldn't have hurt to set a definite time."

"She's not a kid, Xander. She doesn't need a curfew. Give her a little air."

He doesn't need this kind of distraction right before gluing up. That doesn't stop him from pushing it further. "Are you saying I'm smothering her?"

"No. But she had a life before we came along. Before she found out she's a Slayer. She needs a little space to maintain that."

He's got the clamps backed off a bit now that he's checked the joint, and he removes them, setting them close by where they'll go. "Wes and Giles gave you plenty of space, I seem to recall. That didn't seem to work too well."

She bristles. "That wasn't space so much as a universe. They neglected me, Xander. Yeah, it was a mistake, you've got that right, but you don't avoid one mistake by making the opposite one."

To his surprise, Xander finds his own hackles rising at the suggestion that Giles did a bad job. "There was a little free will involved there, I think."

Faith sighs. "Of course there was. Christ."

"You think I'm doing a lousy job?"

"I said no such thing. Jesus, you're touchy. I'm just saying you'll hang onto her a lot better if you don't hold on so damn tight."

"I'm almost ready to start gluing up. I can't talk till I'm done." Without giving her a chance to answer, he fires up the portable hair dryer on the bench, aiming hot air at the area he'll be working on. Working quickly and carefully, he applies the hot glue and joins the back and sides, resetting the clamps. He's dimly aware of Faith, who watches for a while, then gets up and wanders over to the shelves.

When he's finished with the last clamp, he cleans off the squeeze-out with a shop rag. He works quickly and methodically, before the hot glue has a chance to cool. Maybe this is for the best, a little time to break the tension. He doesn't have to be so defensive all the time, so quick to believe he's being judged. Wiping his hands with a clean shop rag, he looks around for Faith. "All right. Now we --" He stops when he sees Faith with the shapeless brown paper bag.

"Mind telling me what the fuck this is about?"

"Shit," he mutters.

She is blazing. "I would think so, yeah."

"No, it's not what you think." How lame is that line? Doesn't matter that it's true. "I just brought that in this morning. It's been in the bushes since that night Evan came over."

"That's not helping any."

"He brought it, thinking there was a wake. I made him leave it outside, then with everything that happened, I kept forgetting it was there. I put it in here because -- shit, careful --"

But the bag is ripping and one of the bottles slips through and shatters on the concrete floor. The smell of bourbon blooms in the air, nearly making him gag. Xander hits the garage door opener, raising it halfway. He points his fan toward the gap, drawing the stench outside, reeling off a string of curses. "Do me a favor, will you? Pour the rest of that piss out."

Faith pulls the torn bag away from the intact bottle and says, "Well, looky here."

Turning to look, he sees that the bottle is a little over half full. "Fuck. Fuck. Willa."

All his fault. All his fault.

It's the tune he can't get out of his head, that provides the beat for his walk to work, that accompanies the routines of the beginning of his shift.

How many chances had he had to get rid of those bottles? How could he have believed Willa wouldn't find them just because he didn't deal with them? How fucking stupid could he be?

The smell of bourbon has curled into his head, reminding him how easy it would be to step away from his problems for a while. Couldn't make them any worse. He hasn't had a drink in four years, yet he's just buried one of his friends, lost another, staked a kid he's known for years, savaged Faith out of his fears that he's doing a shit job.

Wrong word, fears. Try certainty. Whatever made him believe he could do this, guide another person anywhere but Loserville? The Harrises own Loserville the way old money families own steel towns and railroad towns. He might get out and see other parts of the world, think he can fit into them, but in the end he'll always come back home where he belongs, maybe even dragging his friends with him.

Peg finds him when things get slow. "You want to tell me what's wrong?" She was never this direct, before all this happened. She merely gave him openings, none of which he ever took.

No, he doesn't want to tell her what's wrong. But he does. "I screwed up, and now Willa's drinking."

"Shouldn't that be Willa screwed up, and now she's drinking?"

"I made it easier for her to slip. I was stupid and careless."

"The world makes it easy for people to slip. They either do, or they don't. That girl is responsible for herself."

Xander shakes his head and walks away.

Peg lets him go for the moment, but later she finds him again. "The reason you're a good manager is you take responsibility for things. But you can take that too far. When you shoulder everything yourself, you become less effective. You can't see what needs to be done or who can best do it."

"You don't --" He suddenly thinks of Buffy, that last year in Sunnydale. How she pulled away from all of them, turned from a comrade into a general. For the first time he wonders if she was as shit-scared as he is now. "Maybe you're right. But I could have done better by her."

"She could have come to you and made that easier."

"Why should she, Peg? Every time we talk, it turns into an argument of some sort. I could say, 'Pretty day, isn't it?' and she'd say, 'We really need some rain.' Two days later, she'd be the one saying, 'Nice weather,' and I'm the one who comes back with the doom and gloom about wildfires in August. I'm not the person for her."

Her gaze sharpens. "You two are an item? I thought you and Faith--"

"No, no. I mean as a Watcher, a mentor."

"You don't have to get along with a teacher to learn from him. Are you sure she disagrees with you? Maybe she just likes working over a topic."

"What do you mean?"

"Looking at ideas, pulling them apart. When my husband and his sister got together, it was like watching someone give a dog a sock and then try to pull it away." Peg shakes her head back and forth, growling, as if on the end of an invisible tug-of-war. "Me and one of my brothers, there'd be bloodshed. But Dave and Cindi just looked at it as entertainment."

Nice thought, but Xander doesn't think that's the dynamic here. Why would she be drinking if he hadn't pushed her to it? Before he can form a response, Faith walks into the store.

She nods at Peg. "Good to see you've got the cross back on."

"After that speech yesterday, I'd be an idiot not to," Peg responds.

"Has Willa come back?" Xander asks.

"No. Is it break time? I'll buy you a sandwich." She accompanies him back to the cafe area, where they sit at the little counter where they can keep an eye on the front of the store. "First thing, I want to know if you're going to throw up my past every time we have a disagreement."

"No."

"Don't just say it. Put some thought into it. Was that your style when you got into a fight with Anya? Did you give her the 'What can you expect from a demon?' Because if that's your fallback, this isn't going to work."

"I got a lot of things wrong with Anya, but I --" It occurs to him, though, that he can't honestly swear he never brought up her past during a fight. He doesn't remember doing it, but he can't be sure. "I'll never do that to you again. I promise."

Faith regards him for a moment. "That works for me."

"I'm sorry," he says for good measure. "I've let everyone down."

"Later for that shit, all right?"

Bad as he's been feeling, Xander can't suppress a grin. "Okay then. Let's work out our plan. First thing tomorrow, let's check with her parents. I told her before she went into rehab, if she was going to drink she should do it at home instead of making herself vampire bait. We know there's no problem doing that there." A thought suddenly occurs to him. "We should try her apartment, too. Damn, I never thought of that. She may just be sick of the group home thing."

"Tell me where it is, and I can swing by tonight."

He sketches a quick map. "Just look the place over from the car and drive on by. Willa had some vampire trouble over there, and her apartment manager's been keeping an eye on visitors. He's not a guy you want seeing you skulking around at three a.m. We'll make a real visit tomorrow."

He hopes it's not too late in any one of a dozen different ways.

She's not at her apartment.

She's not at the morning meeting. Xander can't even bullshit himself that he stays through the whole thing in case she turns up -- he's there because he's none too steady himself right now. He'd stick around a few minutes to talk to Patrick, but he's on the last day of a custody visit with his daughter, so instead Xander pulls out his cell and leaves a message that he'd like to have coffee after the 6:30.

After, he stops by her parents' home. In the car, he straightens his tie and makes sure the name tag's not still on his shirt. He doesn't want to look like a Mormon missionary. Though maybe the eyepatch makes him look a little too gnarly for that line of work. He works on arranging his remaining features to look as innocuous as possible before he rings the doorbell.

How much do they know about him, he wonders, a little belatedly. Hi, I'm Willa's sponsor. Hi, I'm the guy your daughter lives with, along with another woman or two. Hi, I'm the nutty cult leader who's filled her with all these notions about vampires and Chosen Ones. He hears footsteps approaching the other side of the door and squelches an urge to sprint to his car.

The door opens a cautious few inches. The missionary defense maneuver. "Mrs. Donovan, I'm Xander Harris, a friend of Willa's."

Her expression becomes marginally less guarded. "Of course. I've heard a lot about you."

Not too much, he hopes. "I was wondering if Willa's around."

She shakes her head. He sees a little of Willa in her delicate, somehow aristocratic features, but there's something much vaguer about the mother. "She was here early yesterday to borrow my car. We aren't expecting her back for another day or two." She narrows her gaze. "She hadn't told you?"

"We must've had a miscommunication. She didn't say where --?"

Her expression shutters further. "No, she didn't." Ah. She's sorting through the fragments of information. He still can't tell if it tips toward cult leader or dubious boyfriend, but neither is good. "I can give her a message if she checks in."

"Just, um, just to give me a call if she would." He thanks her and heads for the car. Shutting the car door, he reels off a string of curses, grabbing his new cell phone.

He hits the speed-dial for Willa, but her line kicks into voice mail after one ring. For all the good he thinks it'll do, he leaves a message, then pushes the button for Faith.

"She's gone," he says when she picks up. "Borrowed her parents' car and isn't expected back for another day or two."

She unleashes a litany of swearwords not unlike his own. "Do they know where she's gone?"

"They're not saying. Maybe you could call later in the day and give it a try."

"Why not now?"

"They'll guess we're connected. God knows what she told them, but her mother was giving me a look that told me I'd better not push it."

Her breath hisses down the line. "So we're looking at her taking off, anyway, not Darius getting his mitts on her."

"Looks like."

"What's next?"

"I thought I'd try Willow, see if she can do a locator spell from this distance. I'm headed home. Her number's there." He feels a little weird about calling on Willow. They've talked only briefly since their argument-filled visit, and that was during his fog just before Damon's funeral. He hates asking her for anything just now, but this isn't for him.

"Eudora," he mutters. "Where the hell are you?"

It's awkward as hell talking to her, but at least no television sets are harmed during the making of this phone call. She needs an object that belongs to Willa.

"I've got a book she gave me a few days ago. Used to be hers. Is it technically hers, or mine?" He doesn't really want to give it up, since he hasn't had a chance to read all the poems even once.

"It's better if you have something that's definitely hers. Especially something she wears."

He'll have to rummage through her room then, which he'd hoped to avoid. "Okay, Will. I'll find something and overnight it to you today."

"Great. I'll call you as soon as I have something. I've gotta go -- I've got a student here for an appointment. Xander -- I'm really glad you called."

He walks into the guest room but only stands there, dazed. How did things get so weird between them? It seems like Willow thinks they're okay now because he's called to ask a favor, but it felt to him almost like asking a stranger. It was easier, after the initial awkwardness passed, to talk to Angel, for god's sake. With Willow he has the inescapable sense that there's so much they're tiptoeing around.

They've known each other so long, been through so much. Maybe that's the problem: so many layers of history and expectation that they can't break through it anymore. After so much death these last few weeks, it feels like another. He feels hollowed out, scraped raw.

Xander sighs and comes back to himself, looking around him. Looks like a small explosion went off in here. The bedclothes are a lunar landscape, strewn with clothes. There's a small knot of fabric on the floor, and he reaches for it, untwisting it. A little too large to be one of those hair scrunchies, and Willa doesn't have enough hair to scrunch anyway, and oh, god! He drops her thong panties back on the floor, kicks them under the bed. Xander grabs a scarf he's seen her wear and bolts.

Faith's sprawled on the couch, channeling some other personality into the phone. "Her friend Grace, yeah.... Right, yeah, the film thing. She talked about that, but didn't say it was a definite.... No, that's all right. I'll catch up with her when she gets back. Thanks!" She cradles the phone and looks up at him. "Our Slayer's in Seattle. If her parents aren't blowing smoke up my ass."

He stuffs the scarf and a map of Seattle into a FedEx envelope -- along with a more general map of the area, in case there is some ass-smoking going on. "I don't know that I trust them," he tells Faith as they leave the FedEx drop.

"Why not?"

"Her mother never opened the door all the way. I just took it as the fuck off, salesman stance at the time, but it's been bugging me."

"You think they could've been turned."

"It wouldn't be out of character for this Darius."

Faith reaches the car and opens the passenger door. "We need to find that fucker and stake him." She pastes on a smile, which she flashes at someone over Xander's shoulder. "To a nice dinner, God bless him."

Xander settles in behind the steering wheel, pulling out his phone and speed-dialling Straley. The only progress he's making on finding Darius is of the ruling out possibilities variety. Xander invites him for a meal before they both report for work tonight.

"We'll probably find out he's some loser who lives in his mother's basement," Faith says. "That's why we're not finding him." She winces. "Sorry."

"I've seen the kind of damage basement-dwelling losers can do. Willow's girlfriend got killed by one, and Will nearly ended the world."

"You're shittin' me. I mean, I know she got pretty powerful, but ... it's still hard for me to see her as anything but mousy Willow."

"Yeah. She got powerful. It didn't do great things to her head. She raised Buffy, I don't know if you heard."

"Angel told me." She's silent for a moment, gazing out the window. "He didn't have to tell me she died, I felt when that happened. Weird, though. I didn't feel it when she came back."

"What was that like?" He rounds the corner onto his street, pulls into his drive. "When she died."

"Like a piece of me was torn out. Sounds like I'm being overly dramatic, but that's the only way I can put it." She gets out of the car, heading into the house with him. She retrieves the mail from the box next to the doorframe, knowing the movement still bothers Xander's shoulder. "I remember I was in my cell, playing cards and talking shit with my cellmate. One minute I'm laughing, the next -- it hurt. I mean it was physical. And then a piece of me was gone."

"I never knew. Never thought --"

"You were there when she died, weren't you?"

Xander nods. "I haven't ever really talked about it. Everyone I could tell was there when it happened." Suddenly he's eager to have something to do with his hands. "Make you some coffee?"

"Not worth making a pot."

"I'll make you an Americano." He assembles the little silver moka pot, fills the basket with espresso blend. "We'd been fighting this hellgod named Glory, all hot to trot to bring on the apocalypse, yet with the Sex and the City wardrobe. She was after Dawn -- did you know this?"

Faith shakes her head.

"Glory needed Dawn for a ritual to open her hell dimension."

"Your standard virgin sacrifice? That's original."

"Well, not exactly," Xander says. That's another long conversation, though; one that'll rip the fabric of Faith's reality. As she would say, later for that. "But close enough. Glory kidnapped her and had her carried to the top of this huge tower. Long story short, Buffy sacrificed herself to save Dawn."

"I've got time for the long version," Faith says.

Xander looks away, pushing back the anger this provokes. It makes him think of Anya, the way she'd prod with questions, unaware of their effect. "Buffy jumped off the tower. She closed the portal, but -- I saw her hit the ground. I don't think I believed she was really mortal, even after she drowned that time -- not until that moment."

Faith lets that statement breathe. Obviously her work's made her better at the sitting still with the heavy emotional stuff; Xander's feeling the motermouth impulse sweep through him, almost impossible to resist. "She was gone for ... months," is all he says.

"Then Willow brought her back."

"We all had a hand in it. Except Spike and Dawn." He turns away again to pour the espresso and hot water into her cup. "I can't talk about that."

She smoothes her hand over his shoulder. "Why don't you work on your guitar a while. Nothing to do right now but wait."

Xander takes her advice, sequestering himself in the workshop, working quickly with the hot hide glue to get the soundboard on. When he finally emerges, exhausted and not altogether sure what time of day it is, Faith's curled on the sofa with a book.

She looks up as he trudges into the living room. "Who'd you piss off?"

"What?"

She lifts a fat letter-sized envelope from his forgotten pile of mail. "Lawyers."

"Shit." Taking it from her, he checks the return address. A firm he's heard about but never had any dealings with. He tackles the flap, slitting it inelegantly with a finger. Xander reads for a moment, then sits heavily on the nearest chair.

Seems he, Alexander Harris, is now the owner of a music store, lock, stock and stickered tonewoods.

Xander dives for the phone and gets the lawyer whose name is on the letter. The guy's eager to walk him through the terms of the papers, while Xander's more interested in finding out what he can about Evan. Damn little is the answer to that, and it's difficult to tell what the lawyer can't say and what he won't. There appears to be no forwarding address -- if Xander wishes to contact Evan, his attorney will be happy to accept a letter which he'll hold until such time as he can forward it to Mr. Davies.

The gift of the store hasn't been in the works all that long, from what Xander can tell. The whole thing was put together at hyper warp speed between Xander's discovery of what Evan was and the abandonment of his car at Independence Point.

Xander wonders what kind of retainer pays for hyper warp speed. Not to mention a client who won't appear at the office during daylight hours. He makes an appointment to meet at the store and have the keys turned over. "Mr. Davies wanted me to let you know the guitars he made are safe in a vault on the premises, and those now belong to you too."

He doesn't know what to say.

"He also said to assure you that the contingency the two of you discussed won't be necessary."

Translation: Xander will have no need to burn Evan's guitars.

"You'll see everything's quite well set up so that it won't cost you money to own the shop," the lawyer continues. "On the other hand if you chose to sell any of his instruments, I'd be an enthusiastic buyer. I've been a fan of his work for a long time."

"I'll keep that in mind," he hears himself say faintly. This erases his last doubt about Evan's' fate, though maybe it shouldn't. The certainty engulfs him, making it impossible to focus on what's being said about guitars or legal details. He confirms the appointment and gets off the phone.

So this should be good, right? The threat's been neutralized, and Xander didn't even have to do it himself. It's not a death he's had a hand in, but Evan's release from eternal undeath. It's all good, right?

Right.

He takes himself off to bed, much later than usual, and by the time he wakes he still hasn't shaken off his dark mood. When he emerges, Faith delivers a message from Patrick, who says he's off to a concert at the Opera House with his daughter, but can meet Xander at the cafe at Auntie's. Around ten or 10:15, depending on when the ex pulls up to pick up Jenna.

The plan makes him marginally calmer, though Xander wonders how this is possibly going to work. Xander can tell him none of what's really going on. He decides it doesn't matter, that being across a cafe table from someone as steady as Patrick will help him.

He's grateful he's got Faith and Straley to speak honestly with. Over dinner, he hands Kevin the thick envelope from the law firm.

"Wow, this is -- let's go with the understatement and say 'unexpected.' How do you feel about it?"

"'Weird' sums things up nicely."

"The guitars that he made?"

"They're in there too. His lawyer told me they're on the premises and they're mine."

Straley rubs a hand over his face. "So he's giving them over to you as hostages, in a sense. A guarantee of good behavior."

"No. I don't think so. He's dead." Xander rises, busies himself with the coffeemaker.

"Are you gonna leave the grocery store and take it over?" Faith asks.

"I don't know. It's a lot different from managing a supermarket."

"Maybe that's a good thing," she says. "You've been just keeping yourself alive long enough. Maybe it's time to do something that means something more."

Xander laughs bitterly. "Don't knock keeping myself alive. It gets trickier all the time. Not to mention keeping my friends alive, which I'm not doing a brilliant job of."

"Why don't you try Willa's cell again. Maybe she's between movies or something."

He finds his own cell, punches in her speed dial number. Same as before, her voice mail kicks in on the first ring. "Willa, hey. It's Xander. Check in, will you? We need to know where you are." He gives her his cell number, signs off. "Someone want to tell me why I thought I could handle this?"

"Because you can," Faith says firmly. "I've got no doubts."

No problem. Xander's got more than enough for the both of them.

It's turned into a raw, blustery night by the time he meets Patrick. Bursting through the cafe doors, hunched in his sports jacket with collar turned up, Patrick shakes the rain out of his hair and offers Xander a damp, chilled hand. "So that's what happened to April," he says. "Back for an encore."

Xander smiles. "Sit down. I'll buy you a coffee to warm up. Decaf?"

"Be fine, thanks."

When Xander returns, Patrick warms his hands around the cup and tells him about the concert, which wasn't so much his cup of tea, but it made his daughter happy, he says.

"I'm glad you two are getting on better," Xander says. "You've been putting a lot of work into that for a long time."

He nods. "Took a long time to screw things up that badly, too. How are you getting along? Back to work yet?"

"Yeah, a couple of nights now. It's been hard. We had our team, and it's like losing a limb to be without Damon." Or an eye.

"Do you feel safe there?"

"Sometimes yeah, sometimes not so much."

"They never caught the guys."

"No. Some, I'm guessing they won't be back. But the ringleader's still out there, and I can't get a solid sense of him. I don't think I've heard the last of him, though." It's impossible, trying to get any of this across when he can't openly talk about any part of it.

"Sounded like other things in your life are kind of unsettled, too."

"Yeah." He cradles his own hands around his coffee for a moment. "You know that girl Willa? From the rooms?"

"Yeah. I saw her at your place the day before the funeral. And you've been walking into the meetings together."

"Right, yeah."

"You sure that's wise? I've seen her on and off for a while, but I don't know that she's been sober for a whole year."

"No. She's had a rough time of it lately. But it's not -- we're not an item. That's not how it is."

Patrick flicks his glance up as a knot of people enters from the bookstore. His gaze lingers on one in particular before he returns his gaze to Xander. "Okay. Do you want to tell me how it is?"

"She needed a place to stay when she came out of rehab. Her parents are partiers and she doesn't feel safe in her own place. I had a free room. She's studying self defense with the woman I'm living with. Faith." It takes him aback to hear himself say it so blithely. The woman I'm living with.

"Are you sponsoring her?"

Xander shakes his head. "She asked me to, but I told her I didn't feel right about the cross-gender thing."

"Did she find another?"

"If she did, it's a deep, dark secret to me."

Patrick rubs a hand over his face. "I know we say 'Act as if' all the time, but that doesn't really include her acting as if you said yes and you falling right in line with her."

"I guess that's what we have been doing."

"I guess so. Shit, Alex, I would've liked to think I guided you a little better than this."

He's right, Xander knows he's right. "I know. But look, it's a little more complicated than that."

"Everyone's story is 'a little more complicated than that'. When was the last time you knew someone to have a simple, straightforward reason for fucking up?"

Xander blinks. Patrick's a pretty straight-talking guy, but he's never been quite so blunt.

Before he can form a reply, Patrick asks, "How's that working out for you?" in Dr. Phil tones that set his teeth on edge.

"A little rocky sometimes. She's gone for a couple of days in Seattle, taking a breather. That's bound to help."

"Don't be so sure." Rising, Patrick leans over the table, one hand planted on the marble surface, the other locked around Xander's left wrist. "That little bitch of yours has been asking a lot of questions. About Darius, which is enough to get her killed. About Orpheus, which is why he decided to let her live. Your little Slayer screws around with that, and she won't be in his way too much longer. Then he's free to concentrate on you and the Boston cunt."

Xander starts to his feet, but Patrick clamps his wrist tighter, the bones seeming to grate together under the pressure. The pain drives him back down.

"I'm here for you anytime, Alex, remember that." He lets just a glimmer of yellow flash through in his eyes, just a suggestion of ridges on his brow before he reassumes his human face. "When you find both your whores lying in their own blood, I want you to know you can call me, day or night. Hell, I'll buy you a drink." A last agonizing squeeze of his wrist and Patrick strides for the door.

When the gray mist clears from his vision, Xander races after him, but by the time he hits the sidewalk, the street is empty.

He runs for his car, already hitting speed dial on his cell. Fuck. Double fuck. Faith answers as he's diving inside, slamming down all the locks. "Faith. Fuck. I just saw Patrick. He's been turned. And he says Willa's been asking around about Orpheus."

She sees his fuck and raises him a motherfucker. "Think he could be lying?"

He pulls out onto Main, making his way toward Rosauers. "When the news is shitty, I generally assume it's true. Meet me at the supermarket. I want to pull Peg out of there."

"I'm on the way. What about Seattle?"

"I think there's still a good chance she went there. Do you really think this is a big enough vamp town to support Orpheus users?"

"It's looking like it's headed that direction. But not yet. What's our next step? Waiting for Willow?"

"I'm torn. Part of me needs to track down Patrick and put a stake in him before he does any more damage. But from what you said about Orpheus, Willa's in serious danger. If we left here now and drove to Seattle, we could be there by the time Willow gets her FedEx."

"It's a long shot, baby. And if her mother lied to me--"

"I know. But we can't sit here doing nothing. We'll get Peg somewhere safe, go to the house for whatever supplies we need, then I vote we head west."

"I'm with you."

He breaks the connection, then speed-dials Straley. "Kevin. Glad I caught you, man. We've got trouble."

"When don't we? What's up?"

"You remember Patrick, who was at my house after Damon died?" He sketches a brief description before Straley makes the connection. "He's my AA sponsor. Well, he's just picked up a new drinking problem. He's been turned, and I wasn't able to kill him."

Straley chimes in with another variation on fuck.

"Yeah. We've got us a war. I'm headed to the market now to get Peg out of there, and I'm staying away too. I'm not sure they'll go after anyone else there, but it might not hurt if you can keep an eye on the place during your shift tonight."

"Sure thing."

"I'm worried about the late meeting. He could hunt there. A lot of people pair off after to go for coffee, get asked to sponsor someone they don't know well -- there's plenty of opportunity for a vamp who's familiar with AA culture to exploit it. I'd put in an appearance there, but there's another crisis Faith and I are on."

"My partner and I can swing by about the time it might be breaking up, keep an eye out for him."

"Good."

"What's your other problem?"

"Willa. Patrick told me she was been asking a lot of questions about Orpheus before she took off."

"Who?"

"Not a who. A what. The drug Faith was talking about the other night, that humans and vamps use in symbiosis."

"Right, I remember."

"Faith says it's particularly bad news when a Slayer fools around with it. As in lethal bad news. We think she might have headed to Seattle. That's where we're going, as soon as we get Peg somewhere safe."

"How the hell are you going to find her?"

He pulls into the store parking lot. One of the halogen pole lights, darkened, winks back on. He'll make a point of getting that attended to before he splits. "If there's a Slayer in town, she'll know where stuff like this goes on." There is at least one Slayer in town, he's still certain of that. But J.J. Grimaldi doesn't yet know what she is. "My friend Willow's working on a locator spell that'll pinpoint her if we haven't found her before that. She's waiting on a FedEx from me to get that going. I've got to get inside. I'll update you from the road." Xander snaps the phone shut and strides to the store entrance.

Faith's already stationed inside where she can see both entrances, but Peg's nowhere in sight.

"Where's Peg?"

"She was headed back to the time clock."

He nods, keeps going. "The door by the deli locks at eight. You only need to watch this one." He spots Father Bill in the produce aisle, gives him a quick nod and steps up his pace to the office.

Peg's chatting with the second shift manager, pulling her time card from its slot. Xander's never been so glad to see anything as the little cross glittering at her throat.

"Brett, we've got a situation. Peg has to be out of here."

"What?" she says.

"Do you have somewhere safe you can spend the night?"

Brett rises to his feet. "What do you mean, somewhere safe?"

"I've heard threats," Xander says. "Those people who killed Damon. There's word they're still out for me and Peg, god knows why, but I'm not risking anything happening here. I think if we're gone, they'll leave the place alone."

"Have you talked to the police?" Brett asks.

"I have." It's not a lie, really. "The best they can do is send a car around periodically. I'm not risking it. You'll have to get someone to fill in for us. I'm sorry it's such late notice."

"No, Xander, I can't," Peg says.

He tugs the time card from her hand, puts it back in its slot. "I'm not seeing anyone else get hurt. We need to go now." He draws her away from the office, out of earshot of anyone else.

Her gaze searches his face for a long moment, then she nods. "My sister's in Cheney."

"Great. It's on the way."

As Xander walks out the automatic door, he suspects it's his last time as anything other than a customer.

Faith strides out the door half a minute behind them, a plastic gallon jug in each hand. She sets them on the floorboard as she climbs in the back.

"What's that?" Xander asks.

"Holy water."

He glances around at the jugs, labeled with a brand name he recognizes. "Aquafina makes holy water now?"

"Nope. But Father Bill does. I asked him to bless 'em for me while he was standing in the checkout line."

Faith accompanies Peg to her place to pick up a few things, while Xander packs for the both of them. Once he's got a few clothes and weapons together, an impulse sends him into his workshop for some ebony and pearl, cordless Dremel, CA and a few other supplies.

It's not until they've dropped Peg off in Cheney and they've got a six-hour stretch of highway in front of them that events finally catch up to Xander. Faith's taking a turn behind the wheel, and Xander stares out into the black expanse, thinking about Patrick.

It eats at Xander that he didn't get a chance to stake him.

Yet he knows once he does, he'll consider it one of the worst things ever to happen to him. Like staking Jesse, however accidental that was. Finishing Patrick will be different, and yes, worse. Patrick has been more than a friend to him. He's counseled him, taken his calls day or night, let him pour his tangled emotions out drunk or sober -- though it's been a long time since he's called Patrick with a bottle in front of him. They've hashed out their thoughts on the universe and God-as-we-understand-him (or don't understand him) more times than Xander can number.

In a way, he was Xander's Watcher. Advising him on fighting his demons. Keeping Xander's history from the first month he lived in Spokane. Keeping him alive.

Face turned toward the window, Xander lets silent tears slip down his cheek. Faith says nothing, but on the long, straight stretches of I90, she rests her hand on his leg.

A few miles out of Moses Lake, he rouses himself and finds Giles's number. This time Giles himself answers.

"Giles, hi, it's Xander." He hears the rustling of work being put aside, attention being shifted.

"Xander, how are things?"

"Remarkably shitty, to put not too fine a point on it."

"Is it Ieuan Goch?"

A sharp and bitter laugh escapes Xander. "He's fallen so far down the crisis scale, he's not even in the picture."

"Tell me."

"I'll start with Darius. He may not have made a name for himself yet, but he's working overtime on it. He's sent me a couple more messages about getting out of Spokane."

Giles's voice drops. "What sort of messages?"

"Not so different from the first. Not a full-scale attack, but he's gone after my friends. Turned a kid who works at the store for his first Vamp-O-Gram, and showed me how close he could get to people I care about. When I ignored that message, he sent another new vamp. My AA sponsor."

"Oh god," Giles breathes. "I'm so very sorry."

"Thanks. I took a powder from work, hoping to avoid another attack at the store, and I got my closest friend there to safety. But he's not finished, not by a long shot."

"He seems to be targeting you in particular."

"Well, that's me, demon magnet."

"No, it's more than that," Giles says. "You've drawn two Slayers together, threatened his plans for Spokane. Brought others into the fight as well. He may think of you as the center."

He shakes his head. Giles comes up with the most insane ideas these days. Xander wonders if there's a second in line for the Council gig.

"Have you learned anything more about where he might be?" Giles asks.

"No. But we may not have to worry. He's gonna bring the fight to us. But we've got -- I don't know if you'd call it a breathing space. Faith and I left town. We're on the road to Seattle right this minute. Maybe Darius will believe he's scared us off."

"That's not the entire purpose of your trip."

"No. We're going to find Willa."

"Willow's in Seattle?"

"Willa. With an A. My Slayer. Giles, do you know anything about a drug called Orpheus?"

A sigh whispers across the transatlantic connection. "Yes." There's a pause. "I fooled about with it when I was young and stupid. Only the once, because my friends and I discovered Eyghon a short time later."

"So you know this is serious shit. The last message I got from Darius -- besides the usual about finding my Slayers in a pool of blood and all --" Faith gently squeezes his leg, and he covers her hand with his -- "was that Willa's been asking questions about Orpheus."

"Xander, that drug is dangerous enough for average humans, but for Slayers--"

"I know. It's deadly. It's also survivable. Faith dosed herself up with it to slip Angelus a mickey a few years ago. It was a near thing, but she made it back."

"I hadn't known."

"That's the problem with these super secret organizations, Giles. Nobody tells anybody anything. And while we're at it, SD-6 is not CIA."

"What?"

"Never mind. This whole thing -- I should have seen it coming. I think Willa's taking this as some kind of vision quest. That she thinks she'll get to understand her enemy better if she goes through this. I'm pretty sure she overheard Faith telling me about her experience with Angelus. She described it as being inside his mind. For a brand-new Slayer who feels uncertain about all of this, it might seem like a way to learn something she can't know any other way. Shit." Everything has suddenly fallen into place. "Ah, Christ. I see it now. She as good as told me what she was going to do, and I missed it. I'm such an asshole."

"What do you mean?"

"She started this conversation about Bill Wilson, the guy who founded AA. How he'd taken LSD, and how so many really smart people once thought it was going to be a gateway to higher consciousness. You see it? She was making her decision then, telling herself Orpheus is the road to wisdom and the higher good, while I sit there giving her the standard Just Say No. Fuck, Giles. I'm worse than half blind. You need to get someone else out here to be her Watcher. Someone who knows what they're doing. If she lives."

"Xander, stop." His voice is gentle, but there's steel underneath. "There's no way you could have known, short of being a mind reader. You didn't even know she'd heard Faith talking about Orpheus."

"We're going to find her, but then I'm turning her over to the Council. I'm not cut out for this."

"You're completely suited for this. Had someone suggested it when I first knew you, I'd have been shocked at the idea. But for someone who wasn't raised to it, trained for it, you have a remarkable talent for being a Watcher."

Xander shakes his head. "Giles, I doubt myself every minute of the day."

"With time, you'll come to doubt yourself only once every five minutes."

He's speechless for a moment. "You had doubts? Back in Sunnydale, when Buffy was the only Chosen One?"

"All the time," Giles says quietly. "I still do."

Faith lifts her hand from his leg to guide the car up a steep rise, and Xander feels strangely untethered.

"You mean I might get to play with the big boys some day?"

Giles laughs softly. "You already are one of the big boys."

It's too much to take in. Once he breaks the connection with Giles, he stares stupidly at the phone in his hand, more shadowed than lit by the dashboard lights.

One of the big boys.

The center.

All that he'd wanted from Giles over the years seems like a gumball machine trinket compared to what he's just been given.

So matter-of-fact.

You already are one of the big boys.

Faith doesn't break the silence, giving him time to try and enfold all this.

Giles has put him in charge of something -- besides Willa, that is. When the twin crises are over (nice confidence builder, that "when" instead of "if"), Giles wants him to set about remedying the communications problem between the new Council and Angel. There's an enormous amount of history available to one side but not the other, and as Xander had pointed out, it's a waste of resources.

Xander had pointed that out?

Whenever he thinks life can't get any weirder, something new comes along that just boggles the mind. Him and Angel.

And the weird thing is, he doesn't even hate the idea.

It'll make a nice project for Willa, he's thinking. Setting down these newly uncovered pieces of history, categorizing them. He knows from experience how dangerous it can be, having too much time to think. Working on this with Angel and Xander will engage her, make use of her intelligence and love of making connections.

Just as Xander is finding his own talents called into use for the first time since --

Well, since ever.

If:

Angel will go for it.

If:

Willa makes it out of this alive.

At last Xander turns away from the window, puts a hand on Faith's knee. "Feel like taking a break now?"

"Are you sure? How's the shoulder?"

"I'm good for at least an hour, I think. Maybe more. You should get a little sleep."

"First rest stop we come to," she says. "So there's a Slayer in Seattle."

"Yeah. Bettina Sharpe."

"I'm thinking it's better to give her a call now, after she's probably been out patrolling, rather than first thing in the morning."

Xander rubs his brow above the missing eye. Feels like a headache coming on. "You're right, I just -- I'm not sure how to get that conversation started. 'Hi, I'm not a Watcher, but I play one on TV.'"

"Look, I only heard half that conversation with Giles, but it sounds to me like he doesn't think you're some kind of wannabe." She's quiet for a long moment. "Richard Wilkins said something to me a long time ago. That nobody knew what I could become, not even me. As crazy as it sounds, considering the guy was evil and all, it ... it was profound. What he said got me through prison. Made me determined to be different when I came out. Not to make up for the things I did before, because there's no way I can, but to never stop trying. I don't know if that makes any sense."

"All kinds of sense," Xander says softly.

"So the way I see it, this is your big lesson. I think in your case, everyone but you sees who you are. Giles is telling you. I'm telling you. Don't make me go all Tony Robbins on you."

Xander laughs. "Okay, that is the scariest thought I've had all day."

"So call this girl. Tell her you're the Council's man in Spokane." She guides the car onto a rest stop off-ramp, pulls into a space. "Have at it, babe. I'm gonna go pee."

The phone rings long enough that Xander expects an answering machine to kick in, but finally a female voice snarls a hello.

"Is this Bettina Sharpe?"

"Do you know what time it is?"

"As it happens, yes, but I thought if I called too early you'd still be out on patrol."

There's a pause that makes Xander grin. Finally: "Who is this?"

"My name is Xander Harris. I'm a Watcher." He feels like he should say that sentence a few hundred more times so it doesn't feel so damn weird in his mouth, but in the interest of time, he leaves it at one.

There's another pause, and when it ends the tone of her voice has changed. "Xander Harris -- Buffy's Xander?"

He's not at all sure how to take that. "What do you -- where'd you get that?"

"You're in the lessons, dude. New Council pre-history. How come you're calling me?"

It takes a moment of spluttering and stammering for Xander to get it out. "Giles gave me your number. I'm on my way to Seattle, trying to catch up with someone before she runs into a whole lot of trouble. You know the territory -- I need to know where the seedier vampire haunts are. Well. Not that there's the vampire opera or demon cotillions or anything, but the really seedy ones. 'Bite me' parlors and Orpheus dens. Or a demon bar where I can ask around."

"Sure, yeah. I'd be glad to be your guide."

"Hey, listen, you don't have to come with. A few addresses and a look at a map, and I can be out of your hair."

"What, are you kidding? Pass up a chance to rock and roll with one of the original Scoobies? I'd never live it down."

Can things get any weirder? Despite the gravity of everything that's gone on the past few days, Xander feels a goofy grin stealing across his features. Famous.

Couldn't hurt to have someone along who's familiar with the lay of the land. "Sure, that'll save us a lot of time." They make arrangements to hook up when Xander and Faith hit Seattle. After he breaks the connection, he remains in the passenger seat a moment, stunned. Finally he remembers he was switching places with Faith, and by the time he gets out of the car, she's making her appearance at last.

In the eerie shadows from the halogen lamps above, Faith's standard storm-cloud expression verges on the Easter Island. "Can't a girl piss in peace? I had to dust two vamps in there. As if I wanted to hang out there a minute longer than -- what?"

"What 'what'?"

"Did you talk to her? How'd it go? You've got this weird expression."

"I'm history."

"How do you mean? What went wrong?"

"No, I mean history lessons. She knew my name."

"How about we get in and go, in case there's more?"

Xander gets behind the wheel and starts the engine, waiting for Faith to snug her seatbelt around her. "They're talking about me in slayer training. That's just ... strange. And Giles never told me." He hears the aggrieved note in his voice.

And, just before he puts the car in gear, hears Faith's soft laughter in the dark.

It gets light a good hour before they get their first glimpse of high-rise. Xander, back in the shotgun seat, pulls out his cell and calls Willow. Not that he expected the FedEx to be there yet, but he tells her he's already on the outskirts of Seattle, and gives her his cell number. "It'll be off if we're raiding a den, but I'll keep checking. Leave as specific a message as you can."

"Gotcha," Will says. "Be careful."

Before another hour goes by, they're leaning over a formica tabletop covered in maps, downing coffee and the donuts Faith insisted they bring (plenty of double chocolate, for once). Bettina Sharpe is a fireplug of a woman who favors spandex bike shorts and basketball high-tops, spiky black hair and enough studs and rings bristling from her ears to set off an airport metal detector. She's invited her Watcher, Dow, a man as tall and lithe as she is squat, whose movements are quick, almost birdlike.

Bettina's trying to be cool, but Faith's presence has thrown her. She's mostly starstruck, with a little flavor of something else, which makes Xander curious as hell to know what they've been saying about Faith in the Slayers academy. Dow just seems nervous.

They map out a strategy, marking the most-likely dens to raid first. By the time they've worked out a plan and torn through the donuts, Willow still hasn't called with an exact location. He finds Dow and Bettina both looking at him. He glances at Faith, who tips him a nod. This is your baby.

Straightening, Xander taps the map with two fingers. "Let's lock and load."

Xander's the one who knocks at the first door. Bettina hangs back in the hallway behind him and Faith; she's known in this place. Dow is in the car, acting as wheel man.

A small panel slides back in the door, and Xander finds himself being studied by a bouncer-type, not in game face. "Yeah?"

He's pretty sure that after the long drive he looks disreputable enough, and the sugar-rush jitters probably add to the realism. "You've got Orpheus, yeah?"

Irritation at the openness of the question twists the bouncer's face. "Who told you that bullshit?"

An impulse sweeps through Xander, and he takes a chance. "Darius."

"Oh, is he back?"

"Nah, we're from Spokane."

The vamp unlocks the door, laughing and turning to address someone inside. "Man, guess who sent us some tourists?"

Xander rocks back and kicks the door into its guardian, and the three of them push into the room. The smell is unreal. Stoned-out humans lay tangled with vampires, oozing bite marks on their necks or thighs. "Get 'em all," he says. If word moves faster than they do, this whole operation is sunk.

He leaves the bouncer to the Slayers, and concentrates on the Orpheus-addled. He stakes two of the three vamps in quick succession and Bettina takes the third. None of the half-naked stoners is Willa. Xander looks to Faith. "Tie them up?"

She shakes her head. "They're not going anywhere for a long while."

They pull the door closed as best they can and hit the street.

They pile into Dow's car and head for the next den.

"You know this vamp Darius?" Xander asks Bettina and Dow.

"Sure," Bettina says. "He's been around since before I was a Slayer. But he left Seattle, what, Dow, maybe eight or ten months ago?"

"Closer to eight, I think."

"What can you tell me about him?"

"He's ambitious," Dow says. "He was the lieutenant of the most powerful vampire in the city. They'd been friends in life, actually, and Kane sired him so they could prey on the city together. But he got restless being second in command, and finally Darius took off to find a town that was wide open. The old 'better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven' story."

Faith laughs. "I don't know if I'd say Hell. Spokane's more Limbo, if you ask me."

"Oh, thanks," Xander says. "So, what, there was an epic battle between the two?"

"Not at all. There'd been some minor conflicts, but neither was willing to escalate it to the usual fight to the death. Just a parting of the ways."

"Fuck," Faith blurts. Everyone looks at her. "So Darius has powerful friends here. He could call on this Kane if we piss him off too severely."

"Maybe," Xander says. "But he's trying to strike out on his own, so maybe not. That could undercut his whole lord of Spokane thing."

Bettina snorts.

"Do you mind?" Xander says. "I might remind you there are places in this country where you're considered a bunch of hicks, too, only with pretensions about coffee."

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Faith asks Xander.

"What's that?"

"We go kill this Kane while we're here, just to be on the safe side."

Bettina bristles, but before she can speak, Xander's phone plays its annoying little ditty.

"Willow. Hey. What's the good word?" With surprising swiftness, a dark tide of doubt washes over him. Maybe Seattle was a red herring, and they've wasted all kinds of time.

"The spell's done. I've got her pinpointed in Seattle. Down by the docks."

Xander feels his breath release in a rush, and he relays the location to Dow, who changes course and heads them toward the waterfront.

"Thanks Will. You saved us some time. We had the place, but it was a lot farther down on our list."

"Stay safe. Call me when you find her."

"Will do."

Bettina tells them as much as she knows about the layout of their target, an abandoned warehouse. "Unless they've done some repairs on the windows, they'll be crowded toward the center spaces."

"Lotta kids pitching rocks?" Faith asks.

Bettina grins. "Lotta me and Dow. Whenever we happen to patrol down there, we try to take out a few windows. Like the public service ads say, safety is fun!"

Dow leaves the engine running as the rest of them head for Bettina's preferred entrance. The shafts of light from her rock holes make the place a dangerous maze for a vampire, but also make it tough to adjust their eyes to the dark spaces. Xander curses under his breath.

"This way," Bettina says, and they follow. Silently she points to a steel door and melts back out of sight as Faith approaches it.

Her method of entry is what she's described to Xander as the rack-thrust. As the door keeper focuses on Faith's cleavage, she says, "We got something for you. From Darius." The something is sharp and wooden, and its recipient doesn't say how well he likes it.

Behind her, Xander hears Faith's breath jerk inward. He follows her gaze, and sees Willa on a ratty velveteen sofa, sprawled on a vampire's lap. Small as she is, she looks like a little girl, and her short dress only strengthens the illusion. Her head's tilted back against his shoulder as he feeds at her neck; both of them are oblivious to anything else. One of the vamp's hands holds her tight against him, the other's disappeared up her skirt, and Willa makes small, kittenish noises as he works in rhythm to her blood.

"Jesus," Xander breathes, and that unfreezes the scene. Bettina darts past him, screaming a string of curses. She wrenches Willa from the vampire's grasp and thrusts her at Faith, then whirls back to the vamp.

"No!" Faith yells. "Bettina, no!" But by the time she even gets the Slayer's name out, Bettina's plunged her stake through the vamp's heart.

Willa convulses in Faith's arms, and the thin scream torn from her throat is like nothing Xander's ever heard, even in seven years of demon fighting.

He spins away to a corner of the room and vomits.

Over Xander's protests, Faith carries her to the car. She's right, his shoulder would never take the strain, but it kills him to do nothing but run ahead and open the back door. He slides into the back seat. "Give her to me."

Faith and Bettina pile into the front, Dow peeling away from the building before the door's even shut.

"What happened, what happened?" Dow yells.

"She was doing Orpheus with a vamp," Xander says. "She's having a reaction."

Which is an understatement. She's not screaming now, but she's thrashing and moaning. Xander holds her arms, trying to calm her. "It's all right, Willa. You're with us now. You're okay."

"The nearest hospital's about seven minutes from here," Dow says. "She'll be all right."

"No," Faith says. "They can't help her, they'll just make things worse."

"How can you say that?" Dow's sounding half hysterical. "She needs help."

"Yeah, she does. But they don't know shit about what's wrong with her. This is a mystical drug, Dow. None of their antagonist drugs can touch it."

Willa starts fighting him again, her voice rising in a wail. Her arm flails, striking him across the left side of his face. Xander's breath hisses out in a rush.

Faith curses softly. "Are you all right, babe?"

"Fine," he says harshly, hating that she even noticed. He fingers the eyepatch, makes sure it's in place.

"Why is she like this?" Bettina asks. "The others were just lying there."

"Willa's different," Xander says. "She's a Slayer."

Bettina squirms around in the front seat to look. "She is?"

"Yeah," Xander says. "In case you didn't know, Orpheus is bad news for anyone, but it's particularly dangerous for Slayers. Stay away from it."

Faith turns to look too. "It seems worse this time. Maybe because the vamp was dusted while they were still linked."

"Shit," says Bettina. "I never thought --"

"There's too many factors here," Dow says. "We can't take care of her. She needs a hospital."

"How did I not make myself clear?" Faith asks. "There's nothing they can do."

"Then what the hell can we do?" he shouts. "What if she dies?"

Faith gives it right back to him. "Shut the fuck up!"

That quiets everyone for a moment -- even Willa stops thrashing, though Xander can feel the tension quivering in her muscles.

"There will be no fucking talk of dying," Faith says, her voice so low they can barely hear. "When I was on this shit, I went really deep. But a piece of me heard everything that was said around me. They talked about me like I was dead already, with me layin' there shivering and moaning. So help me god, I'll slap the next person who says anything about dying. This is her fight. We can't help her with it, but we can keep from working against her."

Dow stops the car along the curb in an unfamiliar residential neighborhood.

"What's this?"

"My house," Dow says. "It's bigger than Bettina's place. She'll be more comfortable here."

Xander stands in the bedroom door as Faith gets her settled on the guest bed. Dow brings an extra pillow, a throw, fussing around her. Faith, Xander notices, maintains some kind of skin-to-skin contact whenever she can, touching Willa's hand, her forehead, an arm. He remembers what she said to him, all those years ago, when he'd been so arrogant as to say they had a connection: It's just skin. There's no "just" about it, though, and he sees that knowledge in her through her actions.

"What did Angel's people do for you, Faith? When you were overdosing."

"Someone always sat with me. Held my hand, held me. Lorne even sang to me. You ever meet him? Green demon with red horns? Ran a karaoke bar."

"Can't say I ever did. He was one of Angel's, you said?"

Faith nods, her dimples coming out. "He was a trip."

The word makes him flick his glance back to Willa. She seems to be sleeping now, but her fingers twitch constantly.

"Think we could get him to come here? Or at least give us some advice?"

She shakes her head. "He's dropped out of sight. Something that went down in the last days of Wolfram & Hart really wigged him. Angel hasn't heard from him in years."

"Any use calling Angel?"

"I don't think. He was as deep in it as me. Him, they shackled up. Both techniques seemed to work equally well, if you want the truth."

"I'm trying to figure this out," Bettina says. "You used to take this stuff?"

"I took it once. Spiked my blood, then let myself get caught by this vampire we were trying to bring down. I wouldn't recommend it."

"And it helped you kill the vamp?"

She pauses. "That's not exactly what we were trying to do," she says at last. "It helped us beat him."

"What's the difference?" Bettina asks.

"Too long a story for now, all right?"

Xander steps in. "I think it'll be easier on Willa if we don't have so many people in the room. Why don't we take shifts?"

"Good idea," Faith says, "except I'm not going anywhere."

Once she says it, he knows it's true for him, too. "Me either. Dow, do you have a cot or something we can have in here?"

They take turns napping, the other sitting at Willa's side. There's always a soft voice murmuring to Willa: Faith's urging her to fight, saying how strong and tough she knows Willa is; Xander does the same, as well as rattling on about the project he'd like her to work on with him and Angel, reciting the poems he can quote by heart, starting with first he ever read (beyond high school, which doesn't count), Mary Oliver's "Wild Geese."

He keeps his fingers busy, working with his jewelry saw on the bits of pearl. He keeps his focus on his hands, the work, and for moments at a time he can forget the deaths of his friends, the potential death of his Slayer. He's called Giles to see if he can gather more information about the drug and people who might've survived an O.D. Faith's called Angel to see if Wes might have left a record of some kind of her own survival. Now they're in wait-and-see mode.

Willa slowly grows calmer, but from the concern on Faith's face, Xander guesses it's not in a good way. "Come on, princess, fight," she mutters. "You're not a useless rich girl, you're a warrior. Show me what you're made of."

Willa sinks deeper.

Toward the end of the second day, Faith looks up at Xander. "Call me crazy, but I think we ought to take her home."

Dow doesn't like this idea, either, but Faith cares as much about this protest as she did his others. "She's sinking," Faith tells him as they hash things out in Dow's tiny kitchen. "I'd rather hurt her trying something than stand by and let her die."

"Let's think this through," Xander says. "You survived an O.D. Maybe we can figure out the differences between then and now, recreate the conditions that helped you survive."

"One big difference was me and Angel slipping in and out of each other's consciousness. Who knows where Willa was when that vamp got dusted. Or if there's some piece of him walking around in her head."

Either prospect makes Xander more than uneasy. "Is that how it works for most people who take this junk? Or was it a fluke -- because you're a Slayer?"

"I'm not sure. Don't forget the other big difference. Angel's soul. There was somewhere for me to be wandering around, you know?"

"I thought he was Angelus at the time."

She toys with the teacup Dow brought her. "Most of the time, yeah. But I don't know. The soul seemed to have some kind of influence over the places the drug took us. Very Ghost of Christmas Past, Present and Future." Faith shakes her head. "I was dying though. I knew it. Up until the point when Willow smashed the glass that held Angel's soul. That's when I got the strength to fight."

"So ... what if someone with a soul went in after Willa?"

"No," Faith says adamantly. "No one else is screwing around with that shit."

Xander cradles his own cup in his hands. Someone should clue Dow in that he's in the self-described capital of coffee. This green tea is not cutting it. "Smart policy," he says. "But I was wondering if there's some other way in. Maybe Willow knows of a spell. Or Giles, maybe."

Faith's frown lines deepen. "I'm not loving it. Too dangerous."

"I have to agree," Dow adds.

"Willow's done this before. Went after Buffy when she was all traumatized, sort of catatonic. She brought her back out of herself."

"Trauma is one thing," Faith says. "Orpheus is something else entirely. You're talking about her swimming into a riptide."

"I wouldn't let Will go. I'd have her send me."

Faith surges to her feet. "Aw, shit no. As far as plans go, that's almost as stupid as the one that got her here in the first place. I'm not letting you commit suicide out of guilt."

"It's not guilt. She's my Slayer."

"And there's nothing in the Watcher's manual, or whatever the hell they use, that says you throw yourself on the funeral pyre of your Slayer. Did Giles dive off that tower after Buffy?"

The image of Buffy pitching off that tower, arms spread wide, is like a knife to his heart. Without intent, Xander finds himself standing too. "You don't mention that ever again."

Regret flashes across Faith's face. She reaches a hand out to touch his chest, but Xander turns away. "Let's get Willa ready. We're going back to Spokane."

She's small enough that she can curl up on the back seat, a blanket tucked around her. Dow lends them a couple of rolled-up sleeping bags to set on the floorboards in case Willa falls off the seat.

"Won't hurt her if she does," Faith says. "Not where she is."

"Humor me," Dow says. He also gives them a thermos of green tea and some sandwiches.

Faith's about to circle to the driver's side when Xander says, "Faith, I need to apologize. I'm sorry I was an asshole about Buffy."

She flicks a glance at Dow and Bettina, then back to Xander.

"Hey, I was an asshole in front of them, the least I can do is apologize here, too."

She reaches out and touches two fingers to his chest, a glancing contact that looks casual, but Xander knows it isn't. "It's not a problem." She turns and flashes her dimples at Bettina and Dow. "Thank you guys for your help. God knows what shape she'd be in if you hadn't."

"I hope I didn't make things worse," Bettina says.

"You did what you were trained to do. What's important is, she's alive. We'll do our best to keep her that way."

"Please keep us informed," Dow says.

"That was generous of you," Xander tells Faith after she's found her way back onto the interstate.

"What?"

"What you said to Bettina. It had to stir up some painful things."

"Well, it was true. Weird seeing such a young Slayer. I mean, she's not, the Council found her, what'd she say, two years ago? But she reminds me of myself a little when I was all new and shiny." She laughs. "Well. Never all that shiny."

"Hey. Don't."

She doesn't answer, just strokes her hand over his knee, a fleeting gesture. "So how was it, meeting Dow? Feel better now?"

"What do you mean?" One thing he doesn't like about riding shotgun: it takes effort to get a glimpse of her face.

"You've been so worried that you don't have this Watcher thing down. Here's a guy who's been at it two years, plus had all the training, and he's shit-scared. Does that comfort you some?"

"Nah, it just makes me sure I'm missing something big."

She smacks him on the leg with her fist, which hurts more than she probably meant it to. "Hey, watch," he says lightly. "Breakable, here."

"Yeah, you are. And that's the important thing about you, the thing I didn't see until I was in prison with all the time in the world to look back. You're an ordinary human, yet you're the first one to wade into a fight. You got stones."

"Yeah. They're in my head. Most of the time, though, I'm just a big chickenshit."

"You say that, but you're full of it. Back there's a perfect example. You're gonna do what you think is right, no matter how fucking dangerous. I admire that. I admired that years ago, when I stopped to think about you. You're stronger than me, or Buffy. Because you know anything could happen to you, and you charge on in there."

Before he's forced to think up a response, Willa starts in with the wailing again, fighting the blanket, arching her back. "Shit," he mutters.

Faith throws a quick glance backward. "Maybe it's a good thing. She's fighting it."

"Is she? Or is she just having convulsions?"

Another quick look. Willa's thrashing and making a noise that sends daggers into Xander's nervous system.

"I'm pulling off," Faith says. "I'll get in back with her. You drive." She hits the hazard lights and veers off onto the shoulder. They make the switch and she struggles her way into the back seat, gathering the writhing Willa onto her lap.

"You gonna be okay back there?"

"Yeah, go."

Willa drums her foot against the door panel, and Xander wonders if he's going to have a car left by the time they get back to Spokane. Maybe they should've taken her parents' car instead of leaving it hidden away in Dow's garage.

"It's all right," Faith croons. "You're safe now. We're getting you home, Willa. Home to Spokane."

Xander hears a meaty smack and Faith's muttered curse, and he winces.

"All right," she says over Willa's moans. "Don't laugh."

"I dunno, Faith. I've got to tell you, that's my first response to everything that's been going on."

"Laugh and I'll kill you. I'm gonna sing." She drops her voice, speaking to Willa. "My mom used to sing this to me when I was little, okay? Try to imagine someone else singing it, it's kind of pretty." She starts to sing, her voice shaky and shy at first:

I'm young, I know, but even so
I know a thing or two I learned from you
I really learned a lot, really learned a lot
Love is like a stove, burns you when it's hot
Ooh, love hurts--

Xander had always thought this the lamest of power ballads. Nazareth. Cher. It wasn't until he'd heard it at Evan's shop, Gram Parsons' and Emmylou Harris' voices twining around each other in shimmeringly sorrowful harmonies, that he'd ever really listened to the song. Love hurts, love scars, love wounds and mars -- Who the fuck would sing that to her child? Is it any wonder Faith grew up to be so skittish, so wary and prickly? He wonders how often she'd seen the lyrics played out between her mother and whatever guy she was seeing. He doesn't remember ever hearing about a father.

Don't laugh.

Yeah. Right.

The singing calms her again, and in the quiet that follows, Xander makes some calls. Willow says she can attempt what he's thinking about, but she'll need to be there in person. He asks her to make the arrangements and get there as soon as she can. Giles has no new information that isn't grim. He extracts what little practical advice from it that he can give Xander, but adds, "I wish you'd reconsider." Because he knows Xander won't, he says he's sending a protective amulet by overnight air, asking him to wait if at all possible to do the spell until he can wear it. Xander makes no promises, goes on to his next call.

Angel has nothing to add that they don't already know. But there's something in his tone, something so burdened -- even for the guy who walked away with the title of Mr. Broodypants of 1997, 1998 and 1999 -- that Xander can't help asking, "What is it, Angel?" Maybe it's the moonlight, maybe the long stretch of lonely highway.

He doesn't know what it is on Angel's end that prompts him to answer. "I searched Wes's papers. He never lost the Watcher's habit of keeping a diary." There's a pause so long Xander wonders if he's lost the signal. "It was hard," Angel finally says. "He struggled with madness the last few weeks. He'd gone back through the journals I was searching and covered the margins with annotations and additions. Seeing the evidence of that battle in him --" He suddenly seems to realize it's Xander Harris he's talking to, and he abruptly says, "Sorry I couldn't be more helpful."

The strangeness of the night stays with Xander, makes him say, "You're talking to a guy here who can blame himself for pretty much anything. But another person's mental illness -- that's one you can't really hold yourself responsible for."

Angel's brief laugh sounds like the crackle of dried leaves. "Call if there's anything else I can do."

Xander ignores the possible insincerity of the invitation. "There already is. I've got a project I've been asked to do. To get your history at Angel Investigations and the Scooby/New Council history gathered in one place. There's probably been a lot of duplication of efforts because we've been out of touch all these years. I'm going to put Willa on it, too. I figure it'll be a good project for her while she's recovering."

"I don't know, Xander. I've got a lot of current cases right now. I'm kinda overextended."

"Sure," Xander says. He's not ashamed to go for the cheap shot. "Giles will -- well, I'm sure he'll understand."

"What?"

"Well, it seemed pretty important to him. I hate to disappoint him, but I'm sure I'll think of something to tell him. He always finds a way to soldier on." There's a hard thump to the back of the driver's seat, right about kidney level. He's not sure if it's Willa getting restless again, or Faith supplying some commentary.

"Nice try, Xander. That one might've worked on me a few years ago, but when he refused to help me with Fred --"

Shit. "I'm missing something here. Part of that history we didn't pass back and forth."

"Little over four years ago. One of my people was infected with one of the ancient god-demons."

"Ah. I was maybe still drinking my way through Italy then. What happened?"

"He let her -- She was devoured from inside. She died in agony. I don't honestly know if he could have helped her, but because we were with Wolfram & Hart, he wouldn't try."

"Jesus. I didn't know that. I'm sorry."

"If he'd ever known her -- she didn't deserve that."

"Sorry I played the guilt card, too. It's just -- this is important. There are gaps in our knowledge, yours and ours, because we don't communicate. It seems stupid. Wasteful. And it could someday be the death of somebody."

Another pause, and then Angel says, "When the hell did you get so good at this?"

"At what?"

"Being a leader."

Christ. He wishes people would stop saying things like this.

Angel agrees to discuss it further, and they break the connection. Sighing, Xander flips the phone onto the passenger seat. He should call Peg. He should call Straley.

"It's your turn," Faith says.

He glances at her in the rearview. "Want to drive for a while?"

"I mean your turn to sing. We've gotta be even, so this doesn't come back to bite me on the ass. You've gotta sing something your mother used to sing to you."

"She never did."

"You're kidding."

"No. She was too self-conscious. I never even heard her hum when she thought she was alone."

She shakes her head. "How about your old man?"

"He never sang to me. Sometimes he'd walk around the house singing something, if he'd had enough to drink."

"Let's have it."

"It's stupid."

"Doesn't matter to me. Let's go."

Xander stares straight ahead. "What you said. Laugh and I'll kill you." He takes a deep breath.

I'm Popeye the sailor man
I live in a garbage can
I love to go swimmin'
with bare-naked wimmin
I'm Popeye the sailor man

She is laughing when he finishes, but it doesn't matter. She's also reaching over Willa and running her fingers through his hair, from his neck to the top of his head. "Goddamn, Xander Harris, I think I'm in love with you."

Faith resumes murmuring and crooning softly to Willa after making her declaration, signaling Xander that he isn't required to return it. Or maybe, it occurs to him, to fill up the empty space between them if he doesn't. Intuition tells him, though, that an immediate I love you too will be met with suspicion, as a kneejerk response. Instead he listens to her soothing Willa, drifts in and out of conversation with her.

He does love her.

He loves her carefully guarded heart, so slow to trust, for opening to him. Loves her bravery for being the first to mention the L word.

Her excitement over the present she bought him at the casino, the wolf jacket.

Her tenderness with her fallen sister Slayer. Her smoky laugh, her cinnamon rolls, her protectiveness of his guitar, her honest treatment of their history together. The strengths she sees in him, which are somehow just out of his own line of sight. Xander trusts her judgment, so they must be there.

He loves the gesture she uses between them, her hand over his heart.

He loves how she's given him heart through all the terrible shit that's happened the past few weeks.

Loves what a kickass surprise this has all been. Who'd have thought, with all their history, that they'd work so well together? Who'd have predicted, as damaged and wary as they both are, that they'd fit so well together?

She speaks up when they pass a sign pointing out a rest stop ahead. "How about we switch off up here, give your shoulder a break?"

"Good thought." He takes the off-ramp, pulls into a space as close to the buildings as possible.

"You first this time?" Faith asks.

"That's all right. You go, then I will."

She grabs a jug of Father Bill brand holy water and strides toward the women's room. Xander barely has time to stretch his legs and light up his first cigarette in a very long time before Willa starts to thrash and cry out.

Opening the back door, he leans in to stroke her hair and hum a little, and gets a hard fist to his thigh for his trouble. "Easy, Eudora," he murmurs. "We're almost home. Just a little while longer now."

Then there's a fist to the back of his head and he stumbles against the doorframe, opening a gash on his right cheek. Willa's making that high, terrible shriek that sets up an answering vibration all along his spine. He turns as quickly as he can, trying to shove back a wave of dizziness, fumbling in his pocket for a stake as he wedges himself in the open door to protect Willa.

The vamp, a fortyish truck driver type, grabs Xander's arm and tries to jerk him out of the door, but he uses his own bodyweight to plant himself firmly in the opening. As Xander pulls the stake from his pocket, it catches on the cloth, spinning away to clatter on the asphalt. He attacks with elbows and knees in the tight space, staggering the vamp back with blows to throat and groin. Suddenly he feels a spray of liquid splash across his face and chest, cooling quickly in the night air. His attacker stiffens, shrieking in tune with Willa, smoke rising from his back and scalp as he whirls toward Faith.

She steps in and jams the stake into trucker vamp's heart. 'Your turn," she says. "Men's room's clear."

Still, with the cut opened on his cheek, he beats a land speed record getting there and back, and settles himself in the back with Willa, who's calmed again now that the vampires are dispatched. "What the hell is it about rest stops?" he pants.

Faith floors it on the long on-ramp, hitting highway speed (and then some) before she even merges onto I90. "It's like dim sum, babe. There's always something yummy coming, a couple old farts in an RV, deadheads on their way to the next jam band concert, families with kids -- what's not to like? Which reminds me -- when things settle down, I want to go back to the dim sum place on Division."

"You think that vamp knew what Willa is?"

"I think he saw an easy meal, that's all. Doesn't matter now anyway."

Xander supposes she's right. But the closer they get to Darius' territory, the more paranoia he feels.

When they return home, the neighborhood's still just quiet enough to get Willa into the house without being seen. Faith carries her inside with seemingly no effort at all. She settles Willa onto the sofa while Xander strips the mounded sheets off the guest bed to replace them with fresh linens.

"She's been wearing the same things for at least three days," Faith says once Willa's installed in her room. "Let me get her changed. You go get some stuff from your medicine chest so I can clean that cut on your cheek."

Xander follows her directions, grabbing the supplies she'll need and then heading into the kitchen to put on some coffee and some rolls. The house felt strange to him when they first walked in, like coming back to a place where he used to live long ago. He wants the cinnamony scent of home (of freedom, to Faith) to permeate the house, erase that sense of alienness. As he waits for the timer to ping, he checks all the rooms, the basement, backyard and garage. Everything looks fine, normal. He stands over his workbench, gazing at his guitar. It hits him again, what a beautiful thing he's creating. He'll be setting the neck; it'll be impossible not to feel Evan's presence when he does. They've discussed this, and both are dovetail joint men all the way.

The timer goes off, and Xander heads into the kitchen to finish the rolls, then takes one and a cup of coffee down the hall. "Everyone decent in there?"

"Decent as I'll ever be, lover."

He sets her roll and coffee on the bedside table. "How does she seem?"

"The same. No worse. Sit with her a minute, would you? I've got a couple of things I need to do."

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Xander takes one of Willa's hands. It doesn't even curl reflexively around his, like a baby's. "Hey, Willa. You're home now. Your last few weeks of home, anyway. My house." This is his Slayer, the Chosen One left on her own for so many years. She's so fragile, yet so brave. Much as she drives him crazy, ignites his worst insecurities, he can't fathom losing her. "I know you're lost in there. Just hang tight. I'll be coming in after you. What is it they say? 'Hug a tree.' Find yourself a nice, fat sheltering mental tree and hang onto it. I'll be there as soon as I can."

He senses a presence and turns to see Faith leaning in the doorway, regarding him. She's found the first aid supplies he left out. "Hey, scoutmaster. Let me take care of your face."

"Have your coffee first," he says. "It's getting cold."

Ignoring him, she pulls up a chair next to the bed, facing him. "We should've taken care of this two hours ago." Back at the rest stop he'd splashed cold water on it -- not that there was any other kind -- but the mirror in the restrooms were like looking into a chrome bumper (another plus for the vampires -- who would notice that they didn't appear?), so he hadn't inspected it.

"How's it look?"

"Nasty." She dabs a cotton ball soaked with antiseptic on the cut, and his hand jerks tighter around Willa's. She makes a small noise.

"Hey, she felt that. That's good, right?"

"She's doing real good," Faith says. Her eyes, though, say otherwise. "She'll be pulling out of this soon." Her gaze slides away, focusing back on the cut.

She tosses the cotton ball in the wastebasket, peels the wrapper off a bandage and sticks it on him, careful not to use too much pressure on the bruise spreading across his cheek. Her fingertips trail down his face, feather along his jaw.

"You don't want to follow her in there," she whispers.

"No," he says. "But I have to."

When they've finished with their coffee and rolls, Faith says, "Why don't you put some time in on your guitar? Or sleep, if you'd rather, but I get the feeling the guitar's where your heart is."

"You haven't had much rest. I can watch her a while longer."

She pushes his hair away from his eyes. "Xander. Before you go in there after her, I want you good and acquainted with what's waiting for you here. So you remember why you want to come back."

He meets her gaze. "No chance of me forgetting that."

"Go on. You probably have time to get another step done before Willow gets here."

Xander takes her suggestion and heads out to the garage, where he uncovers the fretboard he'd carefully wrapped for the trip home. He inspects the inlay -- not bad for his first time working with pearl. The design looks a little spooky, with a side of garden-variety weird, he suspects, but also cool. It won't be confused with anyone else's work, that's for sure.

He heats the hide glue, slides a cd of Nina Simone into his boombox. Working quickly, he fixes the fretboard to the neck. Once he's got that clamped, he starts fashioning the bridge out of another block of ebony.

Xander's beyond tired and has lost all track of time when Faith comes into the garage. "How's it going, babe?"

"Good. I'm almost finished with -- Willa -- has something happened?"

"No, she's the same."

"Somebody should be with her --"

"Somebody is. Kevin came a while ago. You didn't hear the door?"

He shakes his head.

"I guess you didn't. What is this old-timey shit?"

"Hey. Nothin' shit about that. It's Nina Simone. Evan got me started listening to her." He pushes the forward button a couple of times, to a track with honky tonk piano and churchy organ and pure sex-on-a-stick Nina.

Do I move you?
Is it thrilling?
Do I groove you?
Are you willing?
...The answer better be yes -- Yes!
That pleases me

Faith makes a sound low in her throat, and he catches her in his arms, starts to sway with her. But she's got other ideas in mind besides dancing. Though it looks like the whole standing-up idea might be part of it.

"Faith --"

"I told you, babe. I want you remembering everything you have to come back for."

Xander kicks the door closed, and starts clearing off the spare workbench, the one he never keeps actual guitar pieces on. She laughs when he reflexively begins whisking the surface with his soft brush, tugging it from his hand. "We'll think of something to do with that." She hops up on the bench, pulling him toward her, wrapping her legs around his waist. "Hold on." She reaches into the cubbyhole where he keeps his safety glasses. "Put these on. You never know what'll come flyin' off that pegboard when we get goin'."

He climbs up to join her. If he's going to live dangerously, this is as good a place to start as any.

When Willow arrives, Xander and Faith are just emerging from a catnap Xander's not altogether sure did anything for him. Faith stops in the guest room to sit with Willa since Straley's gone to answer the door.

"You must be Willow," Kevin is saying as Xander enters the living room. He opens the door wider and steps aside without offering an explicit invitation. She steps inside, giving him a bemused once-over. "I'm Kevin Straley." He takes her suitcase. "Charter member of the Scoobies Northwest."

"Now is when it gets really confusing," Xander says. "We've got our Willa with an A, and our Willow with an Ow, all under the same roof."

"Xander!" After all they've been through, it's good to hear the pleasure in her voice. Till it turns to dismay: "Oh, god, Xander, what happened to your face?" She puts her hand to his cheek, fingertips barely making contact with his skin.

"The usual. Vampires. I haven't been near a mirror since it happened. Is it bad?"

"It's not good." She steps into his arms, holds him tight. "I'm so glad to see you. I'm so sorry about everything that's happened the past few weeks. How are you holding up?"

"I'm doing okay. My friends have been a real help. You should have called from the airport, we would have come for you."

"Don't worry. The cab was --" She releases him. "Faith."

"Willow. Can't really leave our patient back here, but I wanted to be part of the welcoming committee."

"Well, let's see her." Faith leads her back to the guest room, Xander following.

"I don't know if you saw much of what I went through on this Orpheus shit," Faith says. "I know you had your hands full with Angelus."

"I looked in on you, is all."

Faith's gesture brings them to a halt just outside the door. She drops her voice to a murmur. "What she's going through now is what Lorne called the barrens. For most people who O.D. on this, it's close to the end. But I came out of it, so there's a chance she will too. The thing I'm insisting on here is nobody gives up on her, nobody says anything about her dying. Some piece of her can hear what's going on, and any person who says she's a goner, I slap 'em cross-eyed." She pauses to let that sink in. "That said, we need to do this soon."

Willow nods. "Let's get started."

They enter her room, and for a moment Xander wonders if he should drop the arrogance and call Willa's parents so they can see her one last time. Thinks of all the cheesy TV cop shows with junkies who let their junkie friends die of an overdose because they don't want to get mixed up with the law. She looks so frail, so lost. Who does he think he is, believing he can pull her out of this?

Willow reaches out and places a hand on Willa's arm. Restless, whimpering softly, Willa seems oblivious. "Willa, I'm here to help you," she says. "My name's Willow, I'm a friend of Xander's. We know you're a little lost right now, but we're coming to find you. Faith's here, she's been through this and she found her way out. So there'll be some sage burning and some chanting and that. We'll be here the whole time. You're safe." She starts moving around the room, setting up candles. "It'll take a few minutes to get set up, if there's anything you want to do to get ready."

Xander says, "You know what Prince Charles supposedly said. Someone asked him the most important thing he learned in military service, and he said anytime you have a chance to use the bathroom, do it." When he returns, he adds, "I suppose that just blew my shot at fame as a legendary leader. Another minute." He beckons Faith out into the hallway.

"Hell, I'd call that a legendary quote. At least I'm not going to let you forget it anytime soon." She has that Goddamn, I think I'm in love with you vibe again, and it makes him go all serious.

"Faith, if something -- if I don't come out, or if I'm not me when I do, I want you to know I love you. You've been my anchor through all of this, but it's not just because of what you've been to me. I love the person you are. Don't ever forget that."

She holds up a finger to stop him. "You make me cry, Harris, and I swear I'll have to hurt you." Squinching her eyes shut for a brief moment, she presses two fingers to her own lips, then his, then over his heart. Without another word she walks back into the guest room.

Before he can follow her inside, Willow meets him at the door, pushes him back out into the hallway. "You think we're getting started without me taking my turn, mister, you think wrong."

He pulls her into his arms, and her own go around him, almost squeezing the breath out of him. "I'm sorry it's been so hard for us lately," he tells her. "I always love you, even when I'm pissed off or distant."

"Love you too, Xan. Always."

After a moment, he pulls back. "Let's do this. Lock and load."

Straley, who enters the room to watch over the whole thing and fend off interruptions, offers a damn manly handshake. In a bait-and-switch move, it ends up kind of a sloppy, back-slapping damn manly hug, but Xander's all right with that.

"I talked to Giles," Willow says. "He told me he was sending you an amulet. Are you wearing it?"

"It's not here yet. I'm not waiting, Will. We need to do this thing."

Willow nods. She lights the sage, gives it to Straley. She and Faith and Xander seat themselves on the bed, holding hands. The women are the ones who take Willa's hands, creating a link between him and her. Willow starts to chant.

Nothing happens.

Nothing keeps happening, and he's about to loosen his grip on Willow and Faith's hands when suddenly all his synapses crackle with some kind of energy that feels like cold fire, snapping his head back.

He's damn glad he took Prince Charles's advice.

Okay, this is weird.

Xander finds himself standing in the hallway outside Willa's apartment. He glances behind him, making sure her gorilla of a building manager is nowhere around, then he presses her bell.

How the hell did he get here?

There's no answer, but something makes him try the door. The knob turns easily in his hand, so he pushes the door open. It swings in less than a foot before encountering something blocking the way. A gentle push has no effect, so he puts his shoulder -- the good one -- into it. With considerable effort, he shoves the door in far enough that he can squeeze through. The hallway inside her place is much longer and narrower than he remembers, narrowed even further by the towering stacks of magazines that line both walls, reaching from waist to chest high. In the light from the hall he sees their titles: New Yorker, Harper's, Atlantic Monthly. Not a Fangoria in sight.

"Willa? Hey, are you in here?"

His nose twitches as he notices the faint, sweet scent of decay.

"Love what you've done with the place," he calls out. "Want to come on out and give me the full tour?"

He gets the answer he expected, which is none. Something brushes his face and he startles, yelping. It's a string with a little metal piece on the end, a light pull. Xander gives it a yank, casting a yellow tinge over the contents of the hallway. The pages of the magazines, he notices, all bristle with sticky notes.

Edging his way along the narrow passageway, he comes to the kitchen. There's a little more space in here, and he finds himself letting out a breath. Count claustrophobia as one of those little personality quirks he hadn't been aware of possessing until now.

It's a kitsch museum in here, the walls covered in novelty clocks. Shaped like a coffee pot with a cartoon face, a hot rod, the obligatory cat with the moving eyes and tail, which still creeps him out. Quite a few were obviously salvaged from old cafes. Each, he notices, displays a different time. The ticking is near deafening.

Suddenly hungry, Xander peers into a cupboard, telling himself he'll ask before he takes anything. He finds nothing but a half package of rice cakes. "I'll pass on the styrofoam peanuts," he mutters to himself. The refrigerator, which he can find by the dense covering of magnets growing on it like mold, holds a crusty jar of relish and another of mustard, and several six-packs of diet soda. He closes its door, taking nothing, and checks the lower cupboards, hoping to find some innocent source of that sourish-sweet smell. Hundreds of empty booze bottles tumble out, sending Xander stumbling backward into the living room.

"Hey, Willa? Feeling kind of stalkery now. Want to tell me where you are?"

Apparently not.

"I said I'd come for you. Are you hugging a tree? A stack of magazines?"

He switches on a lamp, but it only seems to get murkier in the room. Books and magazines cover every surface, aggressively sticky-noted. Collages cover the walls, leaving not an inch of white space for the eye to rest on. There's one in progress spread out on the floor, surrounded by magazines lacy with holes. No pictures on the collage yet, just the cutout words 7 Things You Should Never Regret.

He's really not loving this.

He makes it to a window without tripping over anything or toppling a tower of books, tugs on the windowshade. It slips from his fingers and shoots upward, flapping around the spindle. "Nothing like a heart attack to let a guy know he's alive," he says to the room. Blinking in the sudden light, he looks around. A bright patch of air is alive with dust motes, while the rest recedes into deeper shadow. He tries to open the window, let in some air, but it's painted shut.

There's another hallway leading from this side of the living room, and he makes his way there. No magazine hedges here, instead it's paintings tilted against the walls, stacked two, three, four canvases deep. He peeks at one as he edges by: abstract, dark. Xander shrugs. He's no art critic. He's actually sort of glad of that.

The bedroom door is ajar, and he pushes it open with his fingertips. Nothing here, just a big mass of covers in the middle of the bed. Starting away, he remembers finding Willa tangled in just such a heap of linens at his house, and he walks into the room. He shakes out the covers, finds nothing there.

Next door is a linen closet, leaving one more dark doorway at the end of the hall. Xander taps softly. There's no response, but he hears the soft noises of weeping from inside, and he reaches for the doorknob. "Willa? I'm coming in."

Here's the one room that's flooded with light. The bathroom is one of those old fashioned ones, white tiles, white walls, half as big as her living room. Willa's perched on the edge of the clawfoot tub, rocking slightly. She looks up as he walks in, her eyes huge in her white face. Her hair's her natural brown, and there's enough of it to pull into a ponytail. "Oh god," she says, and he catches a flash of silver. Braces. "Oh god."

A man lies sprawled at her feet, face down on the white octagonal tiles.

There's a lot of blood coming out of his head.

Xander puts up his hands, palms out. "Don't panic. I'm here to help. You remember me?"

She nods. "Xander."

"Okay. Who've we got here? The vamp?"

"The what? No."

He crouches next to the man on the floor, which he sees now is scattered with shards of mirror. With some effort, Xander rolls him onto his back and sees no, it's not the vamp Bettina dusted. The bleeding guy making such interesting patterns on the white tile is a writer so famous even Xander knows him by sight.

Willa wails when she sees his face.

"Eudora. Listen to me. I need a wet washcloth. Could you get one for me? Head wounds always look bad, but we won't know till I take a look."

Having something to do seems to help her control the panic. She finds a cloth and dampens it, then hands it over.

He starts wiping the blood from the writer's face. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"I was helping with the party."

"Party?"

"Pay attention. The one out there."

And now he hears it, music and laughter and voices raised up in a dozen conversations all over the house.

"For him." She nods at the guy on the floor. "I was getting kind of overloaded, so I started upstairs, to my room. He followed me up, pushed me in here." Her breath starts to hitch.

"Take your time, Willa. You're safe here."

"He put his hands on my breasts. Stuck his tongue in my mouth. No big deal, really. I mean, he was just drunk. But I got scared."

"Willa, that's no excuse."

"I know, I know." Her voice is high and panicked. "I really didn't mean it."

Xander softens his own voice. "I'm not talking about you. I meant him. Being drunk is no excuse. So what happened then?"

"He said, um --" she thinks for a moment. "He said, 'Bet you're tight.' And, um -- how do I know you again?"

"We're friends," he says gently.

"Oh. Yeah. This is so embarrassing. He, um, tried --" she finally dissolves into tears now -- "to, um, touch me. Down there. So I shoved him. And I kind of did it a couple more times. I think I killed him."

"No. He's not that bad off." Xander's seen his picture on his dust jackets. They always light him to accentuate the broken nose, to give him that hard-knocks romance. "Just bleeding a lot."

Seemingly on cue, the writer moans.

"How old are you?" Xander asks her.

"I'll be sixteen in three weeks."

"Christ," he murmurs.

Stirring, the writer moans again. Xander dabs at the cut across the bridge of his nose. "Does this hurt?"

"Ow, yeah."

"Good, ya fuck."

Then the asshole is gone, but they're still in the cold tile bathroom, and the floor is still spattered with blood. He hears it drip on the octagonal tiles like a fast leak: spat spat spat.

Xander looks around to see where the sound is coming from, and behind him Willa sits on the toilet lid. She bleeds from a bad gash in one wrist.

In the other hand, she grips a shard of mirror.

"Willa, give me the glass. You really think that guy is worth dying for?"

"Oh please. That's ancient history." He notices now that the ponytail and braces are gone, that her hair is now the henna red it was when he first met her. She tosses the mirror shard into the sink. "I think I finally got the hang of it."

"Of what?"

"Are you paying any attention at all? Of dying. I'm really not that into the raging. Sorry, Dylan. I'm firmly on the side of going gentle."

"How about you don't go at all?"

She laughs. "Wake up, Xander. What makes you think I've got a choice?"

"You can fight."

"Because it's so worthwhile to stick around? You know what I get if I fight? I get to live so I can fight more. I'm tired of fighting. It's all I've ever done."

"Things are different now. You don't have to fight by yourself. You don't have to fight yourself. You know who you are."

She waves her arm, sending a Jackson Pollock splatter of blood flying onto the white wall. "You're in my head. You think it's such a great place to be?"

"I've seen worse."

"Ooh, do I finally get to hear your story? 'I'm Xander and I'm an alcoholic.' You've really built up the expectation level. This better be good."

Does this ever fucking stop? Is he going to die bickering with this girl? Personally he'd have chosen workbench sex with Faith as his preferred way to go. "We're still talking about your head here. It's cluttered, yeah. Dark. And there's probably a dead vampire somewhere, rotting quietly away like a dead mouse in the walls. Sounds to me like stuff you can fix, if you're not too chickenshit to try. Funny how wrong you can be about people. I never had you pegged for a coward."

"Fuck you."

"You like to bicker. But when it comes to a real fight about something meaningful, you haven't got anything to show me. 'I'm tired.' 'It's too hard.' You had a rough break being made a Slayer without anyone to show you the way. Well, boo fucking hoo. You're not the only girl. You look at Jenny Grimaldi over in Seattle and tell me she's not a Slayer. Can't say I know how her personal life is going, but she's not wallowing in misery, wasting her gift working at a record store. She doesn't quite know what it's for, but she's using it."

"Look who's dispensing the wisdom. Mr. Third-Shift Grocery Store Manager."

"Yeah, I spent some years hiding out. I'm done with that now." Xander hasn't really known it until the words come out of his mouth, but now he's sure: if he still has a job at Rosauers, he's giving notice. "But we're still not talking about me here. Watcher or not, I'm just a guy. You're the one with the gift. Could be life or death to some people, but hey, you can afford to piss it away. Faith was right about you. You're just a spoiled rich girl. You don't know what hard is. The first bump in the road, you're waiting for the Grim Reaper, ready to give him a big sloppy tongue kiss."

"You miserable fuck."

"Maybe so. But I'm a miserable fuck who wants to live. You're so set on burning this place down? Well, I'm here too. Looks like if you go, I'm coming with."

"I didn't ask you to come busting in here."

"Nope. That's right, you didn't. Invited a vampire in so you could see what he could tell you, but me, I'm an intruder. Did you get anything useful out of that? The whole exercise is kind of pointless now, isn't it? Except you finally get to die, like you've apparently always wanted."

She surges to her feet and slams him against the wall, hard enough to make his teeth click. Out of the corner of his right eye, he can see the spray of Willa's blood on the white tile. "All right, Xander. You want to walk away? Let's walk away."

She yanks the bathroom door open, revealing a dense, humid jungle of tangled underbrush and trees so densely packed together that there's no light to be seen between them.

"Okay, smart guy. Which tree do you want to hug?"

Yeah, smart guy.

"Again, I love what you've done with the place. So very Apocalypse Now."

"I was really thinking Heart of Darkness," Willa says.

"Whatever. Just don't get out of the boat. Never get out of the boat. No matter how much you want a mango."

"What's that supposed to mean? We don't have a boat. Or a river."

Xander sighs. "Never mind. It's a thing. You wouldn't happen to have a couple of machetes lying around, would you?" Long shot, but it can't hurt to ask. A girl with a jungle in her brain, no telling what else she's got in storage.

"How's this?"

He turns to see, and she's got a whole collection of broadswords, battle axes and shiny sharp objects.

"The curved ones. Though if you can manage to stick a sword or knife in your belt, it couldn't hurt to bring it along." Huh. Not that she had a belt five minutes ago, but she does now. She's got a whole jungle commando thing going, with the khakis and the undershirt and the sweat. And so, it seems, does he. Well, okay. Army Guy is back. This is good. Army Guy has gotten him through a lot of shit he's not sure he'd have survived otherwise.

Lock and load.

He moves ahead, hacking his way through the vines obstructing his path.

Never has he been in an unpopulated place where he felt such a sense of presence. Not in a good nature-is-friendly kind of way. There's a constant hiss of -- what? Leaves sliding across one another in some unfelt breeze? Snaky things slithering through undergrowth? The shriek of insects and birds rises and falls, shredding his nervous system.

"Want me on your left or your right?" Willa asks.

"If this were just recon, I'd say left, but since we're swinging the sharp, shiny things, make it my right. I trust you, but I can't see where you are, and there's always a good chance of stumbling over this shit."

They make their slow progress without speaking, accompanied by their grunts and the sound of blades hacking into twining roots and vines. Last time he remembers being in anything like this -- oh. Riley and Buffy and poltergeisty sex weirdness, oh my. He doesn't want to know what's behind the lush, tropical Willa's-brain vegetation.

"You were a soldier, weren't you?" she asks after a while.

"Yes," he says without thinking. "No. Not exactly. There was a spell. I was a soldier for one night, but all that is still in my head as if I did an entire hitch."

"God, that's weird. That something magical can reach into you and change you that way. Your memories are who you are. Something changes them, it changes you."

Laughing, Xander stops swinging the machete.

"What?"

"Eudora, you don't know the half of it."

"What?"

He shakes his head. Dawn has begged him -- everyone -- not to tell people about her origins, except on a purely need-to-know basis. He doesn't blame her. It's got to change how people look at you.

"Look out!" Willa yells. "Left!"

He whirls, the machete coming up as he turns, slicing into the vamp stumbling toward him but not high enough to kill. The blade is stuck in his side, and Xander fruitlessly struggles to yank it free.

"Down!" she shouts.

Xander drops to the ground, hears the whir of a blade slicing the air above him. A head tumbles to the jungle floor beside him, then falls to dust.

She reaches a hand to him, helps him up. "Okay, how many times does that thing have to die?"

"Was that the one you did the Orpheus with?"

She nods.

"Maybe this is all." He looks around. "Have you noticed something? The jungle's been closing in behind us as we pass by. The path we cleared --"

"Oh, shit," she breathes. "It's gone."

"And I don't know about you, but I got totally turned around during that fight. Can you tell which way we were going?"

"No. It all looks the same to me."

He reels off a rich assortment of Army Guy curses, trimming off the ones that could be interpreted as misogynistic. He's a guest in her head, after all. "I'm going to climb one of these things, maybe get a sense of where we're headed."

The trees nearby all seem to have the same smooth bark, their skin as drenched in this humidity as his own. Pulling off his shirt, he uses it to wipe the greasy sweat from his arms and torso, then drops it on the ground. For all the good it does -- by the time he's three feet up the tree, he's as slick as he was before. He climbs slowly, cautiously, muttering about saunas and mutant fish monsters.

At last he makes it to the tapered treetop, swaying a bit under his weight and the ripe, sweltering breeze. He sees a likely direction, fumbles carefully in his pockets for a compass. Surely he has a compass. He finds it, gets his bearings. Should be easy now. Except for the hacking-their-way-through-the-jungle part, of course. And the getting down from the tree. He's always had a much worse time with descents than ascents. So much harder to see where you're putting your feet. So much easier to see how far you have to --

Fall.

The flat-on-his-back landing knocks the wind out of him. Xander gasps and wheezes, struggling not to panic. He'll be all right in just a moment.

Willa's face tells him otherwise. As he gets control of his breathing, he raises his head, as Willa kneels beside him saying, "No, no, no, lie still."

He props himself on an elbow and looks where Willa's hands are hovering like little white birds. There's a hacked-off vine where it shouldn't be -- where it really couldn't be, growing out of his body, glistening black with blood.

"Crap," he hears himself say. "I've done a Cordy."

"Oh Jesus, now what, now what?" Willa cries.

"Take it easy," he says. "We just get me unpinned here and keep going."

"No. You shouldn't move."

"Nice thought and all, but it's not like there's a search party coming. I was the search party." And a damn fine screwup you made of that, Harris. "Take your knife and saw through the vine in back here."

"Shouldn't we just pull it out?"

"No. If it's nicked something important, we want to keep it compressed for now."

Willa sets to work, holding the vine so her sawing movements jiggle his injury as little as possible. It helps, but all those natural painkillers that flooded his system at first are doing a fast fade and, careful as she is, he's in agony. He longs to lie still for a moment, maybe just pass out for a bit, but he knows better than to give in.

This is all mystical shit, he tells himself. Totally imaginary. He tries to remember what Faith said about her magical mystery tour with Angel. Angelus beat the shit out of her, she'd said, but Xander can't remember if the injuries carried over into the real world once she emerged from the drug. Maybe she never said. Doesn't matter. He's got to get up and move now or he won't make it to the outside.

"Okay," he says. "Let's get me on my feet. Get over here on my good side. You can sling my arm over your shoulders."

"I can't, I can't." She's panicking again.

"Sure you can, Eudora. You came on this trip to learn something. Here it is: You're more powerful than other women, almost any man and a good few demons and vamps. And despite what people have told you your whole life, that's not a weakness. It's your strength."

His pep talk actually has the desired effect, and she sets about helping Xander to his feet.

It had never occurred to him that you could break out in a cold sweat when you were already covered in sweat, so chalk this whole thing as a learning experience for him, too. Everything goes gray and is working on black, when Willa barks, "Xander. Stay with me. Talk to me. What's doing a cordy? Is that some kind of army term?"

He laughs, and the pain snaps him back into focus. "No."

"A demon of some kind?"

Xander almost laughs again. "Only when she wanted to be. Cordelia was my first girlfriend. She fell, impaled herself on some rebar. There's a compass in my left pants pocket. Cargo pocket, on the side. I don't think I can move that arm without passing out."

His right arm draped over her shoulders, Willa maneuvers her left arm around his back, feels around in the pocket. "You saw something up there? A way out?"

"Maybe. I figure if we head north by northeast --"

"Got it." She snakes her hand back around and between them to get a read on the compass. "Ah, shit."

The compass is all smashed in, broken in the fall. "Don't panic," Xander says. "I have a plan."

"Yeah?"

"Give up. Sit down. In my case, pass out."

"With all due respect, that's a suck plan. We go forward." She gets a grip on his shoulder with her left hand, starts swinging the machete with her right. "A rebar, you said. That's some kind of demon?"

"It's a steel rod. The kind they put in concrete. Garden variety building materials."

"Was she a demon hunter too?"

"Yeah. In Sunnydale and then in L.A. She survived the rebar just fine."

"Well, see?"

Let me count the ways this is not like what happened to Cordy. Every swing of the machete sends a surge of liquid fire through his side.

"Come on, keep talking. I want the dish. Tell me about your next girlfriend."

"That one was the demon." Crap. He's pretty sure he hadn't meant to give that up. "Ex-demon, actually."

"Is that the one you got high with?"

He told her that? Oh yeah, guess he did. "No. But they were colleagues."

"What was she? What kind of demon?"

"Ex. Ex. A vengeance demon. Granted the wishes of scorned women. If you ever dated a schmuck and then met a sympathetic woman who tried to get you to make a wish, you probably met one."

"Demons grant wishes?"

"Trust me, it's a lot less whimsical than it sounds."

She tries to keep him nattering about this and that, but after a while he's graying out again. Maybe raving a little bit. At one point he sings, though it's actually more muttering under his breath.

"What's that?" Willa asks. "An incantation?"

"What?"

"What you were just doing. Was that Latin? You kept saying Non mi stanco."

He lets out a puff of air, intended as a laugh. "Italian. It's a rap song. 'I don't get tired.' The verse, not the song. I used to run to it."

She snorts. "Italian rap?"

"Don't laugh. It's Jovanotti. He kicks ass." Speaking of ass-kicking, something is whaling on his. He looks down, sees a black slick of blood running down his left leg from the puncture in his side. He staggers. "Fuck. This is not good."

"Don't look. Just keep walking. I'll find us a curandero, a healer. I mean, it's my brain, right? I found the machetes."

Forget the healer. How about a med-evac helicopter? How about a nice shiny hospital? Why a jungle in the first place? Why couldn't they have found themselves in the Willa's brain version of Las Vegas? He hears himself babbling about Wayne Newton and Penn & Teller. "Man, I thought the place would be lit up way more than this. Damn, it's dark." He stumbles on rubbery legs and crashes to the ground.

Willa shrieks, stops the swing of her machete just inches from his throat. He thinks. Just to be sure, he feels his neck. Yeah, still there. His fingers find a leather cord, follow it down to his chest. There's some kind of stone thing hanging from the cord. He can't make out the shape by feel.

"You'll travel a lot faster now," he mumbles.

"I'm not leaving without you."

He takes in a deep, shuddering breath.

Starts to laugh, though it hurts like hell.

"You smell that, Eudora?"

"Smell what?"

Xander lifts his head, still laughing. "Cinnamon rolls."

He closes his eye for a moment, marshaling his energy.

"Xander, no! Stay with me!" Her hand strikes his cheek, somewhere between a pat and a slap. "Dammit, you can't die!"

He catches her by the wrist before the fourth slap. "Don't go near the eyepatch."

"I thought you were dying. Raving about cinnamon and Las Vegas, and --" Suddenly she's crying too hard to talk.

It's not a stupid assumption. He's not so sure even yet that she's wrong. "It's not a hallucination," he says. "Go on, have a snort."

She sits back on her heels, takes a sniff.

He grins as a look of wonder crosses her face. "Yeah, that's the primo stuff. It's Faith. Showing us the way home."

Willa channels a bit of Army Guy herself, snapping to. "We've got to get moving. Let's roll." It takes some doing to get Xander back on his feet. He seems incapable of offering much help. There are these strange floppy things at the ends of his legs where his feet used to be, that trip them both up every couple of yards.

She picks up the conversation from a few topics back. "The eyepatch, by the way, is long gone."

His hand flies up to his face.

"It doesn't matter," Willa says. She sounds irritated. "You think all people see is what's lacking. Anyone with half a brain stops noticing five minutes after hello."

"That must be why I'm still noticing it."

"It must be," she snaps. "Could you just get on the self-esteem bus? Not as far as Obnoxious, but you could ride until you're out of Deeply Annoying."

Xander laughs, which makes him cough, which makes him think about passing out. "You sound like a Scooby," he mumbles.

"No, you don't," she orders as his knees go wobbly. "Stay with me. Faith's waiting, and she'll kick my ass if I come back without you. I have no doubt she'll find some way to kick your ass, too."

She's probably right. He tries to focus. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Left knee. Right knee, right hand.

"Xander, get up. Come on, look. The bush is thinning. We're almost out." She hauls him up again. "You'd better march, buddy, because if I get to those rolls first, they're mine."

He makes a couple steps, goes to his knees again.

She pulls him back to his feet. "I could probably pick you up and carry you, but how embarrassing would that be for you?"

"Yeah," he pants. "A little too Legends of the Fall."

She makes a noise of disgust. "How revolting was that? The sexy picture on the DVD box, and then it turns out the chick he's carrying is dead. Scar me for life. We are so not doing Legends of the Fall."

Xander staggers again, but she rights him before he goes down.

"Hey. Hey, look. I see daylight. We're almost out of the woods."

Maybe she is.

They're only a few yards from the outside when he takes another header. All he wants to do this time is lie down. "Just for a few minutes," he tells her.

"No. Get up."

"You go ahead. I'll rest, then I'll be right out."

"Don't give me that crap," Willa says. "You can't give up now."

"I'm not. I swear," he lies.

"Xander, if you don't walk out of here, I can't either. Looks like if you die, I'm coming with."

"Shit."

"You're the miserable fuck who wants to live, so let's see you act like it. Just get on your feet one more time, and you'll be out. Poppin' Fresh Faith is out there."

"Better not let her hear." He groans as she gets him upright again.

"March," she orders.

He pushes forward, leaning most of his weight on Willa. A stumble or two and then he's out in the light, blinking in the sudden brightness.

There's Faith, standing in sunlight so strong it bleaches out her features. He takes a step toward her and slips to his knees. In a flash she's there beside him, kneeling with him, gathering him into her arms. Funny how that doesn't make the injury to his side feel any worse. "Baby, you're back, you're safe, you're home."

His eye flutters open. He's in the guest room, Faith leaning over him, deep frown lines etched on her brow. "Stay with me, okay?" he murmurs. "I just need to rest a while." He slips into sleep, but as he greets the darkness he knows it's okay.

He's safe.

Xander drifts awake to find himself in his own bed, Faith curled behind him, spooning him. He knows by the feel of her body and her scent. When he shifts he sees she's awake.

"Hey, babe," she says.

"Hey." Already he's losing focus again, slipping back toward sleep. "How's Willa?"

"Good. She's safe. Doing exactly what you're doing."

He does it some more. When he resurfaces, she's still there, sitting beside the bed reading one of his paperbacks. He reaches out, brushes her knee with his fingertips. "You saved us," he tells her. "You know that, don't you?" By the time he feels her close his hand in both hers, he's slipping under again.

The next time he wakes up, Faith is asleep beside him and Willow's on watch. A nagging sense of something wrong has finally resolved into a memory, and he carefully passes his hand over his left side.

Willow catches the movement and looks up from her textbook. "You're okay," she whispers. "Whole and unpunctured."

She knows, though. "You did some healing mojo?"

Willow shakes her head. "Willa asked about you the first time she came out of it. She said what happened, so we checked you out. You left it behind when you walked out."

He's grateful for that. "I almost didn't. Walk out."

"I know." Her eyes shimmer with tears. "I was so scared, Xander. There's so much I need to say to you. Not now, you need to rest. But soon."

He sits up, careful not to disturb Faith. His head swims a little, and he closes his eye until it stops. "Will, all I've done is sleep. How long have I been back, anyway?"

"Pretty close to two days."

"Whoa, that's some sleeping. How long was I gone?"

She hesitates, and that's when he starts to get a little freaked out. "Four days."

He blinks. "Could be worse, I guess. At least I haven't been an assassin for the Covenant for the past two years." Xander rises to his feet, wobbling until Willow jumps up to steady him. "Tell me Vaughn hasn't gone and gotten married."

Willow takes him by the elbow, steadies him as they head out into the hallway. "This language you speak. It sounds like English, yet it makes no sense."

"Yeah, thank goodness I came back unchanged." He reaches back to close the bedroom door, smiling at the sight of Faith sprawled across the bed, frown lines erased as she sleeps.

Willow keeps her voice low as they head down the hall. "Wow. You and Faith. That's not one I'd have seen coming."

"Me either. I mean, yeah, I have been known to date on the wild side. But it's been nine years since the whole throttling me thing. Five years since the fight with the First. She's grown up. Tried and failed at some relationships. Made amends with me. She's changed. I've changed."

"I seem to remember a conversation about that last bit. You were right, you know. I was way out of line, expecting you to be who I thought you always --"

Xander holds up a hand. "You don't have to do this. Things are okay between us."

"I'd rather not take the shortcut. I did all the thinking it through and everything."

He stops at the guest room door. "Yeah, it's a pisser to go through all that for nothing, isn't it?" He gives her a quick hug and a kiss on the forehead. "Let me check on Willa first."

Opening the door a crack, he peers in at her -- or what's visible of her. A foot hanging off one side of the mattress and an unruly thatch of hair at the other. The rest is buried under covers. He pushes the door farther open and peers inside, finding not Straley, but Peg.

He can't suppress a grin. "Peggy. Hey. I thought you were at your sister's."

"You know me. I hate sitting around. I called to see if you'd gotten back from Seattle okay, and it sounded like you all could use a hand. I'm filling in with Willa while Kevin's on duty, but before that I stocked the fridge."

"How is she?"

"A lot less restless than she was at first. You're looking better, too."

Xander nods. "I could stand to sit, though. Thanks for coming, Peg. It means a lot." He turns back to the hallway, weaving a little. Instead of taking his arm, Willow pulls him into a hug.

"I'm so glad you're okay. You scared the shit out of me, mister." She pulls back, her gaze searching his face. "You've always seemed so indestructible, except when Caleb-- Even then, you rallied so fast, because you knew we needed you. This was-- it was terrifying to watch. You went deeper and deeper and I just didn't think you'd find your way back."

He touches the small stone on a cord that still hangs around his neck. "Giles's amulet?"

Nodding, she asks, "Is that what brought you back?"

"Partly, I think. But it was mostly Faith. Cinnamon rolls. She brought them into the room, didn't she? They set me going in the right direction."

"Speaking of food," Willow says, "let me heat you something. Peg was in here cooking all night."

"In a minute," Xander says. "I want to show you something first."

Taking her hand, he leads her into the garage.

After another hour, Willa emerges from her room, unsteady on her legs as a newborn colt. Xander rises from his place at the kitchen table, offering her the closest chair. "Hey, look who's up. Have a seat."

Instead she puts her arms around him, clinging to him for a moment before she speaks. "I'm so glad to see you. You're okay? They said you're okay."

He steps back and spreads his arms, as if somehow this provides proof. "Perforation-free. How about you?"

"Headachy, but otherwise okay."

"Well, you had a lot going on in there. Some food'll probably fix you up. Take a seat." He rolls up the guitar plans he and Willow had been looking at, as Willow gathers up the luthier supply catalogs.

Willa collapses onto his chair. "Did Xander show you his guitar? Isn't that astonishing?"

"It's beautiful." Willow bustles around the kitchen, getting silverware and a bowl and plate for her.

"Wait, you guys haven't met yet, have you?" He's just been dying to do this. "Willa, Willow. Willow, Willa."

"We met during a lull in the sleeping," Willow says. "How about soup? Oh, hey Peg. You too? Xander, you're definitely having more." She dives in the fridge for the soup container, and Xander is suddenly taken with how much he loves this moment, the domesticity of it. Peg and Willow doing the kitchen dance of using the same space without getting in each other's way, he and Willa sitting like cosseted children, waiting to be fed. Even Faith asleep in the other room -- the perfect everydayness of this, which of course is nothing like his normal daily life, fills him in a way nothing ever has. If he were Angel, in fact, he'd be having his soul ripped out by the roots at this very moment. He furtively rubs at his good eye with the heel of his hand.

His Slayer and his best friend are still talking about the guitar. "He made some beautiful pieces back in Sunnydale, too," Willow says, "but this is incredible. I never have known anyone with a feel for wood like he has."

"There's a double-entendre in there somewhere just crying to get out," Xander says.

Willow cuffs him on the shoulder. "I know what you're doing, buster. Knock it off."

"You guys have known each other forever, haven't you?" Willa asks.

"Actually," Willow says, "we predate forever."

They're on their second (Xander's third) bowl of soup and tucking into the hot cornbread Peg made when Faith shambles into the kitchen. "Don't mind me," she says. "I just live here."

"We figured you needed the sleep most." Xander rises and takes her in his arms. "Sit down, I'll get you something." To his surprise, she does so without arguing, and he ladles out some soup for her. "So is there anything Willa and I need to know? Any new dark masters risen in the last week? The Indians' home opener? TiVo catch anything good?"

"No dark masters," Faith says, "but something's brewing. Kevin says there's been a rash of missing persons reports recently. A couple of guys from the Indians opener, in fact. Not to mention that the park's been suspiciously free of homeless people. The mayor and the police chief are taking credit."

Yeah, right. "Fuck. Darius is building an army," he says.

"Sounds like."

Xander asks, "Has Kevin said when he's coming by?"

"When he finishes his shift," Peg replies. "A little bit late, because there's a briefing about Hoopfest. He'll be working double shifts over the weekend."

"This weekend?" He glances around at the calendar by the fridge. "It's next -- oh." Strange feeling, to have lost nearly a week. "I think we'd better be geared up for it too. There'll be a lot of people in town for that, and Saturday things'll be shaking long after dark."

"What's the deal?" Faith asks.

"It's a huge basketball tournament. Thousands -- I'm not kidding, thousands of games all over the streets downtown. On Saturday the games'll go until eight or nine, but it'll be a mob scene long after that. I think we should concentrate on the park, but we'll see how things lie when we get there."

He tugs this month's printout of sunrise/sunset times from under its magnet on the fridge door. "Sundown at 8:51. With the trees and buildings they'll probably be able to start coming out before then. Whatever it is Darius has planned, I'd bet it's either centered around Hoopfest, or at least he'll plan to make some major advances in the cause then. We've got to be ready, or it's going to be brutal."

What he doesn't say, but everyone knows, is it could be brutal even if they are ready.

Saturday afternoon Xander and Faith stroll hand-in-hand through the crowds in Riverfront Park, your typical lovers-on-the-weekend, except for the conversation about killing undead things. The two Wills, as they've come to be known, are scouting the streets to the south, closed off to traffic, lined with hoops and abbreviated three-on-three courts. Peg is scoping out the scene north of the river, around the Flour Mill. The day is sweltering, extraordinarily humid for Spokane, with the threat of thunderstorms later in the day.

"Well, by Boston standards this is pretty much your average Sunday along the Charles," Faith says, "but for Spokane I guess it's a fair-sized crowd. I'm not sure how much use we'll get out of the crossbow."

"It'll clear out some after the center court games are over, but there'll still be plenty of people around. If Darius' crew concentrates somewhere and we can find high ground nearby, I could do the sniper thing, but it's dicey."

"So's hand-to-hand."

"Less chance of civilians getting hurt, though." They check out the center court, lined on three sides by wood and metal bleachers. The squeak of sneakers on parquet, absent everywhere else, punctuates the crowd noise. "This is a place worth watching. Plenty of lurking space underneath, places to corner a victim. As far as hand-to-hand goes, it's gonna be tough to work with anything but stakes. Any blade big enough for beheading isn't going to be concealable."

They weave through the crowds darting toward food stands and henna tattoo tents, heading past the carousel house toward the Clock Tower.

"The crossbow?"

"Just barely. I can wander around with a big backpack." He grins. "I'll wear sandals and socks, people will just think I'm a foreign tourist. Then we'd have it if there's an opportunity to use it. What else we got?"

"There's fire. I say we all carry a shitload of Bics."

"Good plan. We'll hit the drugstore."

The sound of a tight brass section greets them as they reach the area by the Clock Tower, followed by the realization that the rhythms are pure punk rock. The lead singer reminds Xander of Oz during his five-minute black hair phase, if he'd had much taller hair. The brass guys pogo onstage while they're not playing, the trombone player faking guitar chords on his instrument.

"Damn," Faith says in delight. She picks her way through the sprawled audience on the grass, already dancing before she gets to the front of the stage. She dances just the way he remembers, vibrating like a knickknack in an earthquake. Xander stands by the path, watching her, like every guy on the grass and half the guys on the stage.

They should be heading back toward the mall across the boulevard, meeting the others at "the lakes" to compare notes, work out their strategy. One more song won't hurt. There's no way of knowing what happens tonight.

He catches some lyrics on a gust of hot breeze:

Stay out all night, and sleep all day
But when I wake up I'm empty
I wish that I
Could find my way, yeah

Yeah, that's a problem that's going around here these days.

Xander'll be glad to point Darius' followers in the right direction, using the sharp end of a stake.

He pushes tonight aside, trying to let himself exist in this moment, watching Faith work up a sheen of sweat next to a mohawked kid. And wonders when it was, the exact moment when he found his own direction.

The sun beats down on his shoulders and scalp, making the compass tattoo prickle even through the cotton Hoopfest tee.

For the first time he really feels it, though Faith told him some time ago. It's working.

Without quite knowing when and how, he's found his way.

Straley manages to meet them at the rendezvous point, adding his observations and strategic suggestions to those of Faith, Xander, Peg and the Wills. He's got his stake concealed in his body armor and a sport bottle filled with holy water. Faith loads him up with some disposable lighters, and he heads back to the shimmering heat outside.

"God," Willa says, "I hope I don't die wearing cargo pants." They're all wearing them, stuffed to the gills with stakes, holy water and cheap lighters.

Faith laughs. "Whatever happened to Miss Knock-off-the-Death-Jokes?"

"She has been assimilated," Xander says.

"You were right," Willa says. "Resistance was futile."

"We wouldn't lie to you," Xander says.

"Okay, the mind meld thing?" Willow says. "Getting a little freaky."

Plan A had been dinner at the Red Robin before dark, but the storm clouds have piled up over the center of town until it looks three hours later than it is.

"Looks like we should be ready for them to come out at any time," Peg observes.

"Yep," Faith says. "It's vamp weather."

Peg stays at the lakes, taking one of the benches that ring the inlay map on the atrium floor. They leave her with a couple of stakes and some holy water, but her main job is to relay messages between Straley and the others, if needed.

The other four head for the elevators to the parking garage where the just-in-case weapons stash waits in the trunk of Xander's car. A quartet of white girls with hair cornrowed from hairline to the crown of their heads bursts in from the Spokane Falls Boulevard entrance, teary-eyed and agitated. One girl is bleeding from scrapes on her knee and elbow.

"It's started." Faith takes a step in their direction.

"Wait." Xander catches her by the wrist. He listens a moment, catches aggressive bitches and then shakes his head. "Nah, that's just Hoopfest. But yeah, it's time to get out there."

They're walking up the parking ramp from the blue level elevator stop when Faith mutters, "What the hell is that?" She veers off from the others, bending to look beneath an SUV. "Shit. We've got a casualty." She rolls the body over. A balding guy in basketball shorts and jersey that says Terminators has played his last three-on-three.

Of course. Sunlight never reaches very far into the garage. They all dive into their cargo pockets for a stake, moving into battle-ready mode. Xander's stowing the crossbow into his pack when he hears Willow shriek behind him. Faith and Willa barely have time to react, stakes rising, before a small fireball emerges from Willow's fingertips and it's Vampire Suzette.

"Wow," Willa comments. "That's a useful skill."

"And no unsightly bulges in the cargo pants," Willow says.

A sound swells from the street below that doesn't sound like normal Hoopfest racket. Xander races to the outer edge of the garage and looks out over the concrete wall. A vamp is chasing a girl toward the Boulevard, driving her toward the sculptures of the Bloomsday runners. She almost makes it between them, but gets tangled in the steel legs of one of the figures. The chaos is just beginning to spread, a few people running into the park from the street, others fleeing the park toward the mall.

"Now it's started," Xander says. Pulling out the crossbow, he fits it with a bolt as he says, "Willa, a vamp's got a girl down at the runners. See if you can help her. I'll try to get a clear shot from here. Faith, Will -- go with her. I'll catch up with you."

As their feet pound on the ramp toward the stairwell, he fixes the vamp in his sight, but he's always shielded by the girl or one of the sculptures. Xander can't get a clean shot until the vamp's drained the girl and let her drop at the feet of one of the bronze runners.

Her attacker explodes into dust, sifting onto the girl's corpse like volcanic ash. He lowers the crossbow, sickened, as he spots Willa dashing across one of the half-courts on the boulevard, leading Faith and Willow to the scene. She kneels beside the girl, and Xander backs away from the parapet before his Slayer can turn and direct her gaze at him.

He wheels and takes the ramp at a dead run.

When he hits the street, it's a weird scene. There are running people who have a good idea what they're fleeing, while others are just picking up the sense that something's wrong, glancing around nervously, wondering if they should run too. Others are oblivious, still playing ball or watching their teams from the curb or threading their way through the crowd.

Faith and the Wills have gotten themselves clear of the sculptures, fanning out into the park. Xander darts between two back-to-back hoops to cross the boulevard, a team of ten-year-old boys on one side and knee-braced middle-aged players on the other. Dodging a boy who comes barreling toward him from his blind side, he makes it to the far sidewalk and searches for his comrades. He catches a flash of red hair up closer to the center court and hurries to catch up.

He finds Faith first, just dusting a vamp who'd been struggling with a gangly teenaged boy under the bleachers. "Might be a good idea to head home now," she tells the rattled kid. As he takes off, she turns to Xander. "It didn't look like he was trying to eat him, but maybe take him somewhere."

"So we should see if we can figure out where."

Faith nudges him. "Hey. Look who's there."

"It's Big Sexy."

She shoots Xander a look.

"Jerome Shelton, Big Sexy, elite player from Atlanta," he clarifies. Still not the right answer. "Who ... is ... talking to a, uh, much ... smaller ... white guy."

"Who would be Father Bill," Faith points out.

"No wa-- oh. So it is. I'd never have spotted him without the collar." Or the black suit -- or much of anything. He's wearing, in fact, basketball shorts and jersey, black, actually, with white trim -- Xander gets it now -- with FOUR PADRES across the front. When he spots Xander and Faith, he winds up the conversation with Shelton and comes over to them.

"Alex, Faith. It's good to see you again, under a little happier circumstances this time."

"Maybe not," Xander says. "Father, things are starting to get kind of unholy around here, and I don't mean some drunken rowdiness. You should go home."

Father Bill gives him a blank look. "Why would I want to do that?"

"Well, I can't exactly explain --"

"It wouldn't have anything to do with the crosses you're all wearing." All including the two Wills, who've joined them.

Xander blinks.

"My work takes me out at all hours of the night. It requires me to invite into the parish house anyone who knocks. Let's just say I've seen a thing or two within the past few months. And by the way, how'd the two gallons of holy water work out for you?"

Faith grins. "They came in handy."

"Good. Tell me how else I can help."

"Shit!" Willa yelps, running after a vamp who's chasing a guy in a knee brace.

Faith reaches into a cargo pocket and offers the priest a stake. "Want to rock and roll a little?"

"Faith--" Xander protests.

Father Bill takes it, hefts it in his palm. "I normally have my own, but I'm low on pockets."

Xander surrenders to the inevitable. "Watch out for the Bloomsday sculpture, it's too easy to get hung up. Use the clock tower as our rendezvous point in the park, our fallback is inside the mall, at the lakes. Peggy's there, and she'll pass on messages to our cop friend if he can make it to her. Are we ready?"

Father Bill nods and they start to move deeper into the park. Before they fan out, Xander hears himself say, "A little prayer couldn't hurt right now, Father."

Father Bill swats him on the arm, one teammate to another. "Already on it."

Xander circles around toward the Pavilion. Wherever rides are set up, there are kids, and who's easier to overpower and transport than kids? As if to prove him right, a guy in denim shorts and a tee comes up the rise with a shrieking boy under his arm. He's in human face, the easier to get away with an abduction.

Pulling a large wooden cross from his cargo pocket, Xander thrusts it in his face.

The guy doesn't vamp out. "Buddy," he says tiredly, "I don't have time for religion right now."

"Rides, Daddy, riiiiiiides!" the kid wails.

"Oh. Yeah," Xander says. "I'd say he needs to go home." He hopes the guy gets him out of here before the shit hits the fan.

"I do, anyway." He passes Xander, then turns. "Hey. I wouldn't go down there looking for converts. There were some seriously skeevy people moving in down there."

"Just the people who need to hear the Good News," Xander says cheerfully, loping on down the path.

As he reaches the Pavilion, he sees these people are the sort of skeevy he's well acquainted with. They're easier to dust when they've got a kid under each arm, and Xander even manages to grab the pair before his kill falls to dust. He's under attack before he can even shout at them to run, but they're not stupid, and they both take off, screeching.

Two vamps pile on him at once, and he jabs the stake with one hand and thrusts the cross with the other, gaining enough breathing room to dust the one and then the other. During the struggle, some others -- two, he thinks -- make off with their own hostages. Xander follows them up the rise, panting, and sees them cut across the lawn, heading south. It's still too crowded for the crossbow, getting more chaotic now as people are catching on that something's seriously wrong. And as always, there are a few who notice and figure out a way to take advantage. Xander sees a handful of teenaged guys bolting from the Hoopfest merch tent, loaded down with t-shirts and sweats, pushing through the group Xander's following, giving one of the hostages enough of an opening to bolt. Xander rushes the other vamp, who shoves a screaming woman ahead of him, hand wound through her hair. He's dust before he even knows anyone's stalking him.

Heading on in the direction the vamps were going, searching for their destination, he spots Willa in the midst of a knockdown, dragout fight with a female vamp in a police uniform. She punches, kicks, whirls and kicks again, and to see his Slayer fight is a beautiful thing. Willa rears back and drives the stake into her chest, but of course it splinters against the kevlar vest. "Fire!" Xander shouts, but she's already diving into her cargo pocket for a lighter, and the vamp cop goes up in a blaze.

She turns and catches his eye. "They're overrunning the medical tent."

Not firm believers in working real hard, Darius' vamps are more buffet table types than hunters.

Willa points. "There's Faith."

She's at the far side of the carousel, punching and scrapping with a vamp, driving him up the stony little hillock where the garbage-eating goat stands. She ducks under a roundhouse punch, kicks out at the vamp's knee, then pops him with the stake as he staggers. Faith high-kicks the on switch for the goat just as the vamp crumbles to ash, and the vacuum mechanism in the sculpture sucks down the dust before it can fall. Willa laughs in delight, even as she launches herself at a pair of female vamps dragging an injured player out of the med tent.

Xander plunges into the tent, where it has in fact gone all smorgasbordy. Vamps are pulling people off the treatment tables, out of folding chairs. He spots a uniformed cop sprawled on the ground, his neck snapped. Before he can do much more than register the man's presence, he's fighting for his own life as two vamp's tackle him. One kicks him in the stomach, driving the breath from him. The other grabs Xander from behind.

"That's the one," says the first. "The one-eyed fuck that Darius told us to watch out for. We just made the big score, buddy."

It's a compliment, he supposes, that Darius' boys tie him up with a length of rubber tubing they find in the med tent. All the other captives he's seen have been unbound, wrangled like cattle. Their makeshift slaughterhouse is the round building housing the Looff Carousel. Xander's captors have cast aside the backpack and emptied out his cargo pockets, leaving the contents scattered on the floor of the tent as they drag him the short distance to join the others.

The vamps have locked down all the glass doors but one. The carousel is stopped, but the organ music still booms in the enclosed areas, hellishly cheerful. The din makes it impossible to communicate, difficult even to think. The vamps keep shoving their hostages into a smaller and smaller area, kicking and cursing and randomly snapping a neck or two, and the result is a milling crowd of panicked humans.

Above their heads he spots a figure in black with glimmers of silver, standing on the platform where the ride operator normally sits. He's the palest person -- the palest vampire -- Xander's ever seen, with fine, straight white hair down to the middle of his back. He's short and slight, almost the size of a young adolescent who's on the tall side, but from what Xander can see of his face, he looks to have been in his twenties when he was turned. His eyes are obscured by the light blue lenses of his shades, but Xander's got a pretty good idea that the vamp on the platform is an albino.

He also knows with absolute certainty despite the incongruity of his appearance -- because of it -- that this is Darius.

Xander's breath catches at the suddenness with which everything falls into place -- actually, at the thought that makes it all crystallize with perfect clarity.

Willow.

It all makes sense to him now: Darius' break from Seattle and his friend, his move to Spokane and the driving ambition he's shown in the few months since his arrival.

Xander's seen it all played out before.

For the first dozen years or so of their friendship, Willow had been the vulnerable one, and Xander her protector. He'd stood up to the bullies for her -- the same ones he'd cave before if it was a question of standing up for himself. Their roles had made her feel safe, made him feel important, but finally she came to chafe under his protection. It was so subtle at first that neither of them noticed. Her discovery of her talent for magic was what sparked it into impatience and then resentment. Xander didn't think it was an accident that he'd borne the brunt of her wild streams of magic that day on Kingman's Bluff.

Xander doesn't know much about this Seattle vamp Darius had served -- Kane, he now recalls -- but his imagination fills in a lot. Longtime friends, he remembers Dow saying. Xander sees Kane acting as protector, siring him to share the dark power he'd discovered in his demon self. How many years had he spent as sidekick, the lesser one, the one who had to be shielded from harm?

That shit gets old, he knows.

Darius' attention suddenly falls on Xander and his captors, and he lifts a long, slender hand to signal one of his soldiers to cut the organ music. In the abrupt quiet, the whimpers and moans of the hostages can be heard.

Darius takes him in, his expression surely mirroring Xander's own. Here's the bastard who's made my life so fucking hellish these past weeks.

His gaze holds Xander's for what seems to be an eternity.

Darius smiles. "I was beginning to think this day would never come." His voice is young, reedy. "I've heard so much about you."

"Xander Harris," Darius continues, "you're quite the legend."

"Me? Naw. You've got me confused with some other one-eyed fuck."

Darius laughs. He signals to Xander's captors, the silver rings on his fingers flashing in the overhead lights. "Bring him to me. Untie his hands, Jerrod. Let him take the ladder himself."

As his arms are released, Xander resists the urge to shake the blood back into his hands. He casts a glance at the fierce, rolling-eyed stallions nearest him, wishing Looff had thought to include a nice, wussy little unicorn with a ready-made wooden stake. Too bad. He climbs to the platform. Jerrod starts to follow, but another signal from Darius, and the vamp retreats.

Once again, Xander's expectations are confounded. While he'd known Darius was by no means stupid, he's startled by the intelligence he can see behind the tinted lenses. Close up he sees the black shirt is silk, the Cuban-heeled boots are some exotic leather with ornate silver toe caps. Somehow Darius pulls off the villain-with-fashion-sense vibe without it coming off as cheesy.

Darius offers one of his delicate hands, the picture of affability. When Xander declines to shake it, he smiles again. "Once I realized I had a pair of Slayers in my town, I did some asking around. I found out quite a lot about you."

"Can we just skip the 'You're a worthy opponent, Mr. Bond' crap? Jump to the part where you tell me your nefarious plans before I die, or just fucking kill me. I'm tired of this."

"Actually, I had something different in mind," Darius tells him. "I've been hoping we could forge a partnership. You'd be an invaluable ally."

"Aren't you forgetting something? Like me being into the whole killing-vampires-for-fun-and-profit thing, while you, well, you're a vampire."

He makes another subtle hand signal. "I'm hoping you'll come around to my way of thinking."

Xander whirls, thinking to vault the railing and leap onto the carousel's top. By the time he completes the movement, another vampire has already reached the platform, seizing him by the left shoulder, digging his thumb into a spot that reminds Xander of the damage already done there.

"Glad you could make it," says Patrick.

"One of the things I've come to admire about you," Darius says, "is your ability to follow. Don't think I'm being snotty -- I know how difficult it is to do. From what I can discern, you're not a yes-man, but you're whole-hearted. It's a delicate balance. I could use someone like you, but you know, there isn't anyone like you. There's just you."

"I'm not so much of a follower these days, if you've noticed the past five years or so."

"Maybe you've just been disillusioned with the side you chose."

"I thought you had to go to Seattle to get that good vampire crack. Who's your supplier?"

Darius smiles. "I understand completely. Your vision is limited from where you stand. When you find a higher ground, you'll see so much more."

"Let me guess. You're going to take me there."

"Actually, I thought it would be much more fitting if it was Patrick who was your guide."

"I have a lot to unteach you," Patrick says. "The whole powerless thing, for starters. You wouldn't believe how much power is out there for you to take."

Xander tries to break away, but Patrick's thumb finds that spot on his shoulder that sends an immobilizing bolt of pain through him.

"Easy does it," Patrick says, and sinks his fangs into Xander's neck.

Time stops.

He hears the beating of his own heart, the sound of Patrick's throat working as he swallows Xander's blood.

He finds himself mesmerized by Darius, the way the light makes his pale hair glow like moonlight, the translucence of his white skin.

He wonders if he'll feel his soul leaving when it goes, vaguely startled to discover that he believes in it after all. Funny that it's Patrick, after so many conversations at all hours, who shows finally him what's true, in a way he'd never envisioned.

Tearing his gaze from Darius, he spots a scarecrow of a figure seemingly hovering nearby, his body and head held at a peculiar angle. Distantly he notices the guy has an eyepatch too -- what are the odds of that? He's probably a hallucination. Certainly the face far behind him is. It's how he'd like to remember Faith before he dies. So fierce and beautiful. He hopes she'll stake him before he does any damage.

"Huh," Patrick grunts behind him, then he releases Xander so abruptly he finds himself teetering back against the platform railing. Xander lets his legs fold beneath him, landing on his hands and knees in a drift of ash, a crossbow bolt near his hand. A blur of black and silver crosses his vision as the crashing of glass heralds the smashing of all the doors to the carousel house. In the chaos, he catches a glimpse of red hair and sees Father Bill's black Four Padres uniform.

"Drive them into the river," Father Bill calls out.

Seizing the bolt, Xander grabs for the railing and pulls himself to his feet. "Not the water," he calls out, but he can't make his shaky voice heard over the din. The part of the Spokane that flows by the carousel house is too placid to do any good. The Falls and the rocks might do some damage, but they're too far away to make an effective strategy.

None of this seems to occur to his fellow vampire fighters. He spots Faith and the Wills and Father Bill, all pushing the crowd before them, vampires and humans alike, sweeping them out the north door and down the concrete steps toward the water.

This is insanity. He turns to leave the platform as a flash of lightning throws his figure in the carousel mirror into stark relief. Shitty as he looks, he's never been so glad to see his reflection. He pauses as a wave of dizziness crashes over him. Hearing the first screams rise up from outside, he pushes aside his queasiness and makes his way down to the north door. God, I knew it. We're in for a slaughter.

He dusts two vamps as he fights his way through the mass of fleeing bodies. When he makes the top of the steps, Father Bill's strategy suddenly becomes clear, as Xander watches Faith hurl a vamp into the water, and sees it seethe and boil around him.

A whole river flowing with holy water.

Xander joins his comrades in herding everyone toward the water then pulling out the ones who are unaffected, in a bizarre sort of baptism. Lightning stabs the air around them as they battle on, and soon the rain is slashing down. It gets hard to tell who's been in the river and who hasn't, but by now most everyone has been dunked or they've fled.

Xander's knees wobble and he drops to a step right at the river's edge, panting. He watches Willa rise up out of the water after pulling two vamps to their second deaths. She climbs the steps to collapse next to him. "Did we win?"

"We did good." He's not so sure anymore that anything so final as a win is possible. "But I think Darius got away. Albino guy, hair down to here?"

Willa shakes her head. "I didn't see him in all this." She peers closer at him. "You look like shit. I think we should get you to the hospital."

Xander sits up straight, then blinks as his vision grays from the sudden movement. "The first aid tent."

"There's no one there."

Actually, there is. Xander just doesn't know who. "Take me there. It's important."

Willow appears at his left side, startling him as she takes his other arm and slings it over her shoulders. "God, Xander. I'm so glad you're okay."

"That's kind of relative," Willa says. "I think we should get him to Deaconess."

"The med tent first," he insists. "There's a dead cop in there."

"What," Faith says as she comes up, "you think a dead Watcher will help make it a nice matched set? I'll check, meet you at the ER."

Xander feels more than sees Willow's startled reaction at the idea of Xander as a Watcher. Even in the midst of his urgency to get moving, he feels a small thrill of satisfaction. "Faith, I'm checking. It's on the way."

They move toward the tent, coming up on Father Bill, kneeling to pray over a woman sprawled on the sidewalk. As he looks up, Xander says, "Great work back there, padre."

The eyes that meet his are filled with doubt.

"You saved a lot more than were lost. In this line of work, sometimes that's the best you can hope for."

Father Bill's brows shoot upward. "'This line of work'?"

"Yeah. I'm a professional. Except for the getting paid part." He gestures toward the med tent. "There's at least one in here who needs you, too."

The priest lays his palm on the woman's head for a moment, then rises to accompany them. He's the one, once they're inside the tent, who kneels to tend to the dead man in the police uniform. Xander's impressed with the respect with which Father Bill turns the body.

Xander sucks in his breath. "Shit. Sorry, Father."

"Who is this guy?" Faith asks.

"It's Kevin's partner."

She makes a small noise in her throat. "Still. We've gotta get gone."

Xander shakes his head, slipping his arm off Willa's shoulder and reaching for one of the scattered canvas chairs. "I'll stay here. Willa, if you can't find Kevin himself out there, have Peg relay a message. Just tell him to come here. I'll tell him the rest."

"Xander," Willa protests, "you have to take care of yourself. I --"

"Just do it!" he snaps. "Jesus, I thought we were past this, Willa." He drags the chair to the entrance of the tent. "This is nothing -- I've been bitten before."

There's a chorus from his Slayers and Willow: You've been bitten before?

"Yeah. And the only reason I went to the ER was I got beat up too. I'm good. Just go. Get the word to Kevin." His legs betray him then, folding and dumping him onto the canvas chair.

Willa gives him a fierce look but goes, leaving Xander to wait by the tent to tell Straley the news that his partner is dead.

Straley's alone when Xander catches sight of him crossing the deserted half-courts on Spokane Falls Boulevard. Xander carefully rises and heads toward him. Faith and Willow have gone off to do a sweep of the park and make sure everything's settled down, while Father Bill has stayed inside with Officer Worth and to be available when Straley gets the news.

"Willa said to tell you she went to check on Peg," Straley says. "Is she okay?"

"Willa? Yeah, she's good. Got the battle shakes, maybe." It's a lie, but he's not ready for the truth just yet. "How is it out there?"

"I was stuck on crowd control over on Main. Things emptied out in kind of a crazy rush, but I heard it got bad over here."

"Yeah. Darius made himself an army. We killed scores of them, but he got away."

Straley shines his flashlight on Xander's neck. "You've got a mark -- Jesus, you got bit."

Xander waves a hand. "Darius was recruiting. I took a pass." He takes a deep breath. "Kevin. I found your partner. He's dead. He's just inside there." He clasps Straley's shoulder. "I'm sorry."

Straley blinks, then furrows his brow as if these four sentences are beyond his comprehension. "Did you see--?" he finally says.

Xander shakes his head. "It was quick, though. I could see that much."

"Will he, uh, what's the word? Turn?"

"No. That's not how they killed him. Father Bill's in there with him. Want to go in?"

"Yeah. Let's, uh ... yeah."

Xander ushers him into the tent, where Father Bill prays over the body. Straley halts, the breath hissing out of him. Even under the kevlar vest, his body seems to shrink some. After a moment, he grabs onto police procedure to pull himself out of his paralysis.

"Anyone with him when you found him? Possible witnesses?"

"Vamps and victims. I didn't get a good look at anyone before I got dragged off to the carousel building, like the rest."

"His gun's still holstered," Straley says. "He didn't even take out his baton. Looks like he didn't even know what hit him."

"I moved the body," Father Bill says. "Just to see if we could make an I.D. He was face down."

Nodding, Straley rubs a hand over his face. "I've been working with Eddie for three years." He kneels by Worth's body, regarding the startled look on his partner's face. "This is what's always in the back of your mind," he says softly. "Even more than dying yourself."

Xander knows. Even when he was young and stupid, he had this driven home early, on the sharp point of the stake that dispatched Jesse.

"In your worst nightmares," Straley continues, "it's your fault. Some fuckup that gets your partner killed."

Xander knows this too. He's dreamed up scenarios, revisited memories. Wondered if he could have moved faster (moved at all) when he saw Warren with the gun, saved Tara's life. Saved Willow from her slide into the pit. He's wondered if he could have prevented Buffy from sacrificing herself to defeat Glory if he'd been ... something more.

"You weren't partnered tonight," Father Bill offers. "He was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"There's nothing I can say," Xander tells Straley. "Except I've been there."

Straley looks up, meeting his gaze. Actually, more like strip searching it. Xander maintains the contact for an uncomfortably long moment before Straley nods in acknowledgment and reaches for his radio. "I'd better call this in."

It's astonishing how fast the words "officer down" changes things. In no time the sound of police and ambulance sirens bears down on them, close enough to tell him some cruisers have pulled onto the trampled grass by the med tent. Other cops arrive on foot or bicycle.

Straley and Worth are swallowed in a moving mass of blue, while Xander and Father Bill are taken off separately for questioning. Xander says what little he can say. He tells his story a dozen times over, gives his contact information.

At last a pair of EMTs load Worth onto a stretcher and take him away. Straley remains behind, still in the center of a knot of officers.

"What can I do to help?" Father Bill asks for the second time tonight.

"We take care of our own, Father," says one of the cops. "The chaplain's on his way."

Xander gets the idea it's a good idea to depart, even though he's been unable to catch Straley's eye, much less have a word. He'll come to them when things settle down, Xander's sure of that. When everything's been said that can be said, there's going to be a whole lot left that Straley can tell nobody but Xander and his Slayers.

He steps outside the tent, searching his cargo pockets before remembering his cigarettes and lighter are long gone. The carousel house is swarming with cops now, and EMTs are carrying out the dead. He never got an accurate count.

Father Bill joins him. "I have work to do."

Xander nods. "You know where my place is. We'll be gathering there as soon as I can collect everyone. I can't see us going to bed anytime soon." He remembers the invitation he'd extended to the priest after Damon's funeral. To call it half-hearted would have been putting a real optimistic spin on it. This time when he says, "Come by when you're finished, padre," he means it.

A shadow separates from a nearby tree when Father Bill is gone. It's Faith, who has the jitters from all the cops around. "We had a rendezvous point," she reminds him. "Maybe the Wills are there."

He catches her hand, pulls her to him, breathing in the scent of her hair. "You saved me," he whispers into her hair. "I saw you."

"Returning the favor," she says.

"I never saved you."

"You tried. Years ago. It counts." She laces her fingers through his and leads him toward the Clock Tower.

It's a strange, subdued celebration at Xander's house. Peg has laid out a spread from the store -- she still works there; Xander, to no one's surprise, has been cut loose. Though Xander knows he should be starving, he just picks. They talk about the night's events, but there's none of the giddy laughter and loud chatter that usually accompany the end of a battle. Nobody wants Straley to walk in on the middle of that.

"Did anyone see Darius in the big sweep down to the river?" Xander asks. "He's very slight, long white hair down to here. Albino. Wears black and a lot of silver. I caught sight of him running for it when Faith dusted Pa -- that vampire."

"Silver?" Peg says. "Isn't that supposed to hurt vampires or ward them off or something?" At Faith and Xander's look, she says, "I watched some movies while I was at my sister's place. I figured some research couldn't hurt."

"Well, that's sort of like asking your twelve-year-old cousin what the deal is about sex," Xander says. "Lurid and fun, but not all that informative."

"Depends on the cousin," Faith notes.

"Do we have an estimate on how many we killed tonight?" Xander asks.

"I'd say fifty, at least," Willa says. "I tried keeping a count, but -- what was it you said? Like trying to keep track of the bodies in a Bruce Willis movie. Especially when they go poof before you can add 'em up."

"Didn't seem to be more than a handful that escaped," Willow says.

Straley calls in, says he's home from the debriefing and the counseling and the drive-by condolences from the mayor. "I'm beat," he says. "I'll come by in the morning, if that's all right."

"Sure. We're planning to take it easy. Come by whenever you're ready."

"Listen, you think they killed Eddie because of me? The same way they went after you with your sponsor and your coworkers. Maybe they realized he was my partner."

"I think it was just random, Kev. There was another officer they got. A female. They turned her, and Willa had to dust her."

"Short blonde hair? About five-seven?"

"Yeah, that's right."

He mutters a few curses. "I was afraid of that. She went missing a couple of days ago."

"She won't be found," Xander says unnecessarily. "I'm sorry about her, too. At least your partner was spared that." At least Straley was spared having to confront him and stake him. "Get some rest. We'll see you tomorrow."

The atmosphere remains subdued for a short while after he hangs up, but gradually the volume rises as they feel free to release some pent-up energy. Willa asks if he's got any of the Italian rap he told her about during the whole vision quest thing, and he rummages through his cds to find Jovanotti's hits collection. He slips it in the tray and watches, amused, as the opening whistle shrill of "L'Ombelico del Mondo" startles everyone in the house. That blast seems to signal something to them all, though, and soon it does feel like a victory celebration.

Xander slips up behind Faith, who's slamming a tube of cinnamon rolls against the counter. He wraps his arms around her, throwing them both a little off balance. He's not completely steady on his feet. "Sono ragazzo fortunato too," he murmurs into Faith's ear.

She turns in his embrace, finds herself a handful of his ass. "Play your cards right and you can get fortunato on the workbench later on. If you want."

He lets his kiss tell her how very much he wants.

It's then that he hears the crash of glass from the back bedroom, and a strange whoosh.

Cursing, Faith stiffens, shoves herself back from his embrace. "Call 911. Now."

Before he can even process this, there's another crash and a bottle comes skittering into the hallway from the open door of the guest room, a flaming rag stuffed in its top.

It's completely unnecessary, but someone says it anyway: "Fire."

Xander grabs a throw off the couch and heads down the hallway, but Faith catches him by the arm, swinging him around to face her. "Xander when that thing goes--"

As if to prove her point, the bottle shatters, sending fire roaring up the wall. Another bottle crashes through a kitchen window, followed by one through the living room picture window. Both explode into fireballs on contact.

"Your guitar!" Willa shouts. She wheels for the garage door.

"No!" Xander yells. "It's full of chemicals. If it catches --"

"Your wood's in there," Faith says. "Plus it's the only way out."

Willow has placed herself by the garage door, muttering. "Get in now! I'm working on a barrier."

Willa's slammed a fist against the garage door button, and the sound of the door mechanism briefly drowns the roar from the other rooms. The sound of the fire makes it seem like a living thing, fierce as any demon Xander's ever fought (or dated).

Willow steps into the garage, waves her hand in front of the door into the house. "I bought us some time. Move what you need to carry out to the edge of the drive, and when I drop the barrier, we can haul it all out."

"Through them." Peg points out a knot of vamps waiting just outside the barrier.

"Ah, shit," Faith says. "They've got the father."

"Got him, or is he with them?" There's been altogether too much of that sort of thing for Xander's taste lately.

"They're struggling," Faith says.

"Forget the guitars." Funny how all that stickered wood already feels like guitars. "Will, drop the barrier."

Faith and Willa ignore him, Faith going for the guitar and Willa moving the stack of stickered wood to the barrier's edge.

Xander pulls the box of stakes onto the floor and grabs one in each hand. "Open it!" he shouts.

Suddenly he hears the familiar sputtering clamor of the neighbor's van, careening across their lawns and crosswise onto Xander's driveway, scattering the vamps. "Get in!" Dustin shouts, but once the barrier dissolves, Xander runs around the van, ready to join the battle. He finds only Father Bill, back in his suit and collar, sprawled on the grass.

"Padre, are you all right?"

"Outstanding." He clasps the hand Xander reaches to him, regains his feet.

Xander jerks the cross from his own neck, slaps it into Father Bill's palm. "Here, hold this." The priest doesn't flinch, and Xander lets out a relieved breath. "Which way did they go?"

Father Bill points. "That way."

Though the van's too loud and too distant for him to hear, Dustin hauls it around and floors it in that direction. Faith and Willa are tearing in down the street too, overtaking the van without much effort.

"Is everyone out?" He spots Willow, still inside, magicking his tools into a box, which she sends skittering down the drive. He dodges it to run after her, yelling at her to get out.

"Coming!" She grabs his hand, running with him.

"Where's Peg?"

"Safe," she says. "We're all out."

Sirens come screaming down the street -- finally, he thinks, though it's probably been not a handful of minutes. He hurries to meet the lead firetruck. "There's a lot of finishes and solvents in the garage," he says. "We were firebombed. There could be more."

He backs out of the way of the firefighters, bumping hard into another body. As he turns, the apology dies on his lips to find himself face to face with a smiling Darius.

"I can't stand leaving unfinished business," Darius says. "I believe I was making a proposal."

Somewhere along the line Xander lost track of both his stakes. He doesn't even have his cross. "I had my attorney take a look at that," he says. "I think I'll take a pass."

Frail as he looks, Darius is one strong fucker. He slams a hand into Xander's chest, and he finds himself thrown against the side of a firetruck, the breath driven from his lungs.

"Before very much longer, you'll wonder why you resisted so strenuously." Darius is as fastidious as he looks -- he makes certain to sink his fangs into the unmarked side of Xander's neck. His hair changes colors in the strobing emergency flashers: white, red, white, red. It makes Xander's head ache, and his eye flutters closed.

It's the hair-raising shriek that makes it fly open again, and he puts a feeble hand to Darius' chest to shove him away, to no effect.

Then Darius isn't there, but there's a wooden stake point biting into the palm of Xander's hand. The pain is sharp and startling, but it roots him here, just when he'd been so ready to slip away. At the other end of the stake is a wild-eyed Willa. "Oh god, oh god," she says breathlessly.

"That was really ... good timing, Eudora." Everything turns all gray and he staggers into her arms.

"I need some paramedics here!" she screams from a great distance.

Then there are hands tending to him, none too gently, and he hears Faith doing a drill sergeant number, yelling at him to live, dammit.

He fades in and out as they work over him --

-- work him over --

But as they're wheeling the stretcher toward the ambulance, he rouses himself for one last look at his house. And feels the heat sear his face as the finishes and solvents flash into an enormous fireball.

He tries fighting it, but the fear threatens to overwhelm him.

He's crossing over.

Shedding the old life to step into a new one. Unknown territory. Hell, he's a guy who barely left his hometown, had to be evicted by an unnatural disaster before he'd consider living anywhere else. He does not do well with unknown territory.

He thinks of the people waiting on the other side, but the thought doesn't console him. He's betrayed them, disappointed them, shown them his worst self.

He's not ready for this.

"If you bump that thing into my leg one more time," Faith says, "I'm going to have to kill you."

"Sorry." Xander sets the case at his feet. "Nervous."

"Babe, we all are." She strokes his cheek, looks into his eyes.

"Not you."

"Yeah, me. In case you haven't noticed, I'm known for not playing well with others."

"That was a long time ago." He shifts uncomfortably under her gaze. "Don't," he whispers. "Not in public."

"I don't know why you're so self-conscious. You look fine."

Not really. Right now he's got a temporary prosthesis that looks like a fake eye, and the socket still needs some work. It'll be an operation or two before he can get the implant. The Council, at least, is paying for all that. It'll never look the way it did before -- he waited too long for that -- but eventually it won't be so noticeable at a casual glance. He won't be so readily identifiable (one-eyed fuck) to his enemies, his vulnerabilities so easily read. "The line's moving," he tells her.

She shoots him a chickenshit look, but turns and moves ahead.

Faith's right about one thing: The rest of them are nervous too. Willa's fallen unusually quiet, and Straley drums his fingers on the top of his rolling suitcase. Kevin's interest in joining the Council had surprised him. Xander told him it was no place to retreat from the trauma of losing a partner, that he'd be letting himself in for an even greater possibility of loss than the Spokane P.D. offered. "Yeah, I know," Kevin had said. "But there's a real chance I might save someone. I'm tired of seeing scumbags go free, or people walk out of rehab to go set themselves up a meth lab, or women sell all their stuff to bail out the shitheads that beat them up. I'd like to know I'm doing something that makes a difference, even if most people never know about it."

Whether Kevin will wind up in Spokane or somewhere else in the world, nobody knows yet. In the past couple of months since Willa dusted Darius, the city's gone back to its previous level of supernatural dullness. Xander's had a chance to heal, get his life back in order, reopen Evan's -- his -- store, which Peg and her son are running for the time being. He's had time to figure out what's next.

What's next, at least for a while, is London. Giles stressed that this isn't about him teaching Xander how to become a Watcher: "You've grown into the Watcher I wish I'd been," he'd said, and refused to hear any protests to the contrary. Giles had invited them there to give Xander and Willa a chance to enjoy the support and fellowship of others like them before they rejoined the fray, and for Xander and Faith to, as Xander began to joke, "teach the whippersnappers what we know."

And how weird is that?

As he shuffles along the Customs line (queue, he's in England now) his stomach starts to lurch. It's crazy -- he knows things are okay with Giles and Catarina -- but this is the first time he'll see them since the engagement party. Since the bitter, shitty toast he made, and the fistfight that came after. What Xander had admitted to Faith -- hitting Giles -- was not the worst of it. Buffy had stepped in, mostly to join Giles in urging him to go home and sleep it off, and he'd hit her too. She could handle herself, of course, sending him directly to the "sleep it off" part without even rumpling her party dress, but that wasn't what mattered. What he'd done was unforgivable. No matter what Dawn has said about Buffy's eagerness to see him again.

He's glad she's still off in Borneo or wherever. There's only so much facing of himself he can do at one time.

They finally reach the front of the queue. Faith gets the full luggage search, undoubtedly for having said, "I have nothing to declare but my hotness." When they're all four together again, they trail down to the arrivals area, where Giles and Catarina will be waiting.

He stops in his tracks when he spots them. All of them. "Jesus," he whispers.

Giles and Catarina and Dawn and Willow and --

"Oh my god," Faith says. "It's B."

Time's worked its changes on everyone, not just him. This incredibly obvious thought flits across his mind courtesy of the sight of Giles rushing toward them. He first envelops Faith in a hug, murmuring, "I'm so glad you've come." When Giles lets her go, Xander sticks out his hand to be shaken, only to be swept up in a bone-crunching embrace of his own. "My boy." Giles's voice is thick with emotion. It seems like there'll be more, but that's all he says until he releases him. "Welcome home."

A family walks by, staring at this decidedly un-British display.

All Xander can think of to say is, "Thank you." Turns out he's got his own hoarseness issues.

Giles rouses himself first. "And your new Slayer and Watcher candidate."

"Willa Donovan and Kevin Straley," Xander says. "This is Rupert Giles, and his wife Catarina. You already know Dawn and Willow, of course. And ... Buffy, I thought you were off halfway around the world."

"I came back."

"You didn't cut your trip short for --" Me, he can't quite say.

"Of course I did. Xander, this is huge. Do you know how long I've -- Antarctica's always gonna be there." She catches him up in a hug that knocks the breath from him.

"Actually," Dawn offers, "I was reading this article -- Oh."

Then he's hugging her, then Willow and finally, Catarina approaches him, uncharacteristically hesitant. "It's wonderful to see you," he says. Can you ever forgive me for being such an ass? can wait until they're all in a less public space.

"Ksander, you're looking so well." She lays her hand on his cheek, the side that used to make him flinch or, on worse days, bolt. Since the operation, he's more accustomed to being touched -- used to Faith's matter-of-fact attentions.

"So are you. And so's Giles -- I can see you're doing him a world of good."

It's Buffy who breaks the mood. "Okay, when Giles rates a You look mahvelous and I get squat, it's time to book a derma peel at least."

"You look just as terrific as the last time I saw you," Xander says. "Only somewhat less blurry." Her hair is shorter than he's ever seen it. Boyish. It looks great on her. "I guess not being the one girl in all the world is agreeing with you. How was Borneo?"

"Papua New Guinea. It was amazing. They've got butterflies bigger than your head."

"Demonic?"

"No, just regular. I brought you back a penis gourd. And I've got enough slides back at the house to put you in a coma, if dinner doesn't do that for you. Why don't we get there?"

The welcoming committee sets about relieving their guests of their baggage, except for one case of Xander's, which he hangs onto. "You're kidding about the penis gourd, right?" he asks of Buffy's back as he traipses along behind. "What is a penis gourd?" he asks Giles out of the side of his mouth.

"An item of apparel. In a manner of speaking."

"You are kidding about the penis gourd, right?"

"She's not kidding," Giles assures him.

The drive into London, surprisingly, turns out not to be into London proper, but a pretty swank suburb. And "back at the house" was something of an understatement. Giles and the Council have a compound. Or, as Faith says, "Holy crap. Is this a movie set?"

The dining hall where they have dinner looks like a movie set, too. "We'd planned on a more intimate reunion dinner," Giles explains before they go inside, "but the Slayers and Watchers were so eager to meet you."

Xander's knocked out by the current crop of Slayers, so different from the potentials that last year in Sunnydale. A girl everyone calls Roo for some reason, tall and phenomenally tanned, bristling with silver piercings all down her ear. She has an accent he can't quite identify -- not British, not Australian, and not quite American, though she says that's her nationality. Elizabeth is a lot quieter, self-conscious about her large hands and angular face, but something tells Xander there's uncommon depth to this girl. She's more recent than Roo, who's known what she was almost from the get-go. There's also an Italian girl Catarina discovered on her last trip home; she doesn't speak enough English for Xander to get a sense of her.

There's a crew of young Watchers, too, generally less voluble than the Slayers. The only one he gets a real bead on is Claire, who also seems to be Roo's girlfriend. She's a walking library of Sunnydale history, pumping Faith and Xander for stories he's sure she knows. She's funny and brash and yet her eyes fill with ready tears at certain points of certain stories.

Sitting at this table with his old friends, the newer ones and the near-strangers, watching Willa and Straley get gradually drawn into the conversation, Xander remembers the meal at his house after his and Willa's strange, Orpheus-fueled journey. The perfect domesticity of it, his sense of contentment. He'd been aware, even as he basked in the day-to-day feel, that it was a mere moment. But this -- this is where he lives now. These people are his family. As Catarina rises to get the biscotti and coffee and Roo and Claire begin clearing the table, Xander takes Faith's hand, marveling at how happy he is.

Everyone's gone to bed but Xander and Faith and their hosts. Catarina is instructing Faith in the nuances of the word stronzo, particularly the differences between stronzaccio and stronzuccio.

Xander's been describing to Giles his four days in Willa's head, answering a barrage of questions. Abruptly, Xander cuts into another question: "Could we talk? I mean privately. For a moment."

Puzzled, Giles rises. "Absolutely. Come to my study."

Xander makes a quick detour to the room he's sharing with Faith, returning to Giles's study to find him lighting some kindling in the fireplace there. "You saw through that 'for a moment' thing, huh?" Though really, he'd prefer to deliver his surprise and then flee.

"There's no need to rush." He smiles. "I know you're something of a night owl these days." Once he has the fire going to his satisfaction, Giles pulls the firescreen across the opening and turns to face Xander. "What is it you'd like to discuss?"

"I know I'm really new at this. So if there are things I could've done better, things I can improve --"

"Xander," he says gently, "you've no need to try to prove yourself. I'm quite impressed with your work with Willa so far."

"Oh." He flickers a smile. "That's not quite what I meant. Uh, well. This is my first." He retrieves the case from where he'd stashed it by the door. "So I know it'll need some fine tuning. Feel free to tell me anything. I can't get better without feedback."

Giles is still utterly puzzled, so Xander just sets the case down on Giles's carpet and flips the latches. As he lifts the guitar from its case, he still feels a thrill of pride, despite the imperfections he can spot in the French polish finish. "I guess in a way this is like being a Watcher. Making guitars I don't know how to play. Though the difference is, this I could learn." He holds the guitar out to Giles.

"Making -- I don't understand." His glance flicks down at the guitar, which Xander still offers. "Xander, this is exquisite. Where did you find an instrument like this?"

"I didn't find it. I made it."

Finally it sinks in. "The woodworking you said you've picked up again."

"Yeah." He launches into the disclaimers, all in a rush. "So the finish isn't perfect. Evan told me French polish would always make me feel like I had a lot yet to learn, and I see what he meant. And here's a little ding on the soundboard -- see that? It's from when Faith saved it from the fire. I did a lot of work on it, you have to know what you're looking for, I think. The X-ray thing, Faith suggested that and so that's kind of my trademark." He's babbling, but he can't stop. "And did you catch the inlay on the fingerboard? Like an X-ray image of your fingers making a G-chord. So, say you're having a jam session with some other cats at the Council, playing some of that painful old folkie shit, and you leave your axes lying around while you go score some skag, well, this is sort of like a monogram. G -- for Giles."

Giles rolls his eyes. "I assure you, even skag-addled, I could pick this guitar from a hundr-- Wait. Are you saying this guitar is mine?"

"Yeah," he says softly. "I made it for you. It's a gift."

Giles stammers the way Xander remembers from the old days. "This is remarkable. I scarcely know what to say --"

"Don't say anything. Just play it. I can't really make any adjustments until someone plays it who knows what to listen for."

He's still too flabbergasted for a moment to take Xander's suggestion, but after another moment of admiring the guitar, Giles cocks a stockinged foot on a thick text on the floor and plucks a string. He tunes the string and then the others -- something Xander can only do with the aid of an electronic gadget.

When he's finished, Giles positions his fingers over the X-ray fingers of pearl, strumming a G-chord. He follows it with a progression of chords, and Faith and Catarina appear in the doorway, drawn by the sound.

Giles looks up. "This is quite fine."

Xander wants to say how there was a buzz when he first finished it, which Peg's son helped him track down and fix. The disclaimer, however, dies on his lips.

Faith steps up behind Xander, sliding her arms around his waist. "Play something, Rupert."

Giles smiles and dips his head, thinking for a moment. His fingers caress the wire strings, then he raises his head and begins to sing.

End

Better Buffy Fiction Archive Entry

Lilac City