Whap! A logical story set after... Joss Whedon's great series, BtVS, along with Mutant Enemy. Those dudes.
"Yeah, he owns all this stuff. Except maybe the priest. The pope owns hims."
I wish I owned Faith.
"Dude. You're perverse."
I meant for housework and... stuff. Slayers are like all strong and stuff.
"Shut up dude!"
A/N: All for my friend, Amelia, whom is a wonderful person. This tale isn't worthy of her, but one hopes she doesn't mind the dedication. My slightly dark view of the Post-Chosen world.
"So, when do we break for supper?"
"Xander! This is serious. Fate of the world kind of stuff."
"So is this. Fate of the delicious poultry kind of stuff."
"Oh," a smile broke on Willow's face, "I guess we had better sparesome thought for the fate of that chicken and his immortal soul." Lines were gathering, now, at the edges of her green eyes, a network of small roads that connected cities populated by more grief than joy.
"Or the turkey, or the duck, there's no prejudice in my ehart," Xadner grabbed at the paunch his middle now sported, "I do suggest we let the banana creme enjoy a few more nights' rest."
"It's settled then. The banana creme gets a reprieve of sentence," she swept the rich, auburn curtain out of her eyes with a grace she showed only around books or computers and gazed at the page again, "We've been at this too long. It all reads like one really, really long word."
"It's Latin, Will. It is one really, really long word," he feathered the pages with calloused fingertips that were now growing adept at delicate work, "one long, sublimely confused, frustrating word."
"You used to didn't even know what sublime meant."
"Below the lime, above the lemon, oranges be damned."
"I feel the pride only a mother could."
His laughter was a rich, purple bouquet of roses and wine, "He can be taught, he can be taught."
Supper was divine. Somewhere, between kindergarden and London, Willow had developed an affinity for the culinary arts. Her nigh magical talent with sweet bakes, tart sauces and meats that disentigrated on the tongue proably had something to do with Xander's weight gain. If the broad-shouldered man ever thought on the lean, smooth-cheeked boy, he didn't let it disrupt his dinner.
When the dishes were cleared and cleaned, each retired to their own. Research had been unproductive all day, all week, and strained, burning eyes made even more mistakes then fresh ones. Xander strolled in the back garden, impressed as ever by the understated opulence he'd never known in California. This garden had no real need to scream, "Hey, rich guy, here!" it spoke elegant lines of Virgil, etched in sharp relief against the bustling city, only a few miles south.
Willow'd retreated into her room, again, ostensibly to read. He breathed in the suffocating sweetness of a honeysuckle. She cried, like this, almost every night. So much had changed, but somethings didn't at all, and Willow was still a walking fountain.
"Enjoying nature's bounty, Xander?"
Xander started. "Currently enjoying the bounty in my pants, Father Day."
William Day was tall, slim and regal. His Roman collar had left them all in tremors, upon first glance, but the English cleric was the gentle moon to Caleb's harsh, withering sun, "Come, now, if I scared you that badly then how will you handle the legions of all hell?" He rubbed his tanned, leathery cheek, "I'm not that horrifying, am I?"
"No, Father Day. My heart disagrees though."
"Your heart? Xander, you're a young man yet. Let me worry about hearts. Let Rupert worry about hearts."
"I know. It's so hard, lately. Not on me so much as," he nodded to the house's deep shadow, "you know."
The priest's voice was soft like a long, deep wound in hot water, "You know I'm not a demon hunter by vocation. I'm very new to this, in fact. I tended forlorn, damaged souls for thirty-three years. Each one was different, but each one was burnt by the same cruel fire." The hand on Xander's shoulder had a slender man's often surprising strength.
"She's been hurt so much. Tara, Kennedy... now that Buffy's gone, we're all alone."
"Willow has been wounded deeply." Father Day sat on a wrought iron bench, heavy as a car and worth a bank, "Forgive me. Old bones are not as strong as they once were."
He sat beside him, "It's just been so hard since Buffy died." Another ghost haunted this mansion, too, but Xander didn't give her a name.
Father Day did, "Tara and Kennedy and Buffy, yes. Another friend died, too."
Xander winced, "That's pretty high on my list of subjects to not talk about with random, passing priests."
He nodded, "I will not press you," and stood, "Oh, curse these old knees!" He turned toward the next house, his pronounced limp worse than usual, "My lambs in the young Slayer flock will think me remiss if I do not hear their confession."
Xander sat alone, contemplating a world without shrimp.
The Watcher's Council met, three days later, and discussion was heated. Well, as heated as a pair of older Englishmen was willing to let it get. Giles's glasses lay on the table and his voice crackled with British reserve, "With Buffy gone we need allies. Surely you can see this, William."
"I can, Rupert," Father Day replied, "but my vows, and my gut, tell me that they shouldn't be demons, Greater or lesser." Giles was still a robust man, nearing fifty, but twenty extra years weight sagged on his once very handsome face. Parents should never have to bury children.
Willow raised her hand, "Maybe we could, I don't know, ally with, well, not so much demons as... personalities?"
Xander squeezed her other hand, "Celebrities do make good allies, Will."
She tried a little levity, "I always thought Jim Belushi was a little demonic."
"Celebrities, good, our Slayers, good, wherever the hell Faith is, good. Demons, bad. Look at where it got Angel."
The table fell silent. "I still agree with Giles. We need powerful allies."
"Obviously you didn't own any property in L.A., Andrew."
He raised his voice, the effect of his anger ruined by a little piping treble, "If we enter into a compact of good faith with the Torash they'll honor it. They're warriors, and honor is their life."
Father Day waved his hand, "Pace, gentlemen. We're friends," he sighed, "already the agents of discord work against us."
They voted on the resolution. It passed, ten to three, with one abstention. Willow caught up to Xander outside, "Hey, well, so that went bad."
His voice struck the air like a hammer, "No, I thought everything went great. Well, you know, except for the whole 'let's sell out to demons' thing."
She nodded, "No, I didn't like that one bit, either."
"We're all going to die."
"Yeah," she sat on the iron bench and hugged her knees close to her chest, resting against the soft, comforting fabric of her sweat pants, "we are."
He flopped heavily beside her, "I meant really, really soon."
"So did I. Well... you know. You went there,afterwards."
"So was Giles. I don't know how he didn't see it."
"Wishful thinking?"
"We couldn't find Spike or Angel, or Wesley, or much of L.A. We did find a few people."
"See? There you go."
"Will," he put his arm around her shoulders, "we had to put them in jars."
"Oh. People preserves."
"With one hundred percent people flavored goodness."
"They're going to spread us on bread."
He squeezed her a little tighter, "All this talk is making me hungry. Want me to cook supper, tonight?"
She cuddled close to him, enjoying simple, warm contact, "Xander... you ruin cereal. I'm sorry but," she smiled up at him.
He stroked her hair. It was still as soft as it had been when they were children, "I'll have you know I whip up a mean spaghetti."
"That always sounds so cruel."
"What's that?"
"Whipping up spaghetti," she pursed her lips, "why can't someone ever 'lovingly prepare' a mean spaghetti?"
He smiled, "Well, the spaghetti is mean. It probably deserves a good whipping."
"I'm not really so much into the corporal punishment of my food. Seems so cruel," she thought a moment, "Beat it and eat it." Willow actually giggled, something Xander hadn't heard in a while, "That might make a good commerical."
"We could be rich ad executives. Well, if we don't die horribly."
"Hey, look on the bright side."
"There's a bright side?"
"Yeah. At least if I die, I get to bring a friend."
An affection that had aged well like an old song passed between two pairs of eyes, whiskey brown and glass green, "Will, I think you've gone insane."
"At least now I'm one of the happy and mostly harmless kinds."
"Good point." He stood, "What say I go on in and start lovingly preparing that spaghetti?"
"Sounds like a plan. Want me to boil noodles?"
"Even Michaelangelo had to have someone hold his paintbrush." The spaghetti was, if not worthy of the gods, more edible than some of Xander's other efforts. The wine was good, if nothing else, a sensual red vintage, musky and sinful like sex in the zoo, listening to the tigers growl. They lived their last night like every other, and every other night like their last.
"Yeah, he owns all this stuff. Except maybe the priest. The pope owns hims."
I wish I owned Faith.
"Dude. You're perverse."
I meant for housework and... stuff. Slayers are like all strong and stuff.
"Shut up dude!"
A/N: All for my friend, Amelia, whom is a wonderful person. This tale isn't worthy of her, but one hopes she doesn't mind the dedication. My slightly dark view of the Post-Chosen world.
"So, when do we break for supper?"
"Xander! This is serious. Fate of the world kind of stuff."
"So is this. Fate of the delicious poultry kind of stuff."
"Oh," a smile broke on Willow's face, "I guess we had better sparesome thought for the fate of that chicken and his immortal soul." Lines were gathering, now, at the edges of her green eyes, a network of small roads that connected cities populated by more grief than joy.
"Or the turkey, or the duck, there's no prejudice in my ehart," Xadner grabbed at the paunch his middle now sported, "I do suggest we let the banana creme enjoy a few more nights' rest."
"It's settled then. The banana creme gets a reprieve of sentence," she swept the rich, auburn curtain out of her eyes with a grace she showed only around books or computers and gazed at the page again, "We've been at this too long. It all reads like one really, really long word."
"It's Latin, Will. It is one really, really long word," he feathered the pages with calloused fingertips that were now growing adept at delicate work, "one long, sublimely confused, frustrating word."
"You used to didn't even know what sublime meant."
"Below the lime, above the lemon, oranges be damned."
"I feel the pride only a mother could."
His laughter was a rich, purple bouquet of roses and wine, "He can be taught, he can be taught."
Supper was divine. Somewhere, between kindergarden and London, Willow had developed an affinity for the culinary arts. Her nigh magical talent with sweet bakes, tart sauces and meats that disentigrated on the tongue proably had something to do with Xander's weight gain. If the broad-shouldered man ever thought on the lean, smooth-cheeked boy, he didn't let it disrupt his dinner.
When the dishes were cleared and cleaned, each retired to their own. Research had been unproductive all day, all week, and strained, burning eyes made even more mistakes then fresh ones. Xander strolled in the back garden, impressed as ever by the understated opulence he'd never known in California. This garden had no real need to scream, "Hey, rich guy, here!" it spoke elegant lines of Virgil, etched in sharp relief against the bustling city, only a few miles south.
Willow'd retreated into her room, again, ostensibly to read. He breathed in the suffocating sweetness of a honeysuckle. She cried, like this, almost every night. So much had changed, but somethings didn't at all, and Willow was still a walking fountain.
"Enjoying nature's bounty, Xander?"
Xander started. "Currently enjoying the bounty in my pants, Father Day."
William Day was tall, slim and regal. His Roman collar had left them all in tremors, upon first glance, but the English cleric was the gentle moon to Caleb's harsh, withering sun, "Come, now, if I scared you that badly then how will you handle the legions of all hell?" He rubbed his tanned, leathery cheek, "I'm not that horrifying, am I?"
"No, Father Day. My heart disagrees though."
"Your heart? Xander, you're a young man yet. Let me worry about hearts. Let Rupert worry about hearts."
"I know. It's so hard, lately. Not on me so much as," he nodded to the house's deep shadow, "you know."
The priest's voice was soft like a long, deep wound in hot water, "You know I'm not a demon hunter by vocation. I'm very new to this, in fact. I tended forlorn, damaged souls for thirty-three years. Each one was different, but each one was burnt by the same cruel fire." The hand on Xander's shoulder had a slender man's often surprising strength.
"She's been hurt so much. Tara, Kennedy... now that Buffy's gone, we're all alone."
"Willow has been wounded deeply." Father Day sat on a wrought iron bench, heavy as a car and worth a bank, "Forgive me. Old bones are not as strong as they once were."
He sat beside him, "It's just been so hard since Buffy died." Another ghost haunted this mansion, too, but Xander didn't give her a name.
Father Day did, "Tara and Kennedy and Buffy, yes. Another friend died, too."
Xander winced, "That's pretty high on my list of subjects to not talk about with random, passing priests."
He nodded, "I will not press you," and stood, "Oh, curse these old knees!" He turned toward the next house, his pronounced limp worse than usual, "My lambs in the young Slayer flock will think me remiss if I do not hear their confession."
Xander sat alone, contemplating a world without shrimp.
The Watcher's Council met, three days later, and discussion was heated. Well, as heated as a pair of older Englishmen was willing to let it get. Giles's glasses lay on the table and his voice crackled with British reserve, "With Buffy gone we need allies. Surely you can see this, William."
"I can, Rupert," Father Day replied, "but my vows, and my gut, tell me that they shouldn't be demons, Greater or lesser." Giles was still a robust man, nearing fifty, but twenty extra years weight sagged on his once very handsome face. Parents should never have to bury children.
Willow raised her hand, "Maybe we could, I don't know, ally with, well, not so much demons as... personalities?"
Xander squeezed her other hand, "Celebrities do make good allies, Will."
She tried a little levity, "I always thought Jim Belushi was a little demonic."
"Celebrities, good, our Slayers, good, wherever the hell Faith is, good. Demons, bad. Look at where it got Angel."
The table fell silent. "I still agree with Giles. We need powerful allies."
"Obviously you didn't own any property in L.A., Andrew."
He raised his voice, the effect of his anger ruined by a little piping treble, "If we enter into a compact of good faith with the Torash they'll honor it. They're warriors, and honor is their life."
Father Day waved his hand, "Pace, gentlemen. We're friends," he sighed, "already the agents of discord work against us."
They voted on the resolution. It passed, ten to three, with one abstention. Willow caught up to Xander outside, "Hey, well, so that went bad."
His voice struck the air like a hammer, "No, I thought everything went great. Well, you know, except for the whole 'let's sell out to demons' thing."
She nodded, "No, I didn't like that one bit, either."
"We're all going to die."
"Yeah," she sat on the iron bench and hugged her knees close to her chest, resting against the soft, comforting fabric of her sweat pants, "we are."
He flopped heavily beside her, "I meant really, really soon."
"So did I. Well... you know. You went there,afterwards."
"So was Giles. I don't know how he didn't see it."
"Wishful thinking?"
"We couldn't find Spike or Angel, or Wesley, or much of L.A. We did find a few people."
"See? There you go."
"Will," he put his arm around her shoulders, "we had to put them in jars."
"Oh. People preserves."
"With one hundred percent people flavored goodness."
"They're going to spread us on bread."
He squeezed her a little tighter, "All this talk is making me hungry. Want me to cook supper, tonight?"
She cuddled close to him, enjoying simple, warm contact, "Xander... you ruin cereal. I'm sorry but," she smiled up at him.
He stroked her hair. It was still as soft as it had been when they were children, "I'll have you know I whip up a mean spaghetti."
"That always sounds so cruel."
"What's that?"
"Whipping up spaghetti," she pursed her lips, "why can't someone ever 'lovingly prepare' a mean spaghetti?"
He smiled, "Well, the spaghetti is mean. It probably deserves a good whipping."
"I'm not really so much into the corporal punishment of my food. Seems so cruel," she thought a moment, "Beat it and eat it." Willow actually giggled, something Xander hadn't heard in a while, "That might make a good commerical."
"We could be rich ad executives. Well, if we don't die horribly."
"Hey, look on the bright side."
"There's a bright side?"
"Yeah. At least if I die, I get to bring a friend."
An affection that had aged well like an old song passed between two pairs of eyes, whiskey brown and glass green, "Will, I think you've gone insane."
"At least now I'm one of the happy and mostly harmless kinds."
"Good point." He stood, "What say I go on in and start lovingly preparing that spaghetti?"
"Sounds like a plan. Want me to boil noodles?"
"Even Michaelangelo had to have someone hold his paintbrush." The spaghetti was, if not worthy of the gods, more edible than some of Xander's other efforts. The wine was good, if nothing else, a sensual red vintage, musky and sinful like sex in the zoo, listening to the tigers growl. They lived their last night like every other, and every other night like their last.