The moon rose behind Xander as he paced through the shadows, watching for danger and being a menace to those who caused it in the supernatural community. Buffy had finally retired and the drama had subsided with her, but not the evil. Things were back to basics with Xander now "in charge" in some sort of bizarre graphic novel way.

Xander had broken off from the pack that seemed so desperate to be normal, those still so devoted to Buffy and her quest for that wiggly subjective truth that she loved so much. Riley, as a mercenary from the army, had come into contact with him at some point and things had just kind of snowballed from there, including his own cool weapon-some spooky Thor hammer that the Nords were loaning him.

Xander and Riley were tied together by more than a sense of justice. They were tied together by a love of Willow, and of Oz for the former Black Ops Army man. But Willow and Oz both had both stood by him as well in their own ways. Willow refused to touch magick after being burned by the cosmos and Oz was never sure when he would wolf out, so they ran AmCroft Row, the center for their operations. Willow was the figurehead for their day care and community center while Oz held down the communication and technical aspects of their "save the world" organization.

Riley's comm link buzzed and he nodded as he tapped his ear to listen. Riley chuckled low afterwards as Xander raised an eyebrow. "Oz wants us to pick up some milk."

Xander mused that Riley, himself, and the third man patrolling with them must have looked like an odd trio. There stood he at just about six feet tall, chest out not in a proud but confident manner with his leather jacket and plain white tee. His raven hair was quaffed just below his ears, without gel- thank you very much, and complimented by his black jeans and construction boots-very nice for quashing the stench of a sewer rat. His Nordic hammer was concealed in a satchel slung across his back.

Riley stood taller but softer. His brown hair complimented by a barrel chest and a green army jacket and khakis. The only new thing added to his old sense of style was the comm link and microphone jammed near his cheek and bombs concealed in little compartments at his belt. Okay, maybe it was a bit too Batman, but it was efficient for localized spell casting when necessary and supervised.

Then there was Keller. He was older than the rest of the Scooby Gang by about ten years or more. There was something dangerous in his dark eyes; like he could play with the demons and then annihilate them, making him a presence to be reckoned with. His black hair remained short and cropped at all times. His outfit was nearly like Xander's except his was torn jeans and a rider's jacket, like a motorcycle he claimed to own but never produced. His weapons were cold steel and guns.

So the three of them sauntered with a mission through a swirling foggy night in a cemetery surrounded with the scent of boredom and waiting. The tombs were cold, like the hearts of many who resided there. Men were nothing like the tombstones, the trio knew. Fearful, selfish, plagued by demons of society, greed, and lust. The people of Amcroft Row had conquered so many with those glowing words on their stone. But Buffy had a least understood this. Xander would always remember that psych grad student that she had confessed to him about in a moment of weakness.

But you had to shrug that kind of thing off. It was the business and it wasn't very friendly. You got over it or it ate your alive. Either way, the night tends to drag on when you're not on the Hellmouth. Xander dropped his gear off at the end of the patrol, the hammer didn't need to be everywhere and would come when called. He had a few hours to kill until bedtime and so he'd return to Amcroft later in the morning, being as how he had become an insomniac. He still enjoyed walking the streets alone, and he had no fear for his name had become almost as whispered as Buffy's had, at least in this little portal of despair.

Xander called the town Amityville, but truth be told he was in Salem, Massachusetts. He had run away farther, unlike Angel who might as well have left everyone heartbroken but simply moved down the street. No, Xander had left and left for good.

He decided that his newfound love of jazz would come in handy tonight and headed to a converted factory, something reminiscent of the Bronze before Sunnydale had become a sink hole. It was warm inside with paint in a swirl of calm ambers, reds, and yellows.

The real Xander came here. No fake Xander warrior, but a broken man that was soothed by jazz. That night, they had set Maya Angelou to saxophone and piano. It dripped and haunted Xander in his mind until he reached the copper bar. Words about soul-searching and pain. About forgiveness and sacrifice. Wrong ethnicity, but completely astute about him. It really didn't matter, everyone bled the same color, unless you were a Macrort. They bled yellow.

It was unexpectedly calm as the poetry readings started. What else was a night owl to do in Salem? Angst-ridden teens and disappointed churchgoers sang mournful hymns of faith and love all while Xander sipped his thoughtful brandy. There was something frightfully dignifying about the scene, something more adult and unsettling. If Xander had been a spiritual man, then this could have been his church. He had once been told that everyone worships something, and he could see how that was probably true.

Xander turned back to the bar, huddling into his drink, as a pimply-faced emo teenager walked up to the stage. He assumed it was going to be a rail and he didn't want much of a part of it. What was there to be really angry about? This kid's life was probably better than he understood. Xander often chuckled to himself about teaching the regular kids what real suffering was and inviting them on one patrol. This one would last about as long as Jonathan, most likely.

The kid's heart sang with poetry. "Through fiercest night I tread, the world silent before me."

That's when Xander stiffened. He could feel the presence cutting through his relaxing night. His own personal hauntings slicing through any peace of mind. The emo child spoke of Angel. That was unfair. What did he know of Angel? Xander begged silently with the child not to ruin his seldom chance for peace; to forget.

But he continued regardless. "I saw him, a dark warrior as tall as the amber tree and as pale as the moonlight."

"Startled by his unbridled passion, I flung myself into a cocoon of protection."

Xander could not allow himself to cry. He would not break down because of this child's poem.

"A mysterious fog lifted him from my sight; how am I to become a white knight without him?"

And all of a sudden, the trauma of the poem, like Angel, was a memory. A brief transcendent connection, not because of the child but because of the unpredictable state of Xander. He wanted to be angry. He wanted the sedate reds and yellows to take on forms of violent passion. He wanted to be eternally vengeful and pissed off. To throw chairs and glasses of toxic alcohol at walls. To create the eternal chaos he hid behind to not deal with the memories of Angel.

And then he saw him for that one second. Angel came forward, a ghostly hallucination. A head taller than Xander with hair turning slightly more brown than he remembered. Not playful but not serious, Angel's gaze as androgynous and bearing as Xander did indeed remember. His eyes both pleaded and played with Xander. Tears could not come. There was just shock. He began to smile in that dangerous way that could too easily toy with Xander's emotions. Then Angel's entire ghostly body strolled through him.

Enough. Enough said the coldness welling up in Xander. Enough.