Book Two: Searching
By: Aurorarose13
Chapter One – Summer Year-round
"Grow up, Loserboy. Your little quest to find your precious slayer is gonna be a failure. And you know how I know? Because your life is a failure; you are a failure—at everything you've ever done—and this will be no exception."
Alexander Harris recalled Cordelia's harsh comments as though she had said them yesterday. But it hadn't been yesterday at all; it had been almost four years ago. At the time, Xander had totally disagreed with her, just as he always had, telling her that when he returned to Sunnydale hand-in-hand with Buffy Summers, she would be eating every single word with a fork and a spoon.
Now five years after Buffy's departure (four years after his), all Xander had to show for his troubles was a steadily depleting bank account and a handful of photographs of his beloved. He hated to admit it, but Cordelia was right; this mission was a miserable failure and so was he.
The overcast winter sky outside his penthouse window mirrored his thoughts. Bleak. Without hope. Without end. Without light. And most importantly, without Summer. Snow dripped lazily from the clouds like water from a leaky faucet, slight intervals in between where no flakes fell, instead replaced with an emptiness. Veins of silver frost snaked across the glass pane, making New York City look like it had been stitched up with threads of ice. Yes, beautiful in the poet's sense of the word, but mere prison bars to Xander Harris.
He missed Buffy… obviously. It was that simple and easy to put to words; however, the amount of loss he felt could never be described. Everywhere he looked Xander saw her. Every woman with blonde hair was Buffy—at least that was whom she resembled from afar. But every time Xander got close to her, he found out she was no more than a woman with blonde hair, almost faceless. The search was absolutely maddening. Sometimes he just wanted to give it up and drop the job into someone else's hands, but he never did, for who else would be there to take it anyway. Besides, the mere thought that he might one day very soon run right into her was more than enough to keep him trudging forward in his journey, even if that journey led him straight to death. It wasn't that he hadn't faced the prospect before. It was just that he had never had to face the reality of it without Buffy.
So here he was today, aimlessly searching one city after another, following even the most infinitesimal lead. Any clue he received always turned out to be another dead-end, but—hey—anything for the girl of his dreams. And damn that Fate, but it was Xander's to hold!
Pulling reluctantly away from the window, Xander returned his intense focus to what he had been doing before. He sidled back over to his comfy couch and took a seat directly in front of a lock box. It was opened wide, with its contents spewing haphazardly all over the coffee table. Xander placed a hand over a particular picture, his palm hovering over the face, as if he was memorizing it. He sighed wistfully and lifted the picture to eye level.
His beautiful, sacred Buffy. She was standing idly in a field of wildflowers, wearing a sleeveless baby blue sundress. Her hair was waving in the summer breezes as they ran their fingers delicately through it, and the sun played upon it like it did upon clear ocean tide pools. Though somewhat masked by the daisy she had tenderly kissing her cheek, her trademark Buffy smile shined up at Xander, filling him with renewed hope for the future—a future with her. Buffy's eyes sparkled with merriment, their brilliant green backgrounds enhanced by the lush meadow. The perfect creature. Flawless.
How well Xander recalled that day, even if it had been almost five and a half years ago.
@~~`~~~
"Are you done taking those stupid pictures yet?" Buffy queried anxiously, shaking her flower at him as a warning. Her eyes reflected her perturbed voice, but her smile betrayed her. The slayer was having fun, even taking dull photographs.
"Almost. Wills, you get in this one."
From the sidelines came a very annoyed voice. "Xander, don't make me make Buffy hurt you. Quit it already with those cheesy pictures!"
Xander sighed with weariness, though it was a contented weariness: brought on by handling two teenage girls snipping at him all day. "Very well, you are free to go. You're no fun, you know that, Wills?" She pooh-poohed his remark and continued to polish off her sandwich.
"This certainly is the most fun I've had all year," Buffy commented brightly, skipping over to her friend Willow's side and watching her down the rest of her root beer with one swig.
Xander joined them on the picnic blanket, smiling broadly at the young ladies. "Yes, what could be better than spending the most beautiful day of the year with the most beautiful women in the world?"
"Flattery will get you no where, Mister Harris," Willow informed.
"It might," Buffy countered, her fingers walking up his arm seductively. Xander and Willow's eyes just about popped out of their heads. Buffy nibbled her lower lip suggestively before adding, "Just not with me." Then she slapped him lightly across the cheek. The redhead laughed loudly as Xander processed what the object of his affections had really said.
"Whoa! For a second there you had me scared that the Buffy I knew had been replaced with the Buffy of my dreams. Glad to have you back." He paused for a long moment for dramatic effect. "Wait a minute! No I'm not! Give me back Dream-Buffy!" Xander lunged at the slayer, shaking her as though he could jounce her right out. Buffy laughed with amusement while Willow just sighed. "I know, I know. When am I going to learn that I'm not funny?"
"Precisely," Willow said. "Who wants the last piece of pie?"
Instantly Buffy's hand shot up. "Ooh! I do!"
"Too bad," the redhead cried as she plucked the pie wedge from in front of her hungry blonde friend with slayer-like speed. "Willow!"
"Sucker. Mmmm, this pie is delicious."
"I'm gonna slay your ass, you wannabe Wicca!"
"Oh my! It's like tasting a piece of heaven. It's a real shame there isn't a slice for you." As Willow taunted the slayer, she shoved piece after piece of pie in her greedy mouth, chewing loudly and proudly. "Gosh, I can't believe that someone could craft such a wonderful bit of pastry!"
"Can I please have just a little bite?" Buffy begged, giving Willow the puppy eyes. She even pawed Willow's arm playfully.
"Let me think about it. No!" She ate another sugarcoated apple with a bit of golden brown crust.
Buffy steadily inched closer to Willow, hoping for her not to notice. "Please…"
"Watch it, slayer. Any closer and you'll be wearing this pie!"
"You wouldn't dare!"
"Are you entirely sure about that?"
"Is it just me, or is that a challenge?" Buffy questioned Xander.
He smiled wryly at his best friend then at Buffy, readying his camera for the photo opportunity he was sure would follow. "Oh, I do believe it was a challenge, Buffy."
"Are you just saying that because you want to see a chic fight?"
"No…" he answered weakly, causing her to raise and eyebrow. "I think you should still get her anyway." She kept giving him the you-are-not-my-friend look—disappointed and tiresome with a slight bit of humor—but decided to go ahead with her assault.
The slayer pounced like a lion on top of Willow, grabbing wildly for the pie plate that her friend held stretched the furthest from Buffy she could get it. Grunts and howls came forth from both girls as they rolled all around the picnic blanket in the midst of their ridiculous fight. Remembering the camera beckoning to him in his hands, Xander lined it up as best he could then yelled, "Smile!" Both Willow and Buffy turned, completely surprised by the sight of the Polaroid aimed perfectly at their twisted, intertwined figures. "Can you say blackmail?" he laughed, focusing to perfection.
"Xander!" Buffy snarled viciously. "If you take that picture, I'll—"
There was a click and a whir as the camera snapped a photograph and then advanced to the next slide, and then there was a sudden bump. The next thing Xander recalled was looking up and seeing the grinning, angelic faces staring at him. Heaven? Not by a long shot, for there was Hell to pay after that…
@~~`~~~
Sighing nostalgically, Xander replaced the photograph down on the table and continued flipping through the film. Most of the pictures were of Buffy… and Willow, too. But of all the ones he cherished (which, consequently, was every single photo) his favorite was the "Pummeling for Pie" picture, as the three had deemed it that day.
Suddenly there was a loud rapping at his door. "Rog? Can I come in?"
"Damn!" Xander muttered quietly. "Uh, yeah, just hold on for a second." The slayerette gathered up as many of his pictures as he could and threw them haphazardly in his lock box. In record time, Xander had closed the box, shoving it under his couch. "Come on in, Nate!"
Something on the table caught Xander's eye, and he was lucky it did so. "Pummeling for Pie" was still resting on his coffee table's edge. "Shit!" Where to hide it? Where to hide it? Too late! "Rog? You in here?" Xander slipped his arm behind his back as nonchalantly as he could, casually humming a recent hit from the radio. "Roger?"
"Yeah. Over here." The tall, athletic-looking man in the doorway craned his head to discover his friend Roger standing by his sofa. "There you are. You ready to go to the club now, or am I going to have to wait another half an hour? I'm finally ready for that rematch at racquetball you promised me."
"I'll be ready as soon as I grab my gear. Be right back," Xander informed, heading into a tiny hallway that led to his bedroom.
Nate idly took a seat on the couch and surveyed the living room setup. Very posh. Nice establishment on the whole. Centrally located; nice view; gargantuan penthouse suite. "What've you been doing lately, Rog, my man?"
From in his bedroom came an answer, as innocent and casual as possible. "Oh, just looking at some old photographs from my youth. Not much otherwise, I'm afraid."
"Was that a picture what you had hidden behind your back when I came in?"
A head covered with milk chocolate hair poked out from the doorway. "Excuse me?"
Nate smiled at his astute observance. "I asked if a picture was what you were hiding from me when I came in a few minutes ago?"
"Nathan, my friend," he began with a bit of nervousness, "I'm afraid I don't know of what you are speaking. You must be mistaken."
The sandy blonde clucked his tongue and grinned enough to display his perfect white teeth. "Don't think you can lie to me for one second, Roger Winters, and get away with it. I'm your best friend, and I know more about you than you know about yourself."
In the back bedroom, Xander laughed cynically to himself. Poor dope. Nathan didn't have one clue about the real him. So far as he knew, Alexander LaVelle Harris was a non-existent person; there was only Roger Michael Winters. Of course, it wasn't wrong to say Nathan was a bad friend; he simply wasn't Xander's best friend. However, as far as his other self—this Roger Winters—was concerned, Xander supposed that Nathan Fruling was indeed his best friend.
And about the rest of what his buddy said: Roger's entire life was a lie, and no one knew him better than he himself did, save Buffy and Willow. "It honestly was nothing important. Just a dumb picture. Why do you care so much anyway?"
"I don't; but you know me—I'm Curious George."
"I can see the resemblance, too," Xander joked, grabbing his gym bag from his camouflaged closet—white on white, he loved it.
"Oh, you're a funny man, Roger, a real crack-up."
"Yes, yes. I always knew my true calling was stand-up comedy."
"Sure that wasn't your master, Tarzan, calling?"
"Let's go, funny boy. I'm ready now." Xander emerged from his room sporting a pair of gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt marred with palm-sized holes. Emblazoned on the front of the shirt in huge orange letters were the words Born to Be Bad. And naturally there was an image of a baby wearing shades and a leather diaper embellished with metal studs.
"You look, well, different. Can't place my finger on it exactly, but my best guess would be to say the studded diaper is the change."
"Mock the garb all you like, Nate, but when the ladies are crawling all over the big, bad me, we'll see who laughs last."
Roger closed the door to his apartment behind him, locking up securely and stuffing the ring of keys into his pocket. Nate followed him to the elevator, and the pair waited patiently for the bell to ring. For a moment, the conversation stopped, and it was completely silent. For some unknown reason, the street sounds below could not permeate the walls. Roger's ears rang in the quiet. Nate cleared his throat. "You know, maybe we shouldn't play racquetball today."
"What?" Roger asked incredulously. "Why not?"
"You're just going to humiliate yourself again. I mean, after what I saw from you last week…"
The muscular man faced off against his slip of a companion (at least, he seemed little next to Roger), narrowing his eyes threateningly. "That was only because I was distracted by—"
"By Roxanna, I know."
"No! She was part of the reason, but not the whole part. I only lost because I had a slight case of the flu."
"You're full of excuses," Nate sighed, exaggerating the shrug of his shoulders. "So how did things work out with Roxanna anyway? Was she as hot in bed as I presumed?"
The elevator dinged. "Wouldn't know."
Nate grabbed his friend by the arm and yanked him out of the threshold of the lift. "What do you mean you wouldn't know? First, you make a big point of showing off in front of her, and then you go as far as to lie about your job, and you never gave her a test run? Why the hell not?"
Shaking Nate's grip off easily, Roger stepped onto the elevator and pushed the door close button. "Coming?" he inquired sharply as the doors began to close on his partner.
Immediately, Nate slipped in, glaring disappointedly at the behemoth beside him. "What went wrong? Was she a complete dud?"
"As it turned out, she wasn't exactly my type."
"And what the hell is your type, Rog? So far this month you've dumped every girl you've asked out after the first date. And you never once went past second base with any of them!"
"Second base? What, are we back in high school again, buddy?"
"I'm just trying to make a point without being lewd. Somehow you manage to get the hottest girls I've ever seen, but not one of them really seems to interest you. How can that possibly be? Some of those women you've dated would make a normal man stand to attention with one glance, and yet you don't even pay the slightest notice."
Roger gazed at the carpeted walls of the elevator, seeing nothing but wide-open space painted solid black. "I'm picky, what else is there to say? Excuse me for wanting something a little more meaningful than one night of sex."
"Being picky is one thing, and wanting more than sex is, too. But sometimes wild, passionate, spur-of-the-moment lovin' is what a man needs to get him back on track."
"Are you saying I'm off track?"
Nate felt trapped. Roger was a very big man, capable of crushing his head between his thumb and forefinger. He was walking on hot coals now. "All I'm saying is that you need to lighten up. If you go on searching for the girl of your dreams in New York City, of all places, all you're going to wind up with is a handful of whores."
I've already found the girl of my dreams, but now I've lost her
, he thought ruefully. "That's a terrible thing to say! There are plenty of respectable women here. It's not my fault you choose all the sluts with the empty heads.""I can see this conversation is taking us nowhere very quickly. Change of subject: how's the job search progressing, hmm?"
Oh great, just what he didn't want to think about. "What do you want me to say? I haven't got a job yet, if that's what you mean. Christ, I haven't even gotten a single phone call back! Tomorrow's my big interview with Michael Sanderson and Associates, which I know is going to be a huge flop."
"Why would you say something like that?" Nate asked curiously as the elevator doors spread open, a grandiose lobby expanding before them.
"Why? Look at my past history of jobs. They're not the most glamorous of careers: janitor, night watchman, busboy, etc."
"I see your point."
"And because I never went to law school."
"But you're not applying for the position of lawyer. You're applying to be a receptionist, for crying out loud. What type of education do you need for that besides femininity training?"
Roger's eyes closed before he sighed wearily. "If you were the CEO of a fast-growing, well-reputed law firm, would you hire a receptionist who doesn't know the difference between his ass and his elbow when it comes to the law?" When Nate failed to answer, Roger answered for him. "Of course not."
"I still think with your street smarts and your money sense—"
"Money sense?" Roger queried comically, pointing to his exceedingly expensive gym bag, his leather bomber jacket with silk lining and the gold ring on each finger.
"Okay, with your money, you'll have the job bagged the moment you set your Armani-suit-wearing ass in the chair. How could anyone not hire someone in an Armani suit? They'd have to be crazy!"
"Or actually caring about what the applicant knows."
Nate narrowed his eyes at him. "Don't you know when to shut-up?"
Roger smiled as he slipped through the spiraling apartment doors. "If I did, I'd be three times wealthier than I am, and I'd have a girlfriend named Roxanna."
@~~`~~~
"Damn," Roger cursed exhaustedly as he left the racquetball room with Nate, "you won again." He dabbed his sweat-soaked body with an already drenched towel and proceeded to throw it at his friend, shooting him the I-hate-you glance.
"Doesn't count," Nate mumbled rather bitterly. "Once again you were 'distracted' by the opposite sex. Geez, last time it was a Roxanna, and now it's a Lydia?"
"I was not distracted. I just wasn't totally focused."
His blonde friend replied, "I don't even know why you bother. You only go out on one date, and you don't even take her back to your place. What's the point of impressing a lady when you're not going to follow up on it?"
Roger's sneakers squeaked on the floor, sharp, painful cries that cut the moist air of the locker room. "My idea of following up is definitely not the same as yours, buddy."
"I've realized that."
"I don't just want big boobs and a round ass. I'm looking for something more."
Nate smiled wickedly. "Then why do you always go for those really sexy types? Why don't you ask out Marcie? She's available."
The hulking man's eyes practically exploded in disbelief from their sockets. "Marcie?"
"Yeah, sure. You two could have a lot of interesting conversations. You could talk about working out—and how it doesn't work for some people—or the weather or some other fun topic like that. At least she didn't attend Madame LaSex's School for Aspiring Prostitutes."
"I can't go out with Marcie!"
"And why not?" asked Nate in a woman's voice. "Is it because she's fat?"
"No," Roger said, his tone wavering, "it's just that she's really bitchy. I heard it from Trish."
Momentarily, Nate scratched his chin in confusion. "Was Trish 'Last Friday' or 'Last Saturday'? I can't recall."
"Trish was 'Last Tuesday'; Melinda was 'Last Friday'; Karen was 'Last Saturday.' Anyway, there's nothing wrong with Marcie's big-bonishness. It's just that I heard things about her personality." With a heavy sigh of defeat, Nate relented and turned toward the showers.
Roger stood alone among the lockers and benches, thinking about all that Nate had said to him that day. His friend was right, unfortunately. Roger needed to change his life. As much as he liked to say he was, he definitely was not having any fun. Not with women, not with his friends, not by himself.
His life was miserable, and there was nothing he could think to do about it. Unless he took Nate's advice and used Lydia for sex. But to do that was to tread back into the past, not the Sunnydale past of so long ago, but the recent past, and that was one place he did not want to go. The decisions we must make, he thought. The decisions we must make.
Roger turned to the showers.