Summary: One of Xander's extended relations come for a visit. Unfortunately.

Crossover: D&D

Disclaimer: Hell yeah I don't own this!

Feedback: Please.

Pre-fic Comments:

Stupid friggin' bunny. This isn't based exactly on D&D. There is some swearing in this, sorry.

Thanks to Alex DarkFire for the title. I suck at naming things.

Xander yawned as he walked in the front door at three in the morning, then winced as he found his mother still watching Coronation Street, an empty bottle in hand.

"Where HAVE you been?," she screeched -- quietly, so as not to wake up Tony Harris.

He closed his eyes and scrunched them shut, praying to God for patience. "I have just had a long night dealing with the Hellmouth, something with three mouths and more teeth than should fit in those three mouths, and we have just gotten rid of that damn Master. So, please excuse me if I'm a little late."

Jessica Harris flopped back against the sofa, giving up on the pose of Righteous Indignation. "Well, you get to bed. We need the lawn mowed, and you need to pull your weight around here, and..."

Xander tuned her out as he went to his room, shutting the door to get ready for bed.

"The boy finally turn up?," Tony asked as he emerged from the master bedroom, rubbing at his eyes. "God, I feel like shit."

"Apparently he was busy with something called a Hellmouth, some demon, and something called a Master," Jessica shrugged.

Tony's face paled, as he quickly sobered up in shock. "Hellmouth? We're on a Hellmouth?!"

The woman on the couch shrugged, deftly throwing the empty bottle at the kitchen tidy. "According to Alexander we are. Want to ring that freaky great-granddad of yours?"

Tony scratched his cheek, mulling it over. "I don't want to deal with him, but I don't want to be eaten by no demon neither. Where'd we put that damn phone?"

Xander blinked from behind the counter. He waved his hand in front of his head. "Nope, my eyes are okay."

He looked again. "Not another bad guy."

The figure walking into town was clad in long, flowing robes, with a strange head-dress that appeared like a brimless top hat, a length of fabric flowing from the side and back down the robes. That was not the disturbing part. Anyone dressed so could be written off as a medieval role player of some kind who had taken a wrong turn.

The figure was clearly dead in some fashion. Dry, grey skin was stretched so tight over the facial bones that the thing's visage appeared disturbingly similar to a death's head. Twin red lights glowed from the recesses of it's empty eye sockets, and skeletal hands emerged from the sleeves of the flowing robes. Underneath the first layer of fabric could be seen a satchel, bulging with some nameless materials.

Xander licked his dry lips. reaching under his shirt for the large cross that he habitually carried with him. He had never thought that he would need it during the day selling hot dogs, but he sure was glad that he had brought it with him.

"Where can I find Alexander LaVelle Harris?," the figure asked him in a dry rasp.

"B-back!," Xander got out, holding the cross in front of him as a shield.

The figure took the cross roughly from him, fingering it for a moment. "What do you think I am, boy? A common vampire, living off humanity like a mosquito?!"

"I'm Xander," Xander said in a voice that surprised himself as to how calm it was. "Who are you?"

The dry, dessicated skin moved slightly. Xander could swear that the figure was trying to grin. "What, no kiss for your old great-great-great... whatever, grandad?"

Xander blinked. Then he blinked again, since he hadn't thought of anything better to do.

"W-WHAT?," he shouted. He took a deep, shaky breath to calm himself. "Look, I don't know what you are or what you want, but you won't get away with it. I'll stop you myself, and if I can't, then I'll call in the Slayer."

The dead thing in front of him grinned a millimeter wider. "YES! I've finally met a descendant who can do magic! Boy, I'm going to train you in the Art whether you want me to or not."

This thing /could/ be family, Xander allowed. It certainly had the 'pay no attention to Xander' thing down pat. He daringly vocalised this thought, reaching surrepticiously for the hot dog tongs. A crappy weapon was better than no weapon, he reasoned.

"Didn't your parents tell you /anything/?," the figure asked, the rasp gaining a tone of annoyance. "I'm a lich, you stupid ignoramus!"

"Hey!," Xander protested, pride stung. "You're a bad!"

Xander quickly found out that being dragged somewhere by the ear was even more painful when the dragger had skeletal hands and an unnatural strength.

"Come with me, Alexander. I'm going to have a /word/ with your no good parents about not mentioning me," the lich said nastily.

Xander rubbed his ear as the lich who claimed to be his many times great granddad banged on the front door to the Harris household. "Stupid super-vamp. Man, do you ever wash?"

"I heard that," the lich snapped. "In my day, you'd get my boot upside your backside for cheek."

Tony Harris opened the door, stared blearily at the lich, then shut the door. The two could clearly hear him through the cheaply made door.

"Jessica, that was a good brand of whiskey, that was. I just saw you-know-who outside."

Xander sighed, pulling out his house keys and opening the door. He wasn't going to get rid of this lich thing, and it would go away when he didn't invite it in.

He did a classic double take as the thing walked over the threshold with no invitation.

"Close your mouth," the lich snapped. "I might be dead, but I'm no vampire."

"Dad?," Xander asked in a sharp voice. "Who the hell is this?"

"Congratulations, boy," Xander's dad said. "You've just met the walking reason for the alcoholism in this family."

"This family has been a disappointment to me! My useless son wanted to be a pansy-ass sword slinger, his son wanted in on that as well, and eventualyl all the magic got bred out of my stupid descendants!"

"Ouch," Xander says sympathetically.

"Still," the lich said, pointing at Xander with a skeletal hand. "You've got the Skill, and I'm not letting /you/ get away with no training. No grandson of mine is gonna be yet another fckin' fighter!"