A/N: I suspect that my return to uni is the cause of all this excessive wordiness. Academic writing often means saying in 250 words what normal people say in 50, and judging by the descriptive vs dialogue ratio of this, I need to find a way to turn off my inner academic. Sigh. I can't believe there are over 15,000 hits on this story. Colour me stunned. Thanks to everyone who's been reading/following, and especially to everyone who takes the time to review. Emails etc generally answered within 24 hours barring apocalypse or internet problems. On with the show, which I'm sorry to say contains no NCIS. Next chapter, expect fireworks. That's all I'm sayin'. ;) Sentences in italics are usually thoughts, both the 'magical communication device' kind and the 'internal character musing' kind.
I try to answer where I can, and love to talk about the shows and fic in general, so if you have a question or something you want clarified, or anything really, drop me a line via email or review.
Saturday, 2330
San Francisco, California
She sashays casually down the street, her hips swinging slightly as though she's dancing to her own silent beat. Her heels click on the grotty sidewalk as people – men, mostly – eye her appreciatively. Clad in skin-tight denim and silver sparkles that reflect the lights and catch the eye, she is young and beautiful and oblivious to the attention she's getting.
The city street is pulsing with colour and noise, neon lights (green and purple and blue) blinking fitfully as though promising excitement beyond belief to the people walking the streets. Happy Hour 6-9pm! All-U-Can-Eat Texas BBQ Ribs! DJ Every Night!
Come in from the darkness and sit awhile, the signs scream in pulsing staccato bursts. Drink and laugh and dance and live; breathe in the youth and beauty of this city.
He falls in behind her silently, weaving through the thinning crowd with preternatural grace. He is hungry, and she is irresistible, tanned and lean and wrapped so nicely in pretty paper, a present begging to be unwrapped.
She slows and tilts her head, scanning the sidewalk opposite, and he fades into the darkness of the nearest alley, waiting for the right moment to resume the hunt.
He will take her picture when he's done with her, send it to a few choice friends who just last night were joking that he couldn't get a girl if she was lying tied up in front of him.
After this one, he muses as she picks up the pace again, I think I'll head for DC; sample some East Coast cuisine; maybe see what all the damned fuss is about. Word on the street is that Washington will be the place to be before long. 'A demon's paradise', Grac'nin'shik told him over O-Pos martinis at Willy's Sunset Tavern, just last Tuesday.
In front of him, his prey is chatting loudly on her cell in Spanish, her words punctuated by breathy giggles. Boyfriend, he thinks gleefully, and wonders about the practicality of dragging the body across town to leave broken on her lover's doorstep.
He dismisses the idea as quickly as it forms.
He continues walking casually, hands in pockets like a bored businessman out for a midnight stroll. Closing the gap. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten. His heart would speed up with the delicious anticipation, if it were beating at all.
He can't hide a grin when she turns left into what he knows is a dead-end alley. She's still yammering on, unaware of the danger.
He enters on silent feet, trying to decide the best way to arrange her for the picture; and realises a split-second too late that he can't hear her talking any more. Before he can react, he's blindsided by a well-placed right hook, and his head snaps back so fast he sees stars.
Stars and whirling silver sequins and the flash of a dangerous smile as she strikes again, her heel catching him dead centre in the chest and sending him staggering backward, more from the surprise than from the power of it.
He comes up snarling and yellow-eyed, his intentions of a quick and elegant kill forgotten. He has her by the throat almost before she can move.
"You got lucky, little girl."
She blinks, then laughs bitterly, inches from his face. "You cannot believe what you see in the movies," she says wryly, and pain flares in his chest from the stake he even never saw her reach for. "The helpless girl in the alley is not always the prey."
He crumbles, and Ziva brushes the dust from her clothes with steady hands, not bothering to look up as familiar footsteps approach.
"I'd give you an eight," Buffy says decisively, with a grin. "Four for the lure, three for the fight, and a bonus point for looking like sex on a stick in my boots." She frowns mock-seriously. "You lost two points for the overly wordy pun. Remember: short and sweet."
"Bite me," Ziva replies with a smirk, braiding her hair with skilled fingers. She's really not looking forward to the ride back to England later tonight, still not entirely sure how she feels about hurtling through space in some kind of magical... whatever it was called. "Did Caitlin and Kelly find what they were looking for?"
Buffy nods as they start walking quickly back the way they came. "Xand just reported in. Caitlin's tracked them to a warehouse downtown, registered to MDP Pty Ltd. They went belly-up in the last stock market crash, and from what we can tell, were just waiting for the accountants to finish settling debts before clearing out all together. Don't think your standard moving service deals with nest removal. Too bad for them Clauneck demons don't care about 'No Trespassing' signs, huh?"
Ziva's still not entirely sure what a Clauneck is, but Buffy doesn't seem too concerned by the possibility of facing a nest of them. "Piece of cake," she'd said before they left. "We go. We shop. We slay. Maybe ride one of those cable cars."
Ahead, an inconspicuous dark sedan idles on the side of the road, parking lights on. They climb in and Buffy continues, sliding across the seat nimbly. "We move in at 0130. Xander's meeting us at the apartment, Cait, so if you wanna head there first…"
From the driver's seat, Caitlin nods her assent, glancing quickly and tightly over at Kelly as she pulls away from the kerb. Ziva eyes her sympathetically, understanding Caitlin's concern. The petite, dark-skinned young Slayer had been resistant to the idea of more fieldwork at first, but once she heard that Buffy was going to be lead Slayer on the operation, she soon changed her mind.
Having spent the last week learning about Buffy's world and observing classes and training sessions (at Giles's suggestion, accepted out of curiosity and a lack of anything else to do), Ziva can't help but notice the way Buffy – and Faith, who she's yet to meet – are idolised by the less experienced Slayers. Kelly is no exception.
Now that they're here, though, Kelly is distinctly on edge, and despite not having experience with the finer points of the ICWS world, Ziva does know that there's nothing more dangerous than a partner you cannot trust to keep their head. Demons or no demons. She makes a mental note to have a word with Buffy about it when they get a moment alone.
Exhilarated and a little sore (vampires, it turns out, are stronger than they look), Ziva watches the city lights glitter in the distance as Buffy and Caitlin continue to chat quietly.
Sunday, 0100
San Francisco, CA
Xander watches with some amusement as Ziva rearranges the magazines on the coffee table for the fourth time in as many minutes. They're all woefully outdated, since the apartment is rarely used (not a lot of demon activity in San Fran), but the ex-Mossad officer is staring at the cover of Cosmopolitan, as though '101 Ways to Look Sexy for Him' may just be the best thing she'll ever read.
Not that she needs any tips, even after changing out of what Buffy called her 'vamp-magnet' clothes and into cargo pants and a plain, tight black singlet. When Buffy's team appeared on the grounds of the Academy after their extraction, Ziva was no more than a fragile bag of bones in Buffy's arms.
Every day he thinks he's seen the worst that men can do, but seeing her shorn and beaten and bruised beyond belief, he was once again proven wrong.
Now, thanks to a combination of magic, hearty English food and daily combat training alongside Slayers, she's like a whole different person, and there's something kind of… captivating, and mysterious… about her. He thanks whoever's listening that now he's older and more mature, he no longer turns into a gooey puddle when he meets a hot girl. Woman. Whatever.
He likes a bit of danger in his woman.
"Oh, I could so have done without that mental image," Buffy snorts in his ear.
He topples ungracefully from the chair and Ziva looks up in surprise. Damn magical comm. system, when did they turn that on, he thinks pointedly, picking himself up as Buffy laughs under her breath.
Thirty before 'go time' as always, she reminds him. I wouldn't recommend asking her if you can 'have' her, Xand; we're a little busy here and won't be back to untie you for awhile. He's suddenly relieved that Ziva's not privy to this conversation. It's nice to hear Buffy laughing again, though. It's been awhile.
The subject of their unvoiced conversation has given up on the magazines, and is wandering around the room, looking at pictures and knick-knacks and obviously tense. Most of the stuff belongs to him, since he was the last one here – four months ago he spent two months flitting between San Francisco and LA, networking with West Coast contacts and heading a long-term investigation into unsolved homicides to monitor possible supernatural activity.
He never really packed up, figuring that he'd get warning before being pulled out, but then there was that trouble in Athens and Giles promised him someone would collect his stuff eventually… stuff that Ziva is now examining in between all the restless pacing.
You had to go and piss her off by telling her she couldn't go with you, he sends to Buffy. Why is that, anyway? Thought you were impressed with her ninja skills.
There's silence for a moment, and then Buffy says quietly, I am. But Giles got a tip just after we arrived that the Clauneck clan in this region might be connected to Camp Demon. The nickname has stuck, though they're careful not to use it around Ziva or Kelly. Buffy sighs in frustration. Guess some of them escaped through the portal. If that's true, and somehow word gets back to Mossad…
Loud and clear, Buff, he thinks, eyeing the brunette, who has stopped her pacing and is staring at a group of photos on the wall. Xander wonders if she realises she has a hand-shaped bruise forming on her throat.
Danger and intrigue, and smokin' hot.
Bad Xander, he thinks to himself, deliberately shutting Buffy and the others out.
He averts his eyes, and when he looks back Ziva is watching him, her face unreadable. She moves toward him and for a terrified moment he wonders if he said it aloud.
"Who is this?" she asks curiously, holding out a familiar photo. Xander looks at the smiling faces and sighs, cursing Giles for not coming good on his packing promise.
"Well, that's Buffy," he stalls, but Ziva doesn't look impressed, and he's guessing she's not the kind of person who can be easily thrown off a scent so he really has no choice but to continue, "And Willow, she was one of the original Scooby Gang, and, uh…. That's Dawn."
"What is a… Scrooby gang?"
"Scooby. Four kids and a talking dog? Mystery Inc. Scooby Snacks. Bad guys in monster suits? 'Those meddling kids!'" No reaction. "You never watched Scooby-Doo as a kid?" She can't be that much older than him; maybe three, four years?
"No," she says shortly, her gaze turning distant. "My father kept the television in his study, and we were not allowed to enter."
He's curious now. "No TV? What did you do for fun?"
"Oh, the usual," she says offhandedly, "Read. Study. Play ratsach in the streets around our house and try not to get eliminated by the other children. Sometimes Aba would take us to the firing range and let us practice with whatever weapons he had at the time." She pauses, seeing his horrified look. "But not until I was at least nine."
Xander's pretty sure the only gun he'd ever seen at nine was of the cap variety, and even then Willow's mother took it away from them before they could test it out. He's not sure he wants to ask what 'rat-sack' means.
Ziva's parents might have just officially knocked Ma and Pa Harris from #1 on the 'Highly Questionable Parenting Techniques' list.
Ziva studies him and without her saying a word, he knows she hasn't been thrown off the original trail and is still waiting for his explanation.
Even after a more than a year, it still hurts, the might-have-beens. There's so much about them – the Scoobies – that's broken, and all because of one desperate experiment, a foolish decision with disastrous consequences. Though if he's honest with himself, things hadn't been right since they brought Buffy back, maybe even before that.
He can still feel Ziva's eyes on him, and he wonders if she's ever thought about a career in law enforcement (he's not sure that Mossad qualify exactly, especially given what Giles suspects about her previous job specifications) because the minute he meets her gaze he kinda wants to waive his Miranda rights and spill his guts.
Except, Buffy will kill him when she finds out he's been talking about the thing they never talk about, and Ziva probably won't – unless she wants to be cast out onto the street. They've managed to come to a kind of truce, he and Buffy, and while they're not back to the way they were, they're on better terms than any of the other Sunnydale originals, except maybe Faith. He doesn't want to screw with that.
"It doesn't matter," she says suddenly, turning away dismissively, "I will just ask Buffy when she gets back."
"No you won't."
She stops in her tracks at the steel in his voice and turns slowly. "Excuse me?"
"Ziva," Xander says more gently, motioning to the couch with a sigh. "Sit down. You're making me dizzy, with all the pacing." She does, though she looks slightly surprised at herself for doing so. He fumbles for a minute, trying to distract her while he finds the right words.
"Okay, I know you're not from here and all, but being a pretty kickass fighter yourself, you might've heard of 'Fight Club'? It's a – "
"Movie, starring Edward Norton and Brad Pitt. I know of it, yes," she says almost automatically, something odd twisting her voice. Her eyes suddenly spark with recognition, and Xander knows she's made the connection. It doesn't make it any easier to say it.
"Dawn is… we don't; well… Buffy doesn't talk about..."
"Fight Club." Ziva supplies, her expression thoughtful. "Very well. I will not ask Buffy."
He's not sure what makes him do it, whether it's her easy acceptance of his non-answer – as if she sees the pain there and knows not to push too hard – or the nagging sense that he knows her, he's met her before, somewhere. It might just be his good friend stupidity, back for Round #356.
"Dawn was Buffy's sister," he says quietly, looking her in the eye.
Ziva stiffens at his choice of words, but doesn't interrupt as he tells the story of desperate monks and a Key and a not-really-sister who grew into a beautiful young woman before their eyes. Who, after her eighteenth birthday woke up each morning a fraction slower, a little paler, a little less herself. She'd hidden it well, but it didn't change the fact that they should have seen it.
They were all so busy with their own lives – bouncing all over the world, caught up in recruiting Slayers and Watches and Witches and building up their little empire, that almost two months passed before they realised something wasn't right.
"Giles thought that the Key part of Dawn was only meant to last for so long, and that if we could separate the two, Dawn would get better. Willow was supposed to wait until Giles had heard back from a friend in Amsterdam who was checking the specifics of the spell, to make sure it was all safe…"
He'd found her in Dawn's room, setting up. "Did Giles give you the green light?" he'd asked stupidly, not understanding why Buffy wasn't there. He'd just seen the blonde Slayer, and she hadn't said anything about doing the spell, just that she'd be up soon to sit with Dawn for awhile.
Willow avoided his eyes and his stomach sank. "Don't do it," he said shortly, raising her chin so she had no choice but to look at him. "Not until Professor VanHeusen says it's all good. You don't know what will happen."
Her eyes lit up then. "Oh, but you forgot the part where I do!" she'd said, breaking from his grasp and practically bouncing. "See, I tried the spell on one of the dummies in the gym. I used Marvin, cause he's about Dawn's size." The Devon coven had created practice dummies for the training Slayers that moved almost like real people, and could be altered with a simple spell to grow, shrink, grow extra arms or teeth.
'Made to order demon-bots', Xander had joked when they arrived. He didn't know how they worked exactly, but while they moved and fought and maybe even thought (or at least responded to blows and movements), they weren't….
Willow was still babbling, something she'd never quite outgrown – though it was usually less frequent now. "So, I put the fake 'Key' in – which was way fun – and made him as close to human as I could. Then I followed the spell exactly, and whizz! Out came the Key," she held out her hand to show him a little sphere of light, "and with no ill-effects to Marvin at all!"
"Except for the fact that he's a magically animated, inanimate object, and Dawn is a human," Xander said pointedly, willing her to get the difference. "One of these things is not like the other one." Quoting nursery songs. Genius, thy name is not Xander Lavelle Harris.
Willow sighed, but nodded her head. "'Kay," she muttered, like a child who's been ordered to bed. "I'll wait." Dawn shifted in her bed, the first movement in hours, and Xander watched as Willow rushed over to her, brushing the hair from her face. "We're running out of time, Xander. VanHeusen better get his supreme warlock butt into high gear."
"Promise me, Willow."
And she'd promised; crossed her heart and hoped to die, and stupidly, blindly, he'd believed her, back when they were still a little giddy with the knowledge that they had changed the world and were now helping to really make that change mean something.
"The next time I saw Dawn," he says heavily, unable to meet Ziva's stormy gaze, "she wasn't Dawn any more. She was… Giles had to…" He breathes deeply, and a tear slips down Ziva's cheek. She doesn't move, and he wonders if she even felt it.
"Buffy couldn't do it, couldn't kill her. Willow did the spell as soon as I left the room, and she got the Key out, but maybe Dawn wasn't meant to be anything but the Key, because what was left…" He can't say it.
"I am sorry." Ziva says softly, and he looks up in surprise. She's struggling with the words, and she mouths a few words that are distinctly not English before continuing, as if her internal translator is on the fritz. "I would not have pushed if I… I did not realise that…"
"Don't sweat it." he says with a lightness he really doesn't feel. "If you plan to stick around for awhile, it's probably something you needed to hear." Better him than Buffy.
They sit in heavy choking silence as Xander swallows hard and Ziva swipes angrily at her face. He tries to think of a joke, but he can't remember any of the punchlines. What good is telling a story if you don't know how it ends, he thinks, and wonders when he got so jaded.
Xander looks at his watch and is surprised to see that it's almost 0200.
Buff, he thinks quickly, cursing himself for getting carried away. You girls almost done with the carnage? Got a magic minibus to catch, y'know. Too peppy, he groans to himself, praying she won't notice.
Buffy's voice crackles into life inside his head. Peachy with a side of… well, slime. Giles left out the 'ick' factor of these guys. Remind me to thank him for that when we get back. Hard. But he can tell she's smiling, possibly a result of adrenaline from the fight, so he doesn't comment. See you in ten. It would be five, but we're making a pit stop at Burger King. You want?
He relays the question to Ziva, who shakes her head mutely. All good on this end.
Ziva's gone back to rearranging the magazines, and he thinks bitterly that his last words to Buffy couldn't be any further from the truth. He looks away into the dim kitchen, and wonders if he should start packing up the stuff he actually wants.
"Got any siblings, Ziva?"
She hesitates, her hand going to her neck and dropping quickly back into her lap when she finds only bare skin. "I once had a brother and a sister." She rubs her hands together as if she's cold, and the words trickle out slowly as though she's forcing them through a swollen throat.
"Tali was killed by a suicide bomber when she was 16. Ari was… Ari is also dead."
Her voice breaks on their names, and it hits him like ice water on hot summer skin. He couldn't figure out why she was so familiar before, when she first turned up at the apartment, laughing and joking with Buffy and the others about her first field kill. It's the first time they've met that she's been conscious. Now he's starting to get it, watching the air of almost-hidden sadness descend over her slight form like a blanket. The names of those she's loved and lost crack in the middle as they fall from her tongue (he senses there's more to that story, but they're both exhausted enough for one night), just like Buffy's voice the few times she's spoken of Dawn.
The front door slams and voices trickle like sunshine into the room. He's familiar with the post-Slayage high, though he usually only has one Slayer to deal with at a time. It never fails to make him smile at the irony of it, the enthusiasm and rush the younger girls get from doing something that would horrify your Average Joe. Even the GI kind.
"Zee, I know you said you didn't want anything, but you're still way too skinny, so we got you a burger. And you're gonna eat it, or I'll put slime in your bed. We got some to take back for Giles." Caitlin says brightly, throwing it to her deftly.
For a minute Ziva looks like she's on the verge of refusing, but she just shrugs and peels off the wrapper as the younger Slayers resume their chattering.
Buffy sinks onto the couch next to Ziva. "I'm beat. Maybe we can come back some other time and ride the cable car?" She brushes ropy blue gunk from her shoulder with a shudder, and Ziva touches it curiously, backing off quickly when Buffy grins and waves her slimy hand near the other woman's hair.
He tunes out Ziva's response, casting his eye around the apartment and realising he already has the one thing he might take with him.
He tucks the photo into his pocket and watches them laugh and tease each other, and hopes that Ziva – all stormy eyes and wild hair and distinct air of danger – can do for Buffy what they (even the other Slayers) cannot: let her know that she's not quite so alone in the world.
'Ratsach' is a Hebrew word, that loosely translated (as far as I can tell from Google) means 'murderer', or 'assassin'. It makes me smile and cringe simultaneously to think of a hoarde of mini-Mossad kids running around the streets pretending to shoot each other. As always, thanks for reading!
