My feet slump through the mud as I move up to the wall.
The apartment building is small. Barely 20 levels. I don't need to get further
up than the first. One level up and miles away as it turns out. The door's
locked. I could so easily break it, but why bother? This place is dangerous
enough as it is, without ruining one of the few lines of defense these people
got.
I fade in the shadows and listen for anyone approaching before I float up. I can feel my hair rushing around my face till I freeze in front of a broken window. It's on the third floor. It's half open. I try and move it further but it's stuck.
It takes a bit of effort but I still manage to crawl through. The place is empty, abandoned. No surprise, the wood of the window is cracked. There are big splinters of glass missing as well. Someone broke in before me and from the marks on the floor, at that time, there was someone living here. The scent of death still hangs in the air here. The blood is old, stale, but I can still smell its presence.
I close my eyes and get out. Out, before I get any more crazy ideas. The door
doesn't even lock, it's been forced open from the inside. Insanity.
Not even the darkness stops me, for me the stairs are as clear as day. As far as
I can remember a day to be at least.
I haven't seen the sun in so long. I hit the wall and break a hole through
it.
Stupid stupid.
I could hit myself.
The Slayer's been here, a lot. She must have been patrolling this place for quite a while. The scent is old, clinging in the walls, in the entire atmosphere of the building. I'm shocked to find how long that despair has already been in it.
There's a dark spot on the door where the number is supposed to be. The metal
plaque is missing. I can just barely spot a one and a three.
She's inside, I can smell her and someone else with her.
Someone old, familiar.
An old woman opens the door. She's gray, with a frail thin body and carefully made up hair. Red strands fight for a last place in between the silver. The eyes hidden behind thick glasses pierce through me. Then that wrinkled hand filled with liver spots goes up to her forehead and lifts the glasses for a second.
For a moment I look at her eyes. Green, clear. I know those eyes. I know her. It's on the tip of my tongue. I know her name but how?
"Xander?" The voice is cracked, hesitant. She coughs for a moment. It doesn't fit with those eyes. I'm ready to flee in an instant, knowing that this woman knows me. And she's standing there, staring at me as if in doubt whether to just keep staring at me from behind the seeming safety of the door or to slam it in my face.
"Hello Willow."
Hell that sounded odd, even to me. 'Hello Willow.' Such a strange normal phrase.
And quite out of place here.
She can't keep her eyes of mine. Her feet seem frozen to the spot. She reaches
out to me, her fingers just inches away from where the barrier for a demonbreed
would be.
"Xander?"
It sounds as if she can't even believe that I'm really standing here. She's not
alone in that, I can hardly believe it myself.
We stare at one another. Our eyes never break contact.
Then she's there, the Slayer. In between us and pushing Willow away.
"You're invited." she tells me.
I shake of my confusion and step in.
Good, no need to tell them that my kind doesn't need an invitation. I
could enter her home at any time I choose and drink her blood. If I'd be careful
I could have them both dead before either even noticed something had happened.
I'm still staring at Willow. The way she looks at me, scared, fighting not to be happy to see me.
"I'm sorry Miss Rosenberg. I know I should have told you. But ..."
The Slayer seems to have been less than forward about me. Can't really blame
her.
"This is Xander. He's been helping me out on patrol lately.
He's safe. Really he is."
The kid puts more fate in me than I do.
Willow seems to be coming out of her shock. I can hear the words whispered
between her lips.
"Vampire."
I move in and start checking out the place.
There's one picture on an otherwise empty table. The wallpaper is slightly gray
but otherwise still doable. I stare at the picture again. Me, Willow and Buffy.
I have one just like it in my lair. Lair... what a word. Nevertheless, it seems
more apt now than ever.
"Xander?"
I notice an old lumpy couch in the back of the apartment, near to the window
and sit down on it. I put my left arm on the support and lean back, never taking
my eyes of Willow.
I don't want to explain. She doesn't need to know anyway.
Neither of them do. The truth is dangerous. It can only get them killed.
Let her make her own conclusions. Good or bad.
She's trembling.
Is she that afraid of me? "I'm not out to hurt you Will. You'd be dead or
turned if I were." She's standing there staring at me. I can feel it. That
cold hesitation.
When she finally nods it's as if a certain string of mood is broken in the air.
I release a breath I hadn't even known I was holding. Not needing to breathe
can do that to you.
She comes closer. The trembling has lessened. It's different though. She's still
somewhat shaky, but the scent of fear is lessened somewhat.
"How? You're still ..."
"Young and beautiful." It's a joke. A lame one, but a joke. I
haven't been cracking jokes in a long time. It's strange to fall into old
familiar patterns with her.
It's strange to see her smile on that tattered face.
Still my Will. Still alive.
"You know eachother?"
Clarice seems almost shocked at the notion. So much like we were when we were
young. Unable to believe that old people might actually have a life beyond
theirs. I turn back to Willow and take her hand in my own. My nails are slightly
sharper than they used to be, but I'm slow and gentle.
"Most of the others died." she says.
Did I say that out loud or was she just reading my thoughts again.
"It's been just me, Angel and Spike lately. "
Then she looks up, "And you.".
And me.
"Three vampires and me." she coughs as she says the word.
I watch her as she takes a handkerchief out of her bag. I get up, ready to help
her if needed. She just takes a step back, still not trusting me.
"But you're dead too, aren't you?"
"Sorta."
Her eyes pierce through me, breaking me apart. She takes another step back, pulling herself straight.
"You're not Xander. You're just a monster with his face. Just his
body..."
I know she's forcing herself to say those words, yet they hurt more than she can
possibly imagine.
You can't go home again.
No way, no how.
And I turn to her, hoping she'll take me back in. Let me come home again to all
that ever mattered to me. But she won't and I can't ask. I'm no longer who I was
then.
Xander Harris died. Long live Xander.
She touches a jewel around her neck. This is the first time I see what it is.
A crucifix. My Jewish Willow, the Wicca. And she's wearing a cross.
It's so unlike her that I don't even feel the burn as she points it at me before
she takes a step closer.
I step back.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come."
"Damn sure you shouldn't have."
She sounds angry, but I can feel the hurt in her voice, unsure who she's angry
at. Herself, the world, me ... Probably all at once.
I leave the house and I can hear the silent tears drop from her eyes even as I land in the alley. She's shaking and I can smell her scent mingle with the girls.
I shouldn't have come here.