Summary: Xander dies. Xander lives. Xander cops a lot of flak.
Crossover: AD&D Forgotten Realms
Disclaimer: I own all! *sounds of painful torture and lawyers barking* itaiiiiii.... I own nothing!
Feedback: Coin o' the Realm!
* * *
Xander looked around. Though half-blind from the streetlights, he could make out shapes. He squatted next to a cooling body, reaching out an obsidian black hand to it before stopping.
His face.
His old face.
His face before Spike killed him. Still clad in the military fatigues, assault rifle thrown roughly to the ground beside him. When he looked at what he used to be... a hint of wetness threatened to show itself at his eyes.
Alak snorted. He was used to this, he told himself. With a quick movement, he pulled the wrap off his snow white hair.
"Hey! Get away from him," he heard. The voice had a tinge to it, in a strange language.
Xander looked blankly at the tall figure dressed in the black twopiece suit. After forty years, he could barely remember speaking English.
"*What? Go away, commoner!,*" he spat out of pure habit, emotionless mask falling into place.
After forty years, he had been forced to adopt mannerisms of a typical Illythiiri. These did not go away simply because he returned to another life.
The man in the suit put on his game face and attacked the demon crouched over Harris' body. He didn't know what the demon was up to, but he wouldn't harm any more humans!
"*Lloth take you!,*" Xander howled at the figure, only now remembering who it was. Angel.
Xander ran, looking for shelter before day came. The streetlights were bad enough; he shuddered to think of what the sun would be like to his delicate eyes!
* * *
"... and so he yelled something at me, then ran off," Angel finished explaining to the scoobies.
"So I find him then Slay him?," Buffy asked. "What did he look like?"
"Slender, obsidian black all over except for snow white hair, red eyes, tapering ears. Black clothes, two swords, knives all over," the Irish vampire summarised.
Giles took his glasses off to clean while he thought that description over.
"Ah! Willow, get me Hawk's Compendium?," he commanded.
"Why? That doesn't have any demons in it," Willow said as she got the old book.
Giles opened it to the index, flicking through it briefly before settling on a page.
"Descended from the Illythiiri elven subrace, the drow were cursed into their present apppearance for following the goddess Lloth down the path to evil and corruption," Giles read out loud.
"Demon. I kill?," Buffy asked.
Giles' head snapped up. "Buffy, demons take lessons from these creatures in torture and fighting. I sincerely doubt you are capable of damaging it."
"Well, we could banish it or something," Willow suggested. "I've been reading about that kind of thing."
"Angel, keep an eye out for this creature," Giles said. "Lord knows we're busy enough with Spike and Drusilla; why did we have to lose Xander and get another enemy?!"
* * *
After checking the dweomer of lasting was still working on his weapons, and performing maintenance on them, Xander slept in the abandoned basement. It had numerous chinks of light entering it, so he was forced to sleep in a long storage container along one wall. The situation was analogous to sleeping in a rock concert with or without ear muffs.
The irony of sleeping in a coffin-like container was not lost on the reincarnated Xander.
Once he woke, it was night again. Xander sat to think about the situation.
Angel had seen him with his dead body, and had immediately gotten the wrong end of the stick. Living past two hundred obviously did less for humans than it did for drow. Xander had forgotten english and so, had not been able to explain.
Meeting the scoobies would have to wait until he had remembered enough english to explain what had happened.
There was something he could do while he tried to remember how to speak Good England, though. Hunt down that bastard Spike. Thinking of what to say to that undead asshole was surprisingly good for his english skills.
He couldn't torture him without being able to speak to him, after all.
* * *
Spike sat in his warehouse, thoroughly bored. He was waiting for the appointed time to go to that nightclub had arrived.
"Miss Edith wants to go /now/," Drusilla whined.
"Look, baby, we have to wait," Spike snapped.
"I'm so /glad/ for you," a perfect voice said.
"Who's there?," Spike asked. "We're not running a bleedin' boarding 'ouse here. First that Ford louse, now you."
A black figure dropped to the ground, red eyes burning. "Oh, I'm not looking to stay."
"Who're you? Miss Edith says you're all fun and games," Drusilla said dreamily, swaying towards the figure.
The figure pulled the black wrap covering his head. Snow white hair cascaded down to his mid back. Spike sucked in a breath.
"Dru love, get away from 'im! He's drow!," he yelled, not daring to move himself.
"You still don't recognise me?," the figure asked. "You should. You killed me after all."
Spike thought a moment. He'd killed lots of people, and said so.
"Just last night..."
"Harris?!," the bleached vampire yelled. "Look, if there's anything I can do--"
Xander smiled. "Why, thank you Spike. I'll look after Drusilla for you, then."
"No! Give her-- aaaaaaargh!"
Spike found it rather hard to argue with a faceful of holy water.
* * *
"Are we going to play now, kitten?," Drusilla asked. "The stars and Miss Edith all say we'll have tea and cupcakes..."
Xander smiled. "Worse. I'm going to leave you to yourself."
He left the basement, closing the door behind him. Drusilla whimpered, unable in her weakened state to get free.
"Kitten? Dru's been a naughty girl, she'll be good again... Daddy?"
* * *
Post-Fic Comments:
If Xander seems OOC to you, bear in mind it's been forty years for him. In Menzoberranzan.