07:43, WEDNESDAY AUGUST 25, LIMA (12:43/25-08-99 ZULU)
SUMMERS RESIDENCE
"Hallooo! Anybody home?"
Looking up from her place on the couch, Joyce Summers dropped the handful of forms she'd been struggling with - she'd said it time and again, bureaucracy would be the death of her and her business, and this insurance stuff was proof - turned down the radio, and headed for the front door. That voice sounded familiar.... "Professor McKellar?"
"You expected Indira Gandhi?" the impeccably-dressed older woman drawled, hefting a full McDonald's drinks tray in her left hand; her right held two large bags in the golden-arches livery and the cane she was leaning on. "With Rupert out of action, his tasks would seem to fall to me by default. That being so, Buffy and I have a great deal of research to do, and with both the library and Rupert's flat unavailable to us, I thought it might be best if the mountain came to Mohammed, as it were. I've brought my own breakfast, to ease the imposition."
"No, no, it's okay -" Remembering herself, Joyce snapped her mouth shut on the words 'come in'.
Cerian arched one eyebrow, waved her hand through the plane of the doorway - no invitation barrier - and smiled understandingly.
Could this lifestyle be any more absurd? Joyce thought, with a soft laugh. "You can use the dining room. I'll find Buffy for you."
"Thank you." Wincing a little and leaning on the cane heavily, the Welshwoman limped into the spacious dining room, set her burdens on the table, then eased herself down in a chair. "Damn, that's annoying...." she gasped, straightening her leg a little.
A few moments later, Buffy came down the stairs, a little bleary-eyed, a lot disheveled, and wearing a distinctly puzzled frown. "Shouldn't you still be in hospital?"
"I signed myself out, AMA. Against Medical Advice," she clarified, when the Slayer's frown deepened momentarily. "And in our line of work, you tend to pick up bits and pieces. In my case, I learned a few spells that have come in handy now and again - including one that accelerates the healing process markedly. In a week or so, I'll be as good as new."
"Neat trick," Buffy chirped.
"Quite. The first chance we get, I'll extend Rupert the same attention... though the medical community's reaction should be worth the price of admission," she added blandly.
Buffy snorted a laugh. "Mom said you were Research-o-Gal today. Where's the books?"
"I haven't unpacked many of them yet - those I do have are in the car."
"Y'mean these?" Xander waved 'hi' to Buffy as he walked past her and set a five-high stack of thick books on the table at Cerian's elbow before plundering one of the McDonald's bags. Today, he was in olive-drab slacks and a (long-sleeved? Why?) khaki shirt over a white T-shirt; at a distance, it would've been easy to take him for a Marine in garrison uniform. "You left the doors open."
"How did you know I was here?"
"Didn't," he said around a mouthful of sausage-and-egg McMuffin. "Saw that rental Taurus of yours as I pulled up. I actually came to check on Wills, see what the sitch was. She still asleep, Buff?"
"Last I saw," the Slayer yawned. "Didn't they feed you at the hotel?"
"Yeah, but I have an active lifestyle," he grinned, reaching into the bag again for a fistful of fries.
"Huh!" Yawning again, Buffy swiped the rest of his McMuffin from his hand. "Save some for the people who actually do the work around here," she smirked.
He shot her an oddly sharp look, but said nothing as he demolished the fries.
"What's wrong with Willow?" Cerian frowned.
"Broken heart," Xander said succinctly(!), unloading the bags completely. "We found out when we visited Oz yesterday; he's binned it - called it quits with the whole Slayage deal. Can't say I really blame him for that."
"What?" Buffy blinked. "You've changed your story!"
"No, I've just calmed down a little," he countered, opening a cup of hot chocolate. "I still don't like the way he did it, Buff, but - the guy's only nineteen. Suddenly, one day, he realises out he's been living in a war-zone all his life. He's got no training, no preparation - plus the whole werewolf issue. Look at it this way, Buff: courage is a bank account. You never know how high your starting balance is. Good conditions, training, experience, success, belief in what you're doing, the support of outside parties, they're all deposits. Bad conditions, constant anxiety and uncertainty, not being able to trust part of yourself, fighting a 'pointless' war, your nominal supporters either ignoring you or outright undercutting you - they're all drains on your balance. Sooner or later, if your deposits don't cover your withdrawals, you run out of credit and you just can't hack it any more. Oz exceeded his limit at the First National of Guts," he shrugged. "It could've happened to any one of us, including you or me; hell, Buff, you did run out of credit last year, as I recall. Sitting down, thinking about things, and making a considered decision to quit or stay, facing up to the fact that you either can't cut it any more or need to dig deeper, actually takes a fair bit of character. What murders my appreciation of that character he showed is the absolutely fucking piss-poor way he chose to do things. Pardon my French." Finished, he drained his chocolate in one long draught and absently crushed the cup.
Both Cerian and Buffy blinked and stared at him; so did a very wan-looking Willow, who'd appeared in the doorway behind him as he began to speak. Cerian spoke first. "You've read Lord Moran's Anatomy of Courage?" she asked, recognising his analogy.
"I got to gossiping with a couple of guys who did while I was away. It seemed relevant," he shrugged.
"Who'd thunk you were an intellectual in disguise?" Buffy smiled.
"I just fake it well," he half-laughed. Hearing something, he looked about and saw Willow, and his mood instantly shifted. "Hey, Will. How're you doing?" he asked tenderly, taking in the way that she was still wearing yesterday's outfit, and not all that well at that.
"Maybe a tiny bit less horrible," she managed, with a weak smile. "Can't resist the food, huh?"
"Hotel food is passable, Wills, but this is McDonalds!" he grinned, taking a chunk out of a hash-brown. The redhead managed a weak smile.
"Well, it would seem that everyone who's coming is here," Cerian drawled. "With that in mind, shall we begin?"
"Begin?" Willow blinked.
"She's throwing a research party," Buffy smiled. "You in?"
"Sure," the redhead nodded. "I - wait." She raised a hand; everyone went quiet and listened. Joyce had turned the radio back up when she went back to her paperwork, and the eight-o'clock local news update was on.
{"- dead officer, Sergeant Jack Fenton, a decorated veteran with fifteen years of service in the S.P.D., apparently interrupted the killer and was shot down moments later. Police sources say that despite his surprise Fenton managed to draw his sidearm and return fire, possibly wounding his assailant. Both Fenton's body and that of the as-yet-unnamed nine-year-old girl have been removed for analysis, and scene examinations continue. Spokesmen refuse to comment on speculation that a serial killer is on the loose in Sunnydale -"}
Xander swallowed his mouthful, looked at the remainder of his hash-brown as if not recognising it, and dropped it on the table-top like it was suddenly rotten. "And this won't complicate our lives...."
Buffy cocked her head. "Whaddya mean? We're already after this guy -"
"And now the police will be, too, Buff." He rubbed his face with both hands, looking oddly tired. "Whoever this blood-mage is, Buff, they just killed a cop. The S.P.D. never acquired the habit of competence 'cause Mayor Snakely didn't want 'em in the way, but now, they're gonna be pissed enough to actually look around, assess the situation realistically, and start doing their job, Hellmouth or no Hellmouth. Hell, I'd be surprised if they didn't call in some guys from Fort Quick to help train their guys, maybe even set up a hush-hush task-force. Which means that when we kill this guy, we're gonna have to duck skilled, motivated cops before, during and after."
"Who said we're gonna kill 'em?" the Slayer asked.
"I don't see any other option. Just finding 'em is gonna be a job of work, and catching 'em alive will probably be about as easy as taking Gwenny Post would've been."
"Quite," Cerian clipped, setting her orange juice aside. "Though the reward money would be quite nice...."
"What reward?" Buffy frowned. She can't mean those ones we saw in Umbra....
Cerian blinked in surprise. "You didn't - no, you wouldn't know, would you? There's a subsidiary division of the Templar Trading Group that supports anthrolopogical and archaelogical research projects. One of them deals in magical research and some of its more... exotic flavours. They pay a quarter of a million pounds - not American dollars, but pounds Sterling - if you hand them the living person of a blood-mage for examination. To further their knowledge of the nature of the beast, as it were. I've handed them three in the last eight years... and believe me, that money is well-earned. I had quite the time catching each one of them."
"A quarter of a million... pounds Sterling?" Xander let out a wolf-whistle. "That's real money to this kid!"
"How else do you think I could afford my wardrobe?" the relic-hunter smiled.
And I'm only worth the same amount in US dollars, Buffy thought sourly. Ego, meet the bitch-slap from hell! "Just a minute. You sell these people off to this corporation as what, lab-rats? Guinea-pigs?"
"I prefer to think of it as helping to gather intelligence about these people and their... proclivities," Cerian said levelly. "And before you start shedding tears for their fate, you should consider that each one of these people was responsible for a string of murders, and that at least one of them did so as preparation for a ritual that would have made your recent little tête-a-tête with Mayor Wilkins look like a day at Disneyland. During their captivity, these people are housed, clothed, fed and treated as humanely as any prisoner in the United States, and their abilities are probed with the minimum possible amount of discomfort."
"And what happens when the tests are over?" the Slayer persisted. "Do they go free? Or to jail?"
Cerian snorted. "Imprisoning a blood-mage is hardly practical, and freeing them is no option either."
"So they're just...?"
A thin, jaded smile crossed the woman's face. "I have no definitive information about their final dispositions, Buffy; TTG have never told me, and I have never asked. I can make educated guesses, but that's all. You might want to leave the matter lie."
"Buff, these guys routinely murder people to power their magic. If someone gives 'em a bullet behind the ear, it sounds like good riddance to me, y'know?" Xander suggested.
"That's murder, Xander."
"It's capital punishment," he said coolly, "just like you hand out to vampires every night."
"Those are demons, Xander, not humans!"
He gave her a look of strangely pitying bafflement. "You say that like there's a difference, Buff." Before she could respond to that, he looked back to Cerian. "But still, how much help did you have on those captures? A full-blown magician or two of your own? Some hired gun-bunnies?"
"Yes to both, actually," Cerian frowned. "How did you know?"
"Like the fighter-pukes say: you tell me the threat, and I'll tell you the tactics," he smiled. "Basic educated guesswork, really. You'd need someone to counter the bad guy's spells and banish any spirits he might summon, hence the magicians. People like that are also usually a little paranoid, so you'd need someone to deal with their hired shooters and any security systems they had."
Cerian inclined her head. "Bravo!" she said, not a little impressed.
"Thank you, thank you - and WELL-come to the Muppet Show!" he cried, throwing his arms out like Kermit the Frog greeting his audience; even Willow raised a giggle, faint as it may have been. Reining in his theatrical tendencies, he grinned for a moment, then took a seat at the table and leaned forward on his elbows intently. "My Krusty the Klown act aside, if we're gonna go mage-hunting we're kind'a short-handed and undergunned for a capture, considering what's in this room is it for the time being: a Slayer, you, me, and Willow, who's only just starting out, Wicca-wise. Being so, you might want to tell us more about this whole 'blood magic' thing. I'm still a little fuzzy."
"This is news?" Buffy drawled.
"Knowing this stuff could save your neck, Slay-chick, so you might wanna switch-on yourself," he pointed out sidelong.
Buffy shot him a mock-glare, but sat down and went into 'this-is-me-listening' mode. Willow took a seat herself.
"Where should I start?" the Welshwoman asked.
Xander shrugged, casually leaning back against his chair and half-slinging one arm over it. "You mentioned yesterday how vampires were blood-demons bound to a human body. Can they be summoned without a host body?"
"Yes, but the amount of energy required still means that the only way to do so is by killing the donor; the stronger the donor, the stronger the spirit. In a pinch, any animal that bleeds will do - some use rats - though such spirits are usually very weak. The 'best' - meaning the most powerful - blood spirits are summoned from the corpse of a sentient, especially a magician or a magic-using creature."
"Or a Slayer?" Buffy asked on impulse.
"A curse on that thought!" Cerian spat quickly, appalled.
"That bad?"
"Worse!" the relic-hunter nodded, visibly shaken at the idea. "You've fought vampires, Buffy, but you can kill them easily enough because of the nature of their bond with their host body. A raw blood spirit summoned through a ritual sacrifice has no body: it is a creature of pure magic, pure will... and pure malevolence. A typical blood spirit summoned from a human victim is as strong and fast as a Slayer. It is only as solid as it wishes to be, and that renders most conventional weapons useless against them. The only way to defeat them is to banish them back to their home plane with magic, or to disrupt them in hand-to-hand combat."
"How does that work?" Buffy wondered.
"They are creatures of magic, which is essentially the wielder's will - their will - imposed on the universe. By striking them with your bare hands, or with a stake, a sword, or whatever, you impose your will on them; if yours is the stronger personality, if the intent behind your blows is pure, you disrupt the enchantment that holds them in this plane... at least, for a time."
"How long?" Willow posed.
"At most, a moon; often it's less, depending on how strong the spirit in question is."
"Any suggestions about fighting them?" Buffy asked.
"One word: don't," Cerian smiled mirthlessly. "The last Slayer to try it... well, the Council spent a year picking up her remains, and they still didn't find all of the pieces. But if you must try it, use a weapon of cold iron, or a consecrated blade. Magic acts like magnetism in many ways, and we all know how cold iron distorts magnetic fields; a bar of unforged iron driven into the gut of a blood spirit acts on its magic like salt on ice. Consecrated blades are in themselves magical after a fashion, so they serve in much the same way. Either might truly destroy such a beast, but inflicting a truly mortal wound is very difficult: lacking solid form, they have no vital spots, no joints or bones to break, no organs to pierce."
"Do other weapons work?" This came from Xander.
"Only as symbols of your manifest intention to destroy the spirit, as, well... extensions of your will. Bullets and other missiles are completely ineffective; they have no connection with you. You might as well try to shoot a wind."
"Guns and crossbows equal nothing against these things. Check," Buffy nodded somberly. This is not of the good. "The kids this guy's killed. He's building an army of these thingies as flunkies?"
Cerian shook her head. "I shouldn't think so; these murders are too public for that. Besides, children are too small for really strong spirits; their only real advantage is that they're easier to snatch and control than an adult - they can't put up effective resistance. No, whatever's brewing is something special," she declared, with heavy irony. "Absent knowledge of this mage's actual intentions, all we can do is speculate based on the evidence and past cases. Hence my calling this - 'research party'?" she finished, with a whimsical smile.
"Uh-huh. Well, Buff, it looks like you and I are doing the book thing again," Xander half-smiled. "Wills, you up to taking another run through the coroner's files?"
"No, but it's got to be done," she said bravely. "The kid from last night?"
"Yeah. Make sure it's the same MO - we've got enough trouble as it is; let's not borrow more by jumping to mistaken conclusions. And check on Fenton's post-mortem results, too, maybe we can get some clue about how much gun we need to bring to the OK Corral. Cerian -"
The relic-hunter hefted an Iridium satellite-phone. "Travelling introduces you to all sorts of people, in all sorts of places and professions. I'm going to run the events of the last couple of days past my contacts; maybe someone's heard something that would explain this particular outbreak of insanity."
"So why are you still talking to us?" he asked blankly, getting to his feet. "Buff, you and Will want to start sorting through that lot while I bring the laptop down?"
"Yeah, I guess," the Slayer nodded, a little taken aback by Xander's assumption of authority. "It's on the bedside-table in the guest room."
Cerian watched him go, her hands flicking through a thick pocket-planner all the while. After a moment, she mused, "Well, he's certainly not what I was led to expect...."
"What did you expect?" Willow wondered.
"I'm not entirely sure. But whatever it was... he's not it," the ex-Watcher smiled wryly.
You said it, lady! Buffy thought, leaving her chair. "I'll... be back in a second."
She caught up with Xander just as he started back down the stairs with the laptop and eyephones under one arm. "Okay: spill."
"About... what, exactly?" he wondered.
"Xander, I love you to bits, but since when are you the poster-child for International Organise and Take Charge Day?"
He laughed, shaking his head at some private joke. You just came far closer than you realise.... "That's not exactly a question with a twenty-five-words-or-less answer, Buff."
Huh? "Well?"
"Hey: look around. Giles is out of action. Angel's gone. Oz quit. Cordy's auditioning for soap operas. Wesley - who knows? We are it. Somebody had to stand up and get things sorted, and nobody else was doing it," he shrugged.
"When you left you had a hard time matching your socks!" she protested. "What happened to you while you were gone?"
He smiled, fondly, a little cynically - but there was no give in his eyes. "A wise man once said, Buff: 'if you don't want the answer - don't ask the question'."
"Xander -!" she began hotly.
He had one hand over her mouth before she knew he'd moved. "Keep it down, dammit!" he hissed, in that increasingly-familiar command tone.
When he lowered his hand again, she gave him a piercing look. "What... is going... on?"
"I can't discuss that, Buff. Not here, and not now; too many neighbours on this party line. I'll give you the answers you want when I can - but not before. Okay?" Obviously considering the matter finished, he started down the stairs past her.
She seized his arm. "That's not good enough!"
He looked down at her hand, then back up at her face, and Slayer or not, Buffy was a little frightened by the steel in his eyes. "That's as good as it gets, Buff. Now, are you particularly attached to that hand?" he smiled, with an almost playful idleness that hid his intent (and intransigence) not a whit.
Buffy let out a huff and made a show of taking her hand away. He probably wouldn't really follow through on that, but with one of the few true friends I have, I'm not gonna try it to find out. "Xander, you are still my friend, right?"
"Always." His nod was oddly sincere.
"So what's the sitch?"
Xander turned things over for a moment, then sighed and relented, albeit obliquely. "When you get a chance - when Cerian's not here - have Willow look up the Templar Trading Group. It'll make interesting reading." He headed downstairs without another word.
Buffy stared after him in utter bafflement. Can I just say: HUH?
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
Three hours later, the dining room was a mess. All of the McDonalds' had been consumed, leaving wrappers, bags, and empty cups scattered about the table like the aftermath of a cyclone. Willow had somehow convinced the Summers' fax machine to work as a printer for her laptop, and two small scrolls of thermal paper lay among the wreckage: the autopsy reports for both Jack Fenton and the nine-year-old Jane Doe.
Cerian had been limp-pacing the room on her cane almost incessantly since the 'research party' began, talking into her sat-phone animatedly in a number of languages. Her first call had lasted more than half an hour, and it had not been a pleasant experience for the person on the other end; while she'd been speaking in Afrikaans, her tone had made it clear that whoever she was talking to was getting chewed up one side and all the way down the other - with T-Rex teeth. When she finally hung up, it had been with a sigh of exasperated fury, and she'd said nothing to the group.
Her subsequent calls had been shorter, ten minutes or so apiece. Some of them had been in English; others had been in Chinese (Mandarin and Cantonese both, in separate calls), French, German, Russian, Japanese... one had even been in colloquial Latin, such as was spoken on the streets of Rome in the day of Marcus Tullius Cicero. (Willow had pricked up her ears at that conversation, virtually green with envy at the older woman's casual fluency. Despite her best efforts, her own Latin was still a little stilted.)
And every one of those calls had been utterly fruitless. "Nothing," Cerian finally spat, setting the 'phone on the sideboard to recharge. "Not a bloody thing. Nobody's talking, and those few who are don't have anything useful to say. It's like everyone I know on this half of the continent has dived into the deepest hole they can find and pulled it in over themselves."
Xander pushed away the tome he'd been engrossed in the whole while and worked his head from side to side, grunting as his vertebrae aligned with a series of audible snaps. "Oooohhhh, yeahthat'sbetter," he growled, sitting up straight. "I've got a similar amount of nothing. Buffy?"
"Just a headache. Did they pay these guys bonuses to use all these really long words?" the Slayer asked Cerian, a little testily.
"Having never met them, I couldn't say," Cerian drawled. Xander coughed a laugh.
"Maybe we should go back to Umbra, see if that tap-puller'll be a little more talkative by day," Buffy suggested.
"With those wanted posters tacked to the wall? Buff, half those guys'd gut their own mothers for a shot at ten grand, and the other half already did," the young man snorted, leaning right back in his chair, looking at the ceiling and covering his face with both hands. "And he's the nastiest of the bunch; he'd have to be to still be alive and running the place. Besides, those guys are low-lifes, pure and simple; both of our current problems... well, they feel too upscale to consort with villains so common, if you know what I mean."
Cerian arched a brow at his phrasing, but said nothing to contradict him. "I think we might be approaching the point of diminishing returns here in any case; a break would seem to be in order, then we'll see where we go from there."
"Yeah, sounds good," Xander nodded, lowering his hands again. "Call it an hour? I'll bring back Chinese food and a change of clothes for the Willster. And no offence, Buff, but you might want to take the time to get cleaned up yourself. Maybe even cut your hair properly?"
Buffy automatically put a hand to the disaster that was her bullet-cropped hair and mock-growled at him.
"I love you too, Buff," he grinned, levering himself to his feet. "Okay, everybody, I'm off for a while. Hasta lasagna."
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
11:42, AUGUST 25, LIMA (19:42/25-08-99 ZULU)
SUNNYDALE MALL
The sales assistant raised an eyebrow as she took in Xander's purchases. "Anybody I know, Xander?"
He gave her a steady look. He'd known Angela Harriman since the ninth grade, and while they weren't actively friends, they'd always got on well. "Willow just can't get home to change right now, Angie. It's a long story."
Yeah, right, her eyes smirked as she started bagging things. "I just hope she appreciates all you're doing for her."
He snapped his mouth shut before he could respond to that. What was the point? Leaving aside how unresolved things were one way or the other, teenaged guys did not show up in the women's section of a department store and buy several complete sets of clothing - including some less-than-plain items of underwear - for women they weren't romantically interested in. That was especially true of guys who could pick items in the woman's sizes without refering to any pieces of paper and paid with a thick roll of fifties to boot.
Well, at least she doesn't think I'm buying this stuff for myself! he smiled inwardly. "Yeah, me too. But like I said: long story."
She raised an eyebrow, packing away a lacy item that Victoria's Secret wouldn't dare stock, but said nothing. Xander met her gaze steadily, steadfastly determined not to blush. After a moment, she finished her bundling and moved on to less embarrassing items. "How've you been, anyway? Going to college?"
"Up and down, and not yet. I need to clear up a few problems first," he smiled. "You?"
"Friday's my last day. I hop a plane to New York Monday morning, I got a place at BAM and most of my stuff's already in an apartment there."
"The Brooklyn Academy of Music?" Xander arched an eyebrow and whistled softly as she finished bagging his purchases. "Very not bad! Thanks, Angie. Good luck," he smiled pleasantly, absently noting that she wore silver cruciform earrings.
"And, Xander?" she added as he turned away.
"Yeah?" He turned and eyed her cautiously, not knowing what to expect.
"Thanks. For everything you've done."
Xander cocked an eyebrow. "How's that again?"
She gave him that don't-kid-me look again. "I was at graduation, remember? Hell, Devon even took me out for coffee after."
"I guess that explains the earrings," he smiled.
She nodded. "Yeah. Half the town must owe you guys, for graduation or other stuff; the 'Class Protector' award went to Buffy, but I don't know if anyone's ever said 'thanks' to you support-crew guys."
"We're just doing our jobs, it's no big deal," he shrugged. This was not said to be modest, but as a simple statement of fact. "But I - we - appreciate the sentiment." A thought suddenly occurred to him, and he cocked his head. "Hey, do you know Oz?"
"Said 'hey' to him in the corridor a couple of times. Why?"
"He's, uh... he's having some confidence problems, thinks he can't hack it and nobody out here really appreciates what we do. Maybe you could stop by his place and tell him what you just told me. He's a good guy in a bad mental place; besides, we kind'a need him on deck right now."
"The thing in the paper?"
"Which 'thing'?" he asked sourly.
Angie took that in, thought things over, then nodded. "One pep-talk, coming up."
"Thanks."
"It's the least I can do."
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
Many would think that Sunnydale was too small a city to have an authentic Cantonese restaurant, complete with proper décor and traditional fare and dim sum selections as well as American-style 'Chinese' food. Such an assumption held water only until one considered that the mystical traditions of the Chinese culture pre-dated the rise of Rome, and if anyone knew how to find a mystical convergance and how to properly harness its power once found, it was a Chinese geomancer. Thus ran the reason for the inclusion of the Red Tiger Restaurant from the start of the Sunnydale Mall's planning and construction.
Xander scooped up the carry bags and thanked the clerk, turning away from the counter to head for the door. As he went past a booth, a familiar voice breathed, "Snoopy!"
Even as his head whipped around, he cursed his carelessness in not having a hand free. He relaxed a shade as he recognised the person in the booth, but still.... "Don't do that, okay? I'm on-edge enough as it is."
"Really? Why?" the speaker wondered, cocking one sardonic eyebrow and eyeing Xander's burdens. Kind of hard to go for a weapon with both your hands full, isn't it? their eyes smirked, to drive the point home. "What's the word?"
Xander leaned his bags on the table and worked his head around to mask his true reason for stopping. "Cerian's gathered everybody who's willing and able over at Buffy's for a research party."
"Oz?"
"Hell, no. What's the word from Colt?"
"That sniper incident yesterday cost Ruby his life. Amethyst's got the team for tomorrow. Proceed as planned."
"Would this be a bad time to mention that I'm not loving the plan?" he asked rhetorically, picking up the food again.
"Absolutely," the other smiled thinly. "I'm not really thrilled about it myself, but it's the most workable option. Besides, Snoopy, you must remember Commandment VI of our profession: 'you don't gotta like it; you just gotta do it.' See you later."
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
12:10, AUGUST 25, LIMA (20:10/25-08-99 ZULU)
SUMMERS RESIDENCE
A double rap on the open door brought around both Buffy's head and Cerian's. The Slayer automatically drew a stake, while similar subconscious caution sent Cerian's hand under the left breast of her suit-jacket.
Xander's dark head peered past the edge of the doorframe. "Munchies are here!" he chirped, somehow not the least disconcerted by looking right down the barrel of Cerian's pistol. "Sheesh, nervous much?"
"I should think that getting shot gives one the right to be a little edgy," Cerian smiled blandly, lowering the Gyurza's hammer again.
"Hear, hear," he drawled, stepping fully into the room. "I like the hair, Buff. Trés chic."
"Really?" she asked, tucking the stake away even as her free hand patted her new hairstyle. Willow had done the honours, trimming the whole lot to a uniform two-inch length. Buffy had to confess it did look very sophisticated, but she'd been used wearing her hair past her shoulders for so long that it was a heck of an adjustment; she suspected she'd mourn her lost locks for weeks. And when I catch whoever did that...!
"Yeah. In fact, I'd go so far as to say you look extra foxy like that." He waggled his eyebrows mock-lasciviously, and Buffy couldn't help giggling. Setting the two bags of food on the table with one hand, he hefted a shopping-bag in the other. "Clothes. Where's Will?"
Buffy pointed upstairs with her chin. "Showering."
"Ah. Well, you guys get fed, and I'll take these up and leave 'em at the door for her. Try and leave some food for the two of us, okay?"
She took in the number of cartons Cerian was unpacking from the bags and gave him a look. "A brigade couldn't eat all that in one sitting, Xander."
"Clearly you've never seen soldiers eat," he snorted, heading for the stairs.
When he returned a moment later, Buffy and Cerian were already attacking their meals with gusto. Tossing his jacket back over his chosen chair, he took up a set of the disposable chopsticks the Red Tiger had provided, popped open a carton of rice, spiked both sticks into it, and pushed it towards Cerian, who was working on some noodles. "Here you go: try some of that."
Cerian looked down at the offered serving and went very still for a heartbeat. "I'd rather you hadn't done that," she said coolly, reaching over and plucking the chopsticks out of the carton again. "It's bad luck."
"Hmmm?" Buffy wondered around a mouthful of noodles.
"I spend a lot of my time in Hong Kong, dear," the relic-hunter explained. "They consider it an ill omen to give someone rice with the chopsticks sticking straight up. That's how it's offered to the dead."
"Oh," Xander said, then shrugged and took back both rice and sticks. "No harm, no foul, right?"
"Here's hoping," she sighed.
"Hey, Xand, Mister Rosenberg had a security system installed just after graduation, right?" Buffy frowned, voicing something that had occurred to her even as Xander pulled away earlier.
"Yeah, top-of-the-line: contact switches on all the doors and windows, motion-activated lights outside, thermal sensors for intruders and fires, the whole package. Why?"
"How'd you get in? I don't remember Will mentioning the access code."
"Didn't," he said around a mouthful. "Spare cash, remember?"
"What do you - wait, you bought her a change of clothes?" she blinked.
"Several, actually. I figured things might get a little intense around here." Like they aren't already, he didn't have to add.
"Isn't that a little extravagant?" Cerian frowned.
"My money - my business," he told the Welshwoman, with the barest hint of frost.
"M-maybe. But this?" Willow's voice asked from the doorway. Xander looked up - and almost dropped his food. He'd put outfits together in his head as he bought things, and he'd left this ensemble for her entire, but he hadn't anticipated exactly how good she'd look in it.
It wasn't exactly the normal kind of Willow-wear - but it definitely worked. She wore a deep-purple cardigan (entirely unbuttoned) over a sleeveless, scoop-necked lavender T-shirt that ended an inch or so above the waistband of her jeans. The top's lines subtly emphasised her bust, the glimmer of flesh it left bare at her midriff was impossibly tantalising, the colour set off her skin and hair superbly, and her jeans were just loose enough to be comfortable but still snug enough to be eye-catching, hugging her hips and almost caressing the sleek lines of her legs. Fresh-bought sterling-silver barettes kept her hair back from her ears, also-new emerald-chip earrings glinted at her earlobes, and the silver-and-sapphire pendant he'd commissioned for her hung just above her heart.
Xander intended to use real words. He really did. His mind even sent some to his mouth. It was just that all that came out at first was a stunned, reverential "Hhhhyyyyjjjj...."
Cerian and Buffy traded a look; they hadn't known each other even two days, but they didn't need a long acquaintance to share that most basic of disgusted feminine accusations. Men!
Shaking himself thoroughly, Xander tried again. "Uhhh... hey, Will! You look great! I mean, you look... better. Than... you did, when I, uh, left," he trailed off, knowing he was babbling but unable to help himself. Despite all his best intentions, his eyes fixed on the exposed curves of her belly again as he remembered the feel of her skin under his hands, soft and smooth and....
OWCH! He flinched as Buffy's toe caught him in the shin; the pain was enough to jar him out of his R-rated daydreams just before they tried for NC-17. Thanks for the reminder, Buff! At this rate, I'm gonna sabotage my own virtuous intentions. "Sorry: mouth in gear, brain in neutral," he shrugged, even as the 'phone rang in the kitchen. "You like?"
"Well, yeah, but -"
"Then that's all that matters," he said simply.
"Very nice, Will. Where did you get that sort of fashion-taste, Xander?" Buffy wondered.
"Sure you wanna know?" he evaded.
"Uh... yeah!" she insisted, looking at him closely. What is with you, Xand-man?
Before he could answer, Joyce appeared in the doorway behind Willow, extending her new cordless 'phone to her with a distinctly bemused expression. "Willow? It's for you. Some weird guy with an accent?"
Willow laughed in genuine delight and took the 'phone from her. "Hi, Nemo."
{"Borag thungg, Earthlet!"} the foreigner cried, with an impudent smile that she could all but hear. {"First of all, tell Mrs. Summers to mind her tongue, I resemble that remark. In any case, what goes on in the Wacky World of Willow?"}
"Nothing too much," she smiled, then sobered a little. "Well, other than... y'know. What's up?"
{"Ah, the Mad Russian and I were just working out what we were going to do tomorrow night. We were thinking of trying out that Cantonese place at the mall, then hitting the movies or maybe Starscape; we thought you might need some time out. We already tried your place, but nobody answered. Anyway, y' keen?"}
"I-I can't, Nemo. I've, uh, got a lot of things to deal with right now -"
{"Still be there in the morning, won't they?"} he countered. {"You, my sweet, have an over-developed sense of responsibility. I think you need to learn to leave work at work, and who better to teach you than us?"}
{"And if it's Oz that's got you tied up in knots, forget him, at least for the night, 'kay?"} Shooter chimed in; evidently the pair were using a speaker-phone. {"That sonofabitch isn't worth your time or tears!"}
"Shooter, did anyone ever introduce you to the theory that there are two sides to every argument?"
{"'Understanding is a three-edged sword'. Kosh Naranek, Babylon Five. It's a bullshit theory,"} the other woman snorted expressively. {"Either he loves you or he doesn't. If he does, why is he leaving? And if he doesn't, to hell with him! You cried yourself to sleep last night, pravda?"}
"Yeah, that's right."
{"Then you don't need to spend every waking moment agonising over it. He's made his choice, dumb bastard that he is; now he has to suck it up and live with the consequences, which is just too frickin' bad for him. You can wail and wonder 'why?' for the rest of the week, but tomorrow night, you come out with us and forget all your troubles. University, Oz, whatever the hell else you do with your time - leave 'em at the door. Tomorrow night is for nothing but pure... unadulterated... mindless... FUUUUN!"} The last word was a party-animal's roar, straight out of an old Pepsi ad.
{"My beloved lets her enthusiasm rule her - as usual,"} Nemo added ruefully, {"but she does make a good point. It'd do you good to step back from your problems and let them simmer for a few hours. Give you a new perspective on things, y'know?"}
"Hey, Will!" Buffy called.
"Can you wait a second?" Willow said into the 'phone, then tucked it into the crook of her shoulder and looked over at the Slayer. "Mmmmm?"
"If they're asking you out, go ahead. Cerian's the expert on this, uh, particular sort of stuff," (Buffy didn't dare say anything spooky, lest the other two heard her) "and I can handle the 'night-shift'. Go on, you need the break. You deserve the break."
"You sure?"
"Will - go! So says me and Mister Pointy!"
Thanking the blonde with a split-second smile, she lifted the 'phone again. "Okay, I give up. I'll go along. Sheesh," she groused. "Has anyone ever told you guys you make very good bullies?"
{"Oh, you'd... be surprised,"} Nemo murmured. {"Pick you up at your place at six?"}
"Yeah, why not? See you then. 'Bye."
{"Dasvidanya!"} Shooter chirped, and rung off.
Willow punched 'disconnect' and set the phone down on the sideboard, rubbing her eyebrows again as she turned back into the dining room and took a seat. "Owww... Suddenly feeling migraine-y. Your Mom's right, Buffy: I love those two, but they're nuts."
"My kind of people." Despite Xander's grin, there was... something, behind his eyes. Reservations? Suspicion? "Going out on the town to forget your troubles for a few hours, huh?"
"Uh, yeah. Tomorrow night, around six. You wanna come along?" she offered without thinking. It's not like either of us can do much good at this research thing like this anyway....
"You have to ask?" he smiled. "Meet'cha out front of your place?"
"Uh-huh."
"I'll be there, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed," he grinned. And packing a .45. Or two.
Chapter End Notes:
By all accounts, if Lord Moran's 'Anatomy of Courage' isn't required reading for anyone who is a combat soldier or commands them, it probably should be. All I've seen of it is the piece that Xander paraphrased, but it makes a great deal of sense.
Will a fax machine work as a printer? Don't ask me: I don't know how they work, I just use 'em. :-J
"Borag thungg, Earthlet!" - loosely, 'greetings, Earthling!' The salutation with which 'Tharg', the alien editor of the 2000AD comics, opens each edition. His farewell is 'Splundig vur thrigg!'
pravda - truth. (Russian)
Dasvidanya - 'Until we meet again', the most common Russian farewell.