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Out of Africa

by spikeNdru

Genre: Gen; Action/Adventure

Pairings: Xander and Ensemble; no pairings yet.

Rating: PG-13

Timeline: Two years post-Chosen

Disclaimers: The characters belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy and 20th Century Fox; they aren't currently using them so I'm borrowing them for awhile.

 

Chapter   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9  10  11  12  13  14  15  16  17  18  19  20  21  22  23  25  25

 

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Prologue

Enough was enough! And Xander had definitely had enough. Enough heat, flies, grief, solitude, guilt, recriminations, depression and loneliness.

When the assignments had been divvied up, he'd volunteered for Africa. Everyone else had paired up — Willow and Kennedy, Faith and Robin, Buffy and Dawn, Giles and Andrew . . . and he'd just love to know how that was working out. But he hadn't wanted a partner. He hadn't wanted any reminders of who he used to be — 'cause he sure as hell wasn't that person now. So he'd hidden his depression under—admittedly somewhat forced—banter, and convinced them all that what he needed was a fresh start.

It was easier when he didn't have to deal with anyone who actually knew him. He did his job and he did it well, and no one confronted him about the hard, quiet, humorless man he'd become, because that's the only man they knew.

There was nothing boyish about Alex Harris. Akuma had called him 'Alex' and he let it stand. Xander was dead—Alex was all that was left.

Willow had sent him to Akuma when he first arrived. Educated at Oxford, Akuma had a delightfully dry wit. Xander would have loved working with him and would have made him a close friend. Alex didn't care. Alex didn't have friends or lovers or

. . . ghosts. Alex was glad for them that Akuma and his charge had escaped the Bringers' purge, but it didn't affect him personally, one way or the other.

He and Akuma had spent nearly two years together, tracking down slayers and bringing them home to work with Tanza. Tanza had the benefit of having spent the past six years training with Akuma, and was more than happy to pass on what she had learned to the newbies. It was an ordered, productive life that asked nothing of him other than he do his job, but it was no longer enough. The stoic, one-eyed man that was all-business and let no one in was a façade—and the façade was cracking.

Xander told himself he was dealing, but he wasn't. He hadn't dealt with anything; he'd just pushed everything aside and reinvented himself as Alex. But Alex wasn't who he really was. He was Xander Harris, and it was time he found out what that meant . . . now.

Xander sent e-mails to Willow, Buffy and Giles, stating only that he was taking a vacation. He'd been in the field for two years in Africa, and that didn't even count the prior seven in Sunnydale. He figured he was due a vacation. If they didn't agree—tough shit. He was taking one anyway.

He turned the laptop with all the contact info over to Akuma and wished him and his slayer well. He packed a carry-on bag and made a variety of bus and plane reservations using his Council-issued credit card. He was going to California eventually, but he didn't much care how he got there — as long as the connections avoided Buffy's Rome, Willow's Rio and Giles' London. He spared a brief thought for Dawn. In a month or so she'd be finished with school. He wondered what she'd do next, then shrugged. Probably college in England, then full-fledged employment with the Council. What else was there for her? Once you'd seen and done all that they had, a normal job and life just wasn't in the cards.

So he made his plans—by-passing Italy and England. Arriving in the good old USA, he flew NY-Chicago-Phoenix. He felt right at home in Phoenix. Desert climate was similar the world over. Maybe he'd stay a few days to recover from jet lag before renting a car. Hell, maybe he'd buy a car.

He could have flown directly to LA, but he chose Phoenix instead. He wanted to take his time getting acclimated . . .

Yea, though I drive through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil . . .

Yep. He'd drive through Death Valley instead of flying over it. Maybe there he could start to come to grips with all the deaths that were sucking the life out of him.

 

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Chapter One

The red light flashed its warning for the second time and Xander sighed as he pulled over to let the engine cool down again. Although, how cool it could actually get in 120 degree heat, he wouldn't want to speculate. He stretched the accordion-pleated cardboard across the windshield to keep out as much of the sun as possible, and drank a bottle of water that had left 'tepid' behind about an hour ago and was edging into 'hot' territory.

Maybe this drive hadn't been such a good idea after all. The desert was peopled with ghosts. In the shimmering waves of heat that made the dun-colored landscape look like it was melting, he saw things out of the corner of his eye. Things that looked like Tara and things that looked like Anya, and once he could have sworn he saw the swirl of a black leather duster and a flash of platinum hair just beyond the range of his vision.

When he thought the car had cooled off enough, he put on a heavy leather glove, unscrewed the radiator cap and added water. He hoped that would be enough to fix the problem so he could get out of this godforsaken desert!

Xander got back in the car and swallowed three aspirin with the remainder of his bottle of water. Maybe he wouldn't stay in LA after all. Maybe he'd go to Oregon, or somewhere else where it was cool and rainy. Rain would be nice for a change.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Xander pulled into the first motel he saw. His eye was red and burning, and when you had monocular vision to start with, driving under those conditions wasn't a good thing. He'd take a nice, long shower, grab a nap, get something to eat and then finish the drive at night. He normally didn't like to drive at night because the headlights bothered him—especially those brutal new halogen ones—but he needed the break.

Xander stood under the cool shower, and as the water sluiced down his over-heated body, he tried to remember why it had seemed so important to go to LA in the first place. Sunnydale was a giant crater and he had never actually lived in LA, so why had he been thinking of it as 'home'? There was no home for any of them now. The others may have managed to relocate, but there was nowhere he belonged. Xander turned off the water and rested his forehead against the tile. He'd feel better after a nap.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Xander spent the first month or so in LA doing touristy things. He went to Disneyland. He went to Universal Studios. He toured Japanese gardens and Forest Lawn cemetery and saw the Hollywood sign. He drove up the coast to the intersection of James Dean's fatal crash and then visited the Planetarium featured in Rebel Without a Cause. He went to the purported site of the Black Dahlia murder. He bought a vintage Fedora. He did everything he could think of to convince himself this was just a normal vacation, and he didn't have a reason for coming to LA.

He bought stacks of old sci-fi and detective novels at used bookstores and read them at night in his efficiency that rented by the week. He went to art house movie theaters showing independent films in French, Italian and Swedish—without subtitles—and made up his own dialogue. Yep, he was on vacation. He had totally vacated the life that had been Alexander Lavelle Harris' and he hadn't yet decided whose life he was going to move into.

He was twenty-six years old and could pass for thirty; thirty-five on a bad day. He was lean and hard and toned and when he looked into the mirror to shave, he saw deep brackets carved into the sides of his mouth and squint lines radiating from the corner of his eye. He looked like Humphrey Bogart—world-weary,cynical and jaded, but with an inner core of decency and optimism. Maybe he'd become Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe. Maybe not. The gruff private eye with integrity and a heart of gold—who fell for the shady lady, but eventually did the right thing and turned her in—belonged to the past. There was no place for that guy in a world of computers and electronic surveillance.

Xander put down the Dashiell Hammett he'd been reading and slipped off his eye patch. He turned the radio on and the light off and leaned back against the pillows. Tomorrow was another day. He'd worry about his future tomorrow. Apparently, he was becoming Scarlett O'Hara.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The day eventually arrived when he could put it off no longer. He knew it would. He'd just been killing time until the inevitable caught up with him. He had to see the site of that last battle — the battle where Angel and Spike and the rest of Angel's crew had taken on the Hordes of Hell and were never heard from again. They were probably all dead. And what could an empty alley really tell him anyway? Did he think there'd be some kind of psychic residue there that would give him answers when he wasn't even sure what the questions were?

There'd been so much death — Jesse and Jenny and Joyce and Buffy . . . but then they'd brought Buffy back, hadn't they? Then Tara and Cordy and Anya—oh god, Anya—and Spike. But Spike had apparently been brought back too, only to die again with Angel and Wesley and that girl Willow liked—Fred?—and that other guy. You'd think growing up in Sunnydale, you'd get used to the high mortality rate among your contemporaries. But each death pressed down more heavily on him until it felt like he was sinking in quicksand, and he needed to find some way to drag himself out or he'd just be swallowed completely. And then he really would be just a dead man walking.

So he'd go to the alley and see . . . whatever was there to be seen, and then maybe he could get on with his own life.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Xander stood in the alley behind the Hyperion for an hour and waited. For what, he didn't know. Nothing happened. There was nothing there. No ghosts — no answers. Nothing. He didn't know what he had expected, or why he felt so disappointed.

He walked through the arch covered in foliage into the overgrown courtyard behind the Hyperion and sat down on the bench, batting away tendrils of jasmine vines. He leaned back and closed his eye, the sun warm on his face, and tried to figure out his next move.

He must have dozed as he sat in the sun and finally allowed himself to relax. He'd completed his mission—done what he'd come to do—and found nothing. Whatever answers he'd been looking for had eluded him again, so he'd just sit here awhile and then go back to his room and—

Xander's eye flew open. Something had awakened him. Some sound or movement that hadn't been there before. He stilled his body and concentrated on his senses of hearing and smell. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash of movement . . . a girl with long dark hair disappeared into the hotel. His heart sped up.

“Cordy?” he called. He got to his feet and went after her.

He looked around the lobby. She was hiding, but he could hear her breathing.

“Cordy? It's Xander. Xander Harris. From high school?”

“Xander?” A head popped up from behind the desk.

“Dawn? What are you doing here? Does Buffy know where you are?”

“Apparently, I'm doing the same thing you're doing—looking for ghosts. And does Buffy know where you are?”

“No . . . but that's different. I'm—”

“An adult? Newsflash, Xander. So am I. I'm almost nineteen, a secondary school graduate and I don't report to anyone, any more than you do.”

“Oh . . . okay. But don't you think you should call her anyway? I mean, won't she worry when she comes home and you're not there?”

“I haven't seen Buffy in a year and a half, Xander. She's . . . different. I don't know how to explain it. She's not depressed — not like she was for that whole year after she . . . came back.”

“After we brought her back,” Xander said bitterly. “After the people she thought were her friends ripped her out of heaven.”

“Yeah, that. And it's not like she's all focused and bossy and General-y like she was the next year, either. She's . . . it's like she doesn't care about people any more. She stays out all night dancing with her boyfriend, then sleeps in, and when she does get up, she goes shopping. Even when I was living with her, I never got to see her.”

“Maybe the Immortal has her under some kind of . . . thrall?”

“The Immortal? He was three boyfriends ago. She hasn't seen him in ages. I came home from school one day, and she told me that she thought it would be a good idea for me to go away to school. Broaden my experience or something—prepare me for University. She had some brochures of boarding schools she handed me to choose from, kissed me on the forehead, told me she was sure I'd have a great time at school, then went out.”

“Oh, Dawn . . .”

“So I sat there and looked at the shiny, glossy brochures, promising me a shiny, glossy new life and picked one. I've been in Switzerland for about a year and a half. Summer break arrived and I got a call from Willow, inviting me to Brazil. Christmas break came with a ticket to London. If I hadn't graduated, they'd be palming me off on you this summer. In fact, they tried, but you'd already gone walkabout, as my Australian roommate would say. So I went walkabout myself.”

“But what about Buffy? Shouldn't we try—”

“You know, Xander, I'm tired of trying to 'fix' Buffy. She's gonna have to figure out what she wants out of life on her own. No one can do it for her.”

“You're right. But will you at least call her and tell her where you are?”

“I will if you will.”

Xander was silent. He couldn't put his finger on what exactly was causing his reluctance to contact any of his friends—he just knew that he didn't want to talk to any of them right now. He didn't want to 'report' to anyone. He didn't want to try to explain what he was doing in LA when even he wasn't sure of the answer.

“Yeah-huh,” Dawn raised an eyebrow. “My feelings exactly.”

Xander started. “How did you know—”

“What you were thinking? No mumbo-jumbo required, Xander. You have an expressive face. You feel like there's a piece of you . . . missing. You need to find that piece to be whole, but you're not even sure where to begin to look. You can't talk to Buffy or Willow or Giles because they'll either think you're crazy, or they'll try to reassure you that you're fine . . . there's nothing wrong with you at all. Or worse, they won't even listen when you try to tell them about the empty place inside because they're so caught up in their own lives they don't actually hear what you're trying to say but can't really articulate. And then they'll give you a condescending pat on the arm and tell you it's just 'hormones' or 'teen angst' or other crap. Well . . . they probably won't say the last bit to you, but you know what I mean.”

Xander looked at her carefully. “Yeah . . . I do.”

Dawn nodded. “Thought so.”

“So . . . why here?”

“I don't know, exactly. I just felt drawn to LA for some reason.”

“Good enough. Where are you staying?”

“I hadn't really figured that out yet.”

Xander's brow furrowed. “I guess . . . you could stay with me—for tonight anyway—till you figure out what you want to do. It's getting dark. We should be going.”

“Thanks. I'd like that, Xander.”

“Well, it's pretty crappy. But since it appears we're on similar quests, maybe we could look for something better tomorrow.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“And it's not like I haven't lived with teenaged girls before. Whoa! That came out a lot different than it sounded in my head.”

Dawn laughed. “'s okay, Xan. I knew what you meant. But do you think we could stop on the way? I'd just about kill for a Krispy Kreme.”

“You're on!”

~*~*~*~*~*~

The next day they went apartment hunting.

And the next day.

And the next . . .

The fourth day found them foot sore, weary, and about ready to give up hope.

They stopped for tacos at a sidewalk stand and sat on the grass to eat them. Dawn sat cross-legged and eased off her shoes. As she massaged the arch of her left foot, she sighed.

“It's like that 'Sex and the City' show, if they were searching for apartments instead of guys. All the good ones are either taken or gay.”

“They have gay apartments?”

Dawn gave him a look that was so Spike-like, it was as if Xander could almost see Spike's features superimposed upon hers for a moment.

“Well, they probably do, but that's not what I meant. Maybe I could just take a room at your . . . place.”

“Nope.” Xander waved the notebook. “We've still got four more places to see before we embrace the agony of defeat. What if we gave up now and the next place on our list turned out to be absolutely perfect?”

~*~*~*~*~*~

“It's absolutely perfect!” Dawn exclaimed.

“What's wrong with it?” Xander narrowed his eye at the woman showing the apartment.

She sighed, but she had learned it was better to be upfront.

“There are signs that it's . . . haunted.”

“Haunted?”

The woman closed her folder and reached into her jacket pocket for the keys. Honestly, she didn't know why she even bothered to continue to show this place.

“Yes, haunted. A woman killed her son here in the 50's, and there seems to have been intermittent activity ever since. People don't stay long. Ms. Chase was the longest tenant we've had in recent years—she was here about three years, then her friends said she'd disappeared and they moved her things out. No one's stayed more than a few months since.”

“Cordelia Chase?”

“Yes. Did you know her?”

“I grew up with her in Sunnydale. She was . . . a part of our group in high school.”

Dawn felt a breath of air ruffle her long hair, but they were in a closed-up apartment—an apartment that suddenly felt warm and welcoming. It felt like 'home'.

“We'll take it,” Dawn stated.

Both Xander and the house agent stared at her.

Xander recovered first. “Okay. We'll take it. Do we have to sign a lease or anything?”

“Just pay me a month's rent and security deposit for now. At the end of a month, we can talk about extending.”

Xander pulled a checkbook out of the inside pocket of his jacket and wrote a check for what seemed to him to be a very reasonable amount.

The woman accepted the check, handed him the keys, and hurriedly left before they could change their minds.

“Well . . .” Xander said, looking around the bright, airy space. “Looks like we've got an apartment.”

Dawn looked at a can of Coke hovering in front of her. She plucked it out of the air, popped open the can and took a drink.

“Looks like we do.”

 

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Continue to Chapter Two

 

 

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