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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 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 21 22 23 24 25
26 27 28 29 30
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Chapter Twenty
Xander lay on his back with his hands behind his head. He felt the backs of his knuckles pressing down into the pillow. He wasn't sure what the filling in it was, but Connor had washed it with bleach and hot water and dried it in a commercial dryer and it hadn't fallen apart, so he guessed he could deal with a few lumps or clumps.He crossed his left leg over his right at the ankle and stared at the ceiling in the darkened room. Of course, it never really got dark in LA—too much ambient man-made light for that—not like it got dark in Africa, where the sky was a swath of midnight-blue velvet, strewn with stars like diamonds, and so close you felt sure you could reach up and touch it, if you had a mind to.
Xander closed his eyes and pictured that sky as he'd last seen it. It was like a different world—close, sparkling and alien. The first night he'd spent under the African stars he'd felt like he was on a different planet. They were so clear and bright, and the quality of the air was different. There was a perpetual haze between the stars and the ground in California that came from millions of people, vehicles, and industry all smooshed together in the same small space. There were millions of people in Africa, but the industry was noticeably absent, and the vehicles were more often comprised of camels and oxen, rather than Fords and Toyotas.
There were plenty of zebras, but no one seemed to ride them. Xander wondered, not for the first time, why not? They looked just like horses. He'd never asked, though, because he thought it would make him look stupid—like it was something he should know, but didn't. Maybe he'd ask Bernie sometime. Bernie seemed to be really smart and he knew a whole bunch of stuff. He was just a little guy—maybe five feet two or three inches and a hundred pounds—but the power emanating from him could knock your socks off. Yep. Bernie would probably know why everyone rode horses, except when they had stripes.
But the thing that made Xander feel like he was on an alien planet wasn't just the lack of pollution and the closeness of the stars, though. The stars themselves were different. They weren't the constellations he'd come to take for granted his whole life. Even the Big and Little Dippers were gone, and in their place was the Southern Cross. The different stars were the icing on the cake of his new life for Xander. There was no longer anything to remind him of his old life as Xander Harris, and so he became Alex. He'd become as hard, cold and alien as his new life.
But now Xander was back. And tomorrow he was going into a hell dimension to put his life on the line—with no superpowers of any kind—to rescue some vampires he'd never really liked in the first place.
Xander's lips quirked in a wry smile. If the others had given him any thought at all tonight, they'd probably suppose he was restless—tossing and turning or pacing with nerves. They'd be wrong.
As he'd told Zombie Jack once, when there was a better-than-average chance that death was imminent: he liked the quiet.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Willow threw off the tangled covers for the umpteenth time. There must be something wrong with the climate control in the old hotel—she was too cold without the covers and too hot with them. Maybe just the sheet without the bedspread? She tried to separate the tangle of bedding and finally gave it up as a bad job. She got up, turned off the AC and tried to open her window. The wood must have warped in the years the hotel had been unoccupied, because she strained and shoved at the recalcitrant window until she was shaking. She needed fresh air! She couldn't breathe!Her breath came faster and faster, in shallower gasps. Breathe! It's just an anxiety attack. You're not dying—you just need to breathe. Slow and steady.
Willow's hand flashed out as she struggled to suck in enough air to form the words of the spell, and then the window flew upward with a crash. The warm, moist, jasmine-scented air flowed into the room and Willow drank it in with greedy gulps.
Ohmigod! What if I can't do this? What if I freeze in Quor-Toth or have another frickin' anxiety attack? People could die!
Willow began to pace. Maybe I should call Kennedy? No. Kennedy wouldn't understand. Even if she's home—and she's probably not—she's not exactly the supportive type. 'Sensitive' is not her middle name. Besides, she's probably out with Shakira.
Being part of Shakira's posse was much more Kennedy's style than figuratively holding Willow's hand and talking her through her fears.
She's never really understood about the magic, Willow thought. And she's never really been there for me when I've really needed her, either. Sometimes I don't even know why we're still together!
No, Kennedy wasn't the person she really needed to talk to right now.
Willow flung her head up and her green eyes glittered. She ripped off her wrinkled pajamas and threw on yesterday's underwear, jeans, and a sweater. She searched through her things until she found her copy of the key to the apartment, then quietly crept downstairs to the lobby.
She dragged the phone book out from under the reception desk and called for a cab. She wouldn't be able to sleep any more tonight anyway.
Willow carefully let herself out of the hotel and paced up and down the walkway while she waited for her cab. Dennis could help her—she was sure of it. After all, if he could relay messages from Cordy and Wesley, why not from Tara?
And tonight, she really needed Tara's gentle support, love and understanding.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Connor was terrified. He could admit it to himself, now that he was alone in his room. He was filled with bone-wracking, mind-numbing terror.He picked up the armchair that was next to the small table and reading lamp in his room and moved it to the window. He pulled the drapes back and sat down in the chair. He brought his heels up to rest on the edge of the seat and wrapped his arms tightly around his shins.
He wasn't sure he had it in him to be that Connor again—the feral killer who survived Quor-Toth physically, but was so emotionally damaged that it didn't much matter in the long run. And that Connor is the one who was needed to get everybody through Quor-Toth. He'd briefly become that Connor while he was fighting Sahjhan, and swore he never would again. They had no idea what they were asking him to do. Even Faith. She was the Slayer and she could more than handle herself in a fight, but none of them could even begin to imagine the reality of Quor-Toth. It would be up to him to guide them, to watch out for them, and Connor was no longer sure he was up to the task.
What if he became that Connor and couldn't find his way back to what he now thought of as his 'real' life? He liked this Connor—the personable kid who grew up in a loving family, got good grades in school, went to Stanford, and in his free time, did his bit to help keep the world safe from evil nasties. What if he lost this Connor and was forever trapped in the hellish existence of that Connor, who knew only pain, rage and betrayal? What would that do, not only to him, but to his parents, his sister, his family who loved this Connor? How could he risk it? How could he give up everything that mattered to him?
He was weak and selfish and he knew it, but if that was all he was worried about he could deal. Another thought had been skittering around in his brain all night. He'd tried to stamp it out, tried to not give it the power of becoming cohesive, but it stabbed through his mind like a white-hot poker, and he could no longer ignore it.
He'd spent sixteen years in Quor-Toth and he knew how damaged . . . how really fucked up . . . he'd been. Angel and the others had been in Quor-Toth for hundreds of years. What if they were irrevocably damaged—damaged to the point of not being . . . human enough to return to this world? Could he do what was necessary? Could Faith, if he couldn't? Could he . . . kill his own father if he had to? No. He couldn't do it. And what if he could? That would be even worse—if he was able to become the kind of person who could do that.
Maybe it would be better to just let sleeping dogs lie? To not even attempt a rescue. To not have to go back to Quor-Toth . . . to not be faced with these kinds of decisions at all. To just walk out of this hotel right now and go back to his regular life . . .
Connor flushed with shame and felt like he was going to throw up. His 'regular life' that Angel had purchased for him with the currency of a father's sacrifice—that regular life? Uh-huh. That's the one. How could he even contemplate walking away and leaving them in Quor-Toth for eternity? What kind of person could even think about doing that?
He was terrified to go, but he couldn't not go. No matter what he did, someone was going to get hurt and he didn't know how to fix things and make them right.
Connor's feet hit the floor with a thump, and he surged out of the chair. He just couldn't sit here thinking for another second. Hadn't Xander said something about a training room in the basement? Connor thought he remembered Xander mentioning something about mats and a punching bag. This might be a good time to check it out, because he sure felt like hitting something. Repeatedly. And maybe he could tire himself out enough to finally get some sleep. 'Cause he sure as hell wasn't going to be able to sleep in Quor-Toth.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.Faith grabbed the heavy bag and steadied it until it stopped twisting and swinging.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
She blinked the sweat from her eyelashes, then brushed her forearm across her eyes. The skin on her knuckles was rubbed raw from the constant sliding contact with the bag and the muscles in her arms began to twitch as her neurons fired messages of “Enough, already!” across her synapses.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
Tears mingled with the sweat running down her face. She couldn't identify their cause, so she ignored them. Not pain. Not exhaustion. She was used to those feelings and they weren't cry-worthy. Relief, maybe? Release of tension? She hated waiting!
It was finally happening. The mission was on. Good to go. They were in the final hours and she knew she should be getting some sleep, but damn, she was way too juiced to sleep.
Angel. She was finally gonna get a chance to pay Angel back for saving her life. What'd ol' Wes call it? “Quid pro quo?” Something like that. And she hadn't done that yet. She hadn't quidded his quo. Whatever. Sure, she'd helped bring Angelus in, but she hadn't actually been conscious when it all went down. She'd been more bait than savior. This was different. She was strong and sure and ready and hyped. And she'd for damned sure be on her own two feet and under her own power this time when she saved his ass, and was able to partially give back to him everything he'd given her. Oh, yeah. She owed Angel big time. And Faith Lehane paid her debts.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
And Spike? Faith's full lips curved into a grin. She sure wouldn't mind seeing Spike again—without B hovering around him like white on rice. The boy had it goin' on. No doubt about it.
Faith arched her back into a graceful bow and stretched her arms over her head as she felt the tightly wound tension in her muscles begin to partially uncoil. But it wasn't enough release. It wasn't nearly enough.
Thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud.
Faith's blows fell on the bag one after another as the heavy bag began swinging wildly. Her feet danced as she followed the swing of the bag, never letting up on the pressure, until the bag swung too far and went flying off its hook and careened into the far wall.
Well, damn! Fuck that!
Faith's breath hissed through her teeth and she started toward the bag to retrieve it. She stopped dead as she felt the presence of someone else, although she hadn't heard a sound. Faith whirled, fists up in defense, and saw Connor.
“Hey,” she said as she dropped her fists to hang loosely at her sides.
“Hey,” he answered.
“Couldn't sleep?”
He shook his head. “You couldn't either?”
“Naw. Too hyped to sleep. Wanna work out? Get rid of summa that tension?”
Connor smiled. “I was gonna hit the bag for awhile, but looks like you already killed it.”
Faith grinned. “Not exactly what I had in mind.”
She moved in fast, dropped to one knee and flipped him over her shoulder. He hurtled through the air and landed on his back on the mat as the air left his lungs in a whoosh. Before he could move, Faith was on him. She straddled his hips and her hands pressed his shoulders into the mat, holding him immobile. He brought his hands up between them to break her hold on his shoulders, but she surprised him again. She dropped her upper body, pinning his arms between them and lowered her mouth to his. She slid her right hand from his shoulder down his left arm to his waist and then raked her short nails across his abdomen. As his left arm was no longer pinned to the mat, he curved his hand around her breast.
Faith yanked his belt tighter until the fastener slipped from the belt hole. Her nimble fingers brushed his skin under the waistband of his jeans, as she slipped the metal stud through the soft denim buttonhole. She lifted her hips slightly so her thumb and index finger could grasp the zipper pull, and slid it down until it stopped, caught in the material at the end of the zipper. She grinned as she reached for him.
Five by five.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Lorne felt the breast pocket of his fawn-colored suit jacket for the fifth time to make sure it was still there. The paper was limp and thin and failed to make the satisfactory crackle that a good stiff bond would make with his every movement, so he felt compelled to frequently check. It was still there. His lifeline. His ticket out of here, if he chose to use it.Lorne listlessly raised his finger to signal the bartender for another Sea Breeze, and it arrived within moments. Madoc had told the Ana-Movic demon behind the bar to take good care of Lorne, and at least the Sea Breezes arrived in a steady stream, even if they weren't as good as the ones Ramon used to make. But then, Ramon had betrayed him; it seemed one could find either competence or loyalty in this sorry world, but not both.
Except for Angel. Somehow, Angel had always been able to engender both in his 'family'/friends/posse/hangers-on/fill-in-the-blank. And look where it got them—the competent, loyal ones who befriended Angel. Doyle, Wesley, Cordelia, and dear, brilliant, kind, loving, wonderful Fredikins—all dead. And now this new group of brave, courageous, caring people who were planning to risk their lives to bring Angel back. Angel, Angel, Angel—always Angel. Lorne's dark red lips quirked in a slight smile. Well, mostly Angel—tall, willowy, gorgeous Dawn's priority seemed to be Spike, and brave, not-so-jaded-now Xander's priority was apparently Dawn.
Lorne touched the bus ticket in his pocket again, downed the remainder of his Sea Breeze and stood. He'd stay, for now. He couldn't bring himself to cut and run on this intrepid little band in case he was needed—in case there was something he could do to help. So he'd stay, for now. He couldn't live with himself if more good people lost their lives when he could possibly prevent it. But when they returned—Lorne's big hand splayed across his chest, covering and protecting the precious ticket inside his jacket—then it would be Sayonara, Angelcakes and he could run. Far enough this time that they wouldn't be able to find him again.
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Continued in Chapter 21
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