Return
by Kirayoshi
Old Man
[reviews]
Chapter Four
Old Man
"Old Man look at my life,
I'm a lot like you were.
Old man, look at my life,
Twenty four and there's so much more
Live alone in a paradise
That makes me think of two.
Love lost, such a cost,
Give me things that don't get lost.
Like a coin that won't get tossed
Rolling home to you.
Old man, take a look at my life
I'm a lot like you
I need someone to love me
The whole day through
Ah, one look in my eyes
And you can tell that's true."
...Neil Young
"Old Man"
"Mr. Harris, Miss Emerson, it's good to see you both here again," Doctor Turner greeted the young couple. She found herself smiling as she always did as she saw these two; she had never seen a couple so obviously in love with each other as these two. They had just announced their engagement, and Dr. Turner wished them both happiness. "I have the results of your physical, Miss Emerson--"
"Please," the auburn haired young woman interrupted the doctor, "call me Anya."
"And while we're on the first name thing," her fiance added, "call me Xander."
"Glad to, Xander, Anya," Dr. Turner answered, "as long as you call me Janet. Now then, Anya, you were complaining about some illness for the last few days?"
"Yes," Anya said. "Mostly in the morning. Which is a bit of an inconvenience, considering that I end up retching into a toilet every morning when I'd rather be having sex with Xander the moment he wakes up. He especially likes it when---"
"Ahn," Xander smiled, slightly embarrassed by her detailed descriptions of their private life, "remember that conversation we had about what you tell the doctor and what you don't tell her?" Anya sagged back in her chair, displeased at having been silenced by Xander but willing to listen to him.
"Ah, well," Janet stammered slightly as she looked at her clipboard. She had examined Anya before, and spoke with her and Xander, and was convinced that she would never get used to Anya's candid attitude toward sex. She pushed those thoughts out of he mind, and concentrated on the task at hand. "Well, Anya, you aren't sick, there's no sign of virus or infection, you're in perfect health."
"But I can't be," Anya protested. "If I'm in perfect health, why am I throwing up every morning?"
Janet smiled at Anya's question. "The same reason women have been suffering morning sickness for tens of thousands of years, Anya. According to these results, you're six weeks pregnant."
========
The reality of the doctor's pronouncement hadn't yet registered for Xander while he was sitting in his apartment. Pregnant. Anya was pregnant. She was going to be a mother.
He was going to be a father.
Anya had been skitting around their apartment in a flurry of activity. "We should try to find a bigger apartment before the baby comes, Xander. Unless you want to stay here."
"Uh, sure, Anya, anything you say," Xander muttered noncommittally.
Anya glanced back at Xander, an amused expression on her face. "Of course, we'll need more room for various baby things. Y'know, the bassinet, the changing table, the Leer jet, that sort of thing."
"Yeah, no problem."
Anya huffed at her fiancée who was clearly not paying any attention to her. "And of course we'll need to clear some space in the bedroom, for when Willow and Tara come over for our three-way lesbian orgies."
"Yeah, whatever."
At these words, Anya snatched a pillow from the sofa and threw it hard at Xander's head. The sudden impact of the pillow knocked Xander off of his chair and onto his butt. "I knew you weren't listening, Xander, you stinker!"
The sudden awareness of his girlfriend screaming at him like a banshee brought Xander out of his fugue state quickly. He scrambled to his feet and took Anya in his arms, stroking her hair gently, whispering assurances to her. "Hey, I'm sorry, Anya. It's just that everything's been piling up on me all at once. I mean we just buried one of my best friends two months ago, and now we're gonna be parents. It's just a lot to take in at once, y'know?"
"Yeah," Anya admitted. "I guess you're right. But us being parents, it's like the greatest thing that ever happened to me in over a thousand years. You and me, Dad and Mom. More than anything else in this world, this is what I want, to be your wife, to carry your child, breast-feed, change diapers, argue over allowances and curfews--"
"Stop, you've sold me," Xander raised his hands, chuckling lightly with his love. "And hey, it's not that I don't want to be a father, it's just that I need to get used to it first, is all."
Xander sat back down, and Anya slowly lighted on Xander's lap, her arms wrapped around his neck. "Is something the matter, Xander?" she asked.
Xander shook his head, dispelling the cobwebs as he considered his answer. "I dunno, Anya. It's just that, that, well--we're gonna be parents, in Sunnydale!"
Anya looked quizzically at Xander. "Uh, yeah, that was established by our doctor."
"Yeah, but in Sunnydale!" Xander almost shouted, then reined his voice in when he saw Anya wince. "I mean, we're talking the Riviera of the undead. Do we want to raise a kid here? I might not get that job in Seattle, hon, so we may be stuck here."
"Hey, Xander," Anya assured him, rubbing his back as she spoke; she knew the effect this usually had on him. "It'll be okay. Even if you don't get the Seattle job, we still make enough between us to raise a kid. And I can't think of anyone I'd trust more with my baby than you, Xander Harris."
Xander blushed slightly at Anya's praise. "Yay me," he chuckled. "Xander Harris, construction worker, vamp fighter, father. Far cry from some loser who lived in his parents' basement, eh?" He got up from his chair, ambled over to the kitchen and pulled a Coke out of the refrigerator. Anya observed him as he moved. His movements seemed slower, somehow; his shoulders sagged, his arms swung limply, like an older person. Like an old man.
Old man.
Anya walked slowly behind Xander, and wrapped her arms around his torso. "What is it really, Xand? Your dad?"
Xander lowered his head. "My dad. My dad, who liked to treat me like Rocky Balboa would treat that side of beef. You sure you want me for a dad?"
Anya leaned her head into the crook of Xander's neck. "You don't believe that you would hurt our baby?"
Xander shook his head vigorously. "No way! No way I'd ever hurt our baby!" Anya could feel his shoulders slump against hers. "But I'll bet my dad said the same thing when Mom was pregnant with me. I dunno, Ahn. I've read conflicting reports on the subject. Some say that abused children tend to become abusive parents, some say that they're less likely to be abusive, and some say there's no real connection. I just don't know, Anya."
"If you don't know, honey," Anya soothed, "then let me tell you. I think I'm in a position to know you better than most people, not to mention that I've seen all types of humanity over the last thousand years before I ever met you. And I can say without fear of contradiction that you are the kindest, sweetest person I've ever met. I've seen the way you treat Dawn, the way you were there for Willow and Tara after Buffy's death. I know you can handle being a parent." She nibbled his earlobe. "And I know that our child will love you as much as I do."
Xander felt strangely humbled at this woman's devotion. He could easily see himself standing in the kitchen with Anya's arms around him all day (or at least until they decided to move the action into the bedroom).
He knew almost a split second before it happened that the telephone was going to ring.
"Let the machine get it," Anya protested, but Xander reluctantly pulled away from her to answer the phone. "Don't worry, Anya," he assured her, "I'll just tell them we don't want any." He answered the phone, in a false cheerful tone; "Xander Harris here."
"Alex?"
Only two people in the world ever called him 'Alex'. And he wasn't on good terms with either of them. "Hello, Dad," he murmured, only the barest veneer of civility in his voice.
"Hey son," his father said hesitantly. "I'm sorry if this is a bad time, but I need to ask you a favor."
A favor? Do ME a favor, 'Dad', Xander thought, put your hand on a downed powerline! "What is it?"
"Well, your mom and I are going away for a few months, and we wondered if you could look after the place. Y'know, keep the lawn mowed and watered, that sort of thing. I'd be willing to pay you for your trouble, say a couple hundred?"
Xander blinked suddenly; his father paying him for looking after his house? "Where are you and mom going?"
"Rehab." He said the word so plainly, but the word itself caused Xander to fumble to keep from dropping the receiver. "Son, your mom and I, we've screwed up a lot. We've owned up to that. We're alcoholics, Alex, and we let things get too far. It's gonna take a lot of time and effort on our part, but we're getting help."
Xander just stood there, processing what his father said. "Wow," he breathed, unable to say anything more.
"Son," his father continued, "I don't expect us to be a close family, but I guess we never were anyway. I just wanted to say," there was hesitation, and some deep sense of guilt, Xander could hear it on his end. "Xander, you're not a loser. I've never said this to you before, and I'm a fool for not seeing it sooner, but you've done good. Your mom and I, we--we're proud of you, son. Damn proud."
Xander breathed in deeply, unsure how to handle his father's praise. He could feel a tear welling up in his eye as he stammered to his father; "W-wow, Dad. I'm -- I'm speechless! I, uh, yeah, sure, I'd be glad to watch over the place for you. I assume you stopped mail and the paper already, right?"
"Yeah, taken care of."
"Good. I'll look in on the place, keep it cleaned up, that sort of thing. Hey, you know when you and Mom are getting back from rehab?"
"We should be out of the clinic in three or four months," Mr. Harris answered.
"Hey, when you get out, you wanna get together with Anya and me? We kinda wanted to talk to you guys, tell some good news--"
Anya grabbed the receiver from his hand and shouted into it; "We're getting married, Mr. Harris, and I'm having Xander's baby!"
"ANYA!" Xander shouted, "I wanted to ease them into it!" Taking the receiver back, he said to his dad, "Sorry 'bout that. Uh, that was Anya, my fiancée."
"Sounds like a lively girl," his father laughed lightly. "Congratulations. And that just gives us another reason to clean up our act; we wanna be clean and sober for our grandchild."
Xander smiled despite himself. "Hey, good luck. They take visitors? Anya and I'll be glad to visit."
"I think they do have scheduled visits. I'll let you know."
"Hey, when do you guys have to go, anyway?"
"In two days."
Xander swallowed a lump in his throat. "I'll look after the place for you. Good luck."
"You too, Alex," Mr. Harris answered.
"Hey, call me Xander. All my friends do."
Silence, then; "Am I your friend now? I know I've been a crappy father, you sure you want me to be your friend now?"
"I'd like that, yeah," Xander fought back a wave of emotions. "You two take care now."
"We will. See you on the other side."
"I'd like that. 'Bye."
After hanging up the phone, Xander shuddered, still coming to grips with recent events. Anya smiled at him, a knowing gleam in her eyes. "Still having doubts regarding your family credentials?"
Xander chuckled, his laughter becoming a healing balm. "Maybe I'm not so hopeless as I thought."
"Good," Anya nodded. "Because we have a more serious problem. Y'see, babies need a lot of things, like cradles, changing tables, bassinets, that sort of thing, and well," She couldn't finish the statement.
Xander suspected what was bothering her, but wanted to hear the words. She swallowed hard and continued; "Well, most of these things tend to come embellished with, uh, b-bunnies."
"Sorry, hon," Xander laughed, "you're gonna have to get used to the idea."
"I guess," she puffed a resigned sigh. "Especially when Willow and Tara give me their baby shower gifts. You know they'll do that."
"Hey, you could start small," Xander suggested. "Some Bugs Bunny cartoons at first, work your way up from there."
Anya shook her head, amazed at Xander's ability to show a sense of humor in any circumstance. "I do love you, Xander Harris," she demurred as she draped her arms around his shoulders, taking him in for a slow, relaxed kiss.
"And I love you, Anya. And I can't wait to meet our kid."
"If it's a boy," she insisted, "we call him Alex."
Xander thought for a second. "Okay." His expression turned serious. "And if it's a girl," he added, "I want to name her Buffy."
Anya nodded. "Buffy Alexis Harris. I like that." She leaned forward, kissing him again. "Y'know, pregnant women get cravings, and I got one right now."
"Oh?" Xander teased. "Pickles and ice cream?"
"No, silly," she answered, "you and me, naked and under the covers."
She whooped happily as Xander lifted her in his arms. "I think we can arrange that," he announced as he carried her into the bedroom.
========
The gaunt figure in the duster jacket stood by the entrance of his crypt, taking a swig of some stale beer. Bloody Foster's, he groused, the Australian beer that, if you offered it to an Aussie, he'd fry your liver for breakfast. Not that he could choose his alcohol, it just happened to be what he could lift from the mini mart. He chuckled at the thought; most anti-shoplifting security measures involve the merchant's ability to see the shoplifter in the store's strategically placed mirrors.
Of course, when you cast no reflection, that rather defeated the whole exercise.
He scanned the cemetery, his eyes falling on that same plot of land some hundred feet away. The one area in the entire cemetery where he never ventured.
The plot where she rested.
He argued with himself that he was maintaining the sanctity of her resting-place by avoiding it. After all, it wasn't like she wanted him around in life, why should she want him around after her death? But on closer examination, he realized that he was simply being a coward. No matter what she ever thought of him, he simply couldn't take the thought of a world without her.
"Hostile 17!" an authoritative voice barked behind him. "Hands where I can see them, don't move!"
The blond vamp raised his hands slowly, turned to the man behind him and chuckled. "First off, mate," he smirked, "the name's Spike. Your little soldier boy clique's deader than the parrot on Monty Python, and I still have that little chip in my head, so there's no reason to give me a hard time."
Graham stood his ground, a crossbow aimed at Spike's heart. "Right now, I have no idea who are my friends and who are my enemies."
"Yoo-hoo," Spike announced, raising his hand. "Enemy over here!"
"Very funny, Spike," Graham countered. "Truth is, I'm here to investigate reports that the Initiative has been reestablished."
"Oh, bugger me for a pack of smokes!" Spike stormed around his crypt door briefly. "Not those wankers again! I thought that Uncle Sam gave up on those testosterone boys!"
"If they are back, Spike," Graham replied, "they're back illegally, without government sanction." He paused, his face a mask, hiding his deepest fears. "I also wanted you to do me a favor."
"Oh, that's rich," Spike chuckled. "After all you sods did for me, you want me to do you a solid? Do us both a favor and go piss off a vamp who can fight back!"
"I'm serious, Spike," Graham shouted. He knew that Colonel Mackenzie wouldn't approve of Graham using Spike for this mission if she was aware of his existence, but he felt that the desperate ploy was still the only way to find out what he needed to know. "I know that you're not a typical vamp. I even know that you have some emotional bond with Buffy Summers. That's why I need you to help me."
Spike regarded the soldier with a searching eye. He sniffed, hoping to smell some sweat on his brow, a sign that he was lying to him, that he was afraid of being found out. He smelled nothing out of the ordinary with him, and decided to play along. "I'm listening."
Graham explained his concerns; "From what little intell I have, former members of the Initiative have been contacted within the last two months. The first such contact took place two days after Buffy's funeral. I took the liberty to examine any coroner's reports regarding her death, and they all listed her death as an accident."
"Yeah," Spike harrumphed, "she accidentally did a swan dive into an interdimensional vortex, accidentally saving all of creation in the process."
"I'm just telling you what I read," Graham answered. "Of course, I also found out that the coroner who examined her was also a member of the Initiative. That's why I need you to do something for me."
Spike crooked his head. "Yeah? What for?"
"As a vampire, you possess a heightened sense of smell. I need you to sniff around Buffy's grave."
"What do you think I'll find?"
Graham breathed quietly, "It's what I think you won't find that worries me."
Spike sighed deeply. "Okay, let's do it." He slowly made his way to the grave he didn't have the guts to visit before. He paused to pay his respects to the grave of Joyce Summers, who lay in her eternal rest next to her daughter. He then noticed the stone over Buffy's grave. "She saved the world, a lot," he snickered. "I'll bet Red wrote that." He looked around the grave site, not knowing what to expect. He then stood still, sniffed, and concentrated.
He took a second, tentative sniff. Graham stood by silently. Spike didn't say anything, he was just quiet for a few seconds then released the air he had been holding.
The hair on the back of Graham's neck stood up as Spike slowly turned his head to face him. His expression hadn't changed at all, indeed he looked exactly the same. Kind of an annoyed, put upon tone with a slight sneer tugging at the corner of his lips. But... something told Graham be better start praying that the chip didn't break down in the next ten seconds.
"You...utter...bastards." Spike said very, very quietly. Almost a whisper.
Spikes figure blurred for a second. When he...returned to normal...Graham was aware of a quiet creaking sound. It grew...little by little...then with a loud crack the tree behind the headstone split in half.
Graham looked from the tree and back to Spike who had materialized right in front of him, his nose less centimeters away from his own.
"Where is she?" Spike whispered, almost tonelessly.
Graham gulped hard, saying, "If I'm right, S-Spike, Buffy was never buried here. I believe that the Initiative have her corpse, and are preparing to reanimate her. They're using her to restart the ADAM experiments."
"If that's the case, mate, then they die," Spike purred, "or...chip or no chip...You die." He took a few steps back. "C'mon soldier boy. We have to tell the others."
As they walked from the cemetery Spike slapped Graham on the soldier in a very friendly away.
"Got a new name for you soldier boy." He said. "Hostile #2. Which of course means there is a Hostile #1 but...if we don't get him...I'm not exactly picky. Get the drift?"
No other words were spoken between the two of them. They knew that they had to contact Buffy's friends tomorrow night. Graham had to shut down an inhuman experiment, and make sure that his friend Riley wasn't involved. Before Spike could lay his hands on him.
Spike, for his part, was unspeaking, unsmiling, almost a frozen mask of rage. He too had a mission, and woe to anyone who dared to stand in his way. Spike had to avenge this blasphemy against a great heroine.
He had to insure that Buffy was allowed to rest in peace. Nothing else mattered to him.
========
He cowered in his basement room as his parents started in again. The drunken accusations, the slurred obscenities, the breaking dishes and slamming doors. Yeah, all too familiar. He figured that if he just sat out of it, he'd be okay.
But this fight seemed different. The voices seemed different. His mother's voice, especially, it sounded like...
Anya.
He slipped out of the basement, and peered out the door. He saw himself and his wife, his Anya, fifteen years older, and they were going at it. He was blaming his son for screwing up in school, for not pulling down straight A's.
He heard his own voice calling his own son a loser.
Xander slowly knelt down behind the wall, his grief a slow and consuming thing. It was true, he thought. He was as bad as his own dad. A worthless, abusive, good-for-nothing...
"It's not true," a rough voice spoke to him. Xander turned around and saw a strange, yet familiar figure. A vaguely feminine shape, with muddied dreadlocks and a feral expression on her face. A familiar glow emerged from the Primal Slayer's eyes, and an easy smile graced her lips. Somehow, she carried something of Buffy in her.
Hmph, not at all like the way I saw her last time.
"It's not true," she repeated. "You aren't like that. Look." Her words were a command, and Xander was compelled to obey. He looked around the basement wall again, and saw his older self. He was sitting at the dinner table with a young boy that could only be his son, and the two of them were working with a Revell model starship Enterprise. The young boy looked frustrated.
"Darn," he grumped, "I can never get these labels on straight."
"Hey, don't stress it, AJ," the older Xander assured his son (AJ, Xander thought? Alex Jr.?) "I could never deal with those things either. First I would soak them in water, then I'd take them off with a tweezers, then they'd break before I could put them on the model. Don't worry about it, son, you're doing better than I ever did." His son smiled at the words of reassurance, and continued to work on the model.
Xander felt a lightness in his heart he had seldom experienced. Was this his future? Was that really his son? The Primal Slayer spoke to him; "You won't turn out like your father. Because of this," she handed him what looked like a human heart. "Take it, look after it. I'll be back for it." He took the heart, and felt strangely dizzy. He succumbed to the vertigo, and...
He woke up in his bed, Anya sleeping contentedly at his side, cuddling next to him. The dream was still fresh in his mind.
His right arm absently eased its way around Anya's shoulder and held her close to him. Despite the assurances that he would never become his father, he felt worried. The Primal Slayer. If he was dreaming about her, were Willow and Giles as well?
He'd have to find out. And soon. If the Primal Slayer was back, there could be trouble ahead.
Outside of the waking world, the Sandman sat back. His work was done for now. His dreams were sent. He could intervene no more in their lives, he could only hope that the three could decipher the clues he sent them in their dreams.
The soul of a hero relied on it.