FIC: The Circle of Scooby Chapter Twenty-Three
red jacobson
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STORY TITLE: The Circle of Scooby
PART: 23 of 30
AUTHOR: Red Jacobson (red.jacobson@gmail.com)
DISTRIBUTION: FanFiction.net, Archive of Our Own, Twisting the Hellmouth
DISCLAIMER: None of the Characters You Recognize belong to me, the Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Angel Characters belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy (Grrr! Argh!), and the Boondock characters belong to the Estate of Robert A Heinlein and his publishers. The concept of Highlander Immortals and all associated characters are the property of Rysher Entertainment.
SUMMARY: The activation of the world's slayers has caused massive destruction throughout the multiverse, and the Circle of Ouroborus is determined to prevent that from happening and recruit three natives of the critical timeline to save the Multiverse!
FEEDBACK: Of Course! It Makes Me Write Faster
RELATIONSHIPS: Xander/Cordelia/Tara, Buffy/Willow, Giles/Jenny, Kendra/Oz
RATING: PG-13
WORD COUNT: <5,852>
SPOILERS: A Crossover with RAH's Lazarus Long Books. I'm afraid that, while I'm going to do my best to explain things, at least a passing familiarity with Time Enough For Love, The Number of the Beast, The Cat Who Walks Through Walls, and To Sail Beyond the Sunset would help you understand who these characters are. There are no spoilers, but if you don't know how the Buffy the Vampire Slayer story goes by now, why are you reading this story?
ATTENTION 'PROFESSIONAL ARTISTS': I'm not looking to commission any artwork. If you contact me about it, I'll ignore you and block your username. Please save us both the trouble and don't bother.
Sunnydale
November 18th - November 26th, 1997
The days passed quickly after the Misfits returned from Los Angeles. Heather's return had reminded all of them how much time had passed. None of the Misfits said it aloud, but over the next two weeks each quietly began correcting that problem. After returning to Sunnydale, the Misfits resumed habits most of them had abandoned years earlier. Tony and Jess hauled an old treadmill out of storage and set it up in the basement, claiming they were tired of feeling old every time Xander dragged them onto a training mat. Paul started taking longer routes through his patrol districts and rediscovered that foot pursuits required a different set of muscles than paperwork. Rom somehow managed to assign himself regular after-school supervision in the gymnasium, insisting he was setting a positive example for the students while spending suspicious amounts of time around the weight room. Charles and Margaret took to long evening walks through the better neighborhoods, gradually increasing the distance each week. None of it attracted attention. None of it looked unusual. By the end of the second week, however, every one of them was moving a little easier than before, and nobody was quite as out of breath climbing a flight of stairs.
School, patrols, research, training, and family obligations filled the hours much as they always had. To anyone looking from the outside, life in Sunnydale appeared perfectly normal. Behind the scenes, however, dozens of small preparations were slowly falling into place.
Buffy spent most afternoons running the dirt loop at the edge of Crestview Cemetery, sneakers pounding out a rhythm that brought her back to baseline even when the world felt crooked. Sometimes Willow came along and spent the entire route complaining about exercise being a conspiracy invented by gym teachers, but more often Buffy ran alone. She liked the quiet, just crows, the wind, maybe the far-off drone of Snyder berating the custodian for letting leaves pile up by the gym. Patrol was patrol, same as ever. The graveyards were busy, sure, but not apocalypsy. She dusted two vamps in the Oaks on a Thursday, and a third-a baby vamp, looked maybe twelve when he died-in the Goodwill parking lot that Sunday, but otherwise, business as usual.
Afterward, she'd head home, where everything smelled faintly of mint tea, printer ink, and whatever experiment Willow was currently running on the family computer. Joyce usually left snacks scattered around the kitchen; carrot sticks, Doritos, half-empty bottles of Diet Coke. Buffy liked the normalcy of it. Friends drifted in and out of the house almost every day. Xander and Cordelia usually arrived together now, often dressed in colors that somehow matched without either of them admitting they'd planned it. Tara showed up often as well, settling quietly into whatever room everyone else occupied. Buffy never quite understood how Tara could sit so still, but somehow her calm presence made the entire house feel less hectic.
Kendra and Oz had become a thing, at least if "thing" meant they sat on the sidewalk wall near the hardware store and played dice, or that Kendra spent as much time with the Dingoes as she did with the Scoobies. By the second week, nobody seemed entirely sure whether she was Oz's girlfriend who occasionally sang with the band, or a member of the band who happened to be dating Oz. Sometimes, if Buffy passed by during patrol, she'd see them like that, just two shapes bathed in neon and parking lot light, Kendra's laugh a staccato bright against Oz's soft, almost nonexistent drawl. Kendra seemed lighter these days, like she'd finally been told it was okay to exist outside of Watcher rulebooks.
Giles and Jenny treated the library like a second home. Between Diana Dormer's letters, research projects, and whatever new system Jenny was installing this week, neither of them seemed to spend much time anywhere else.
None of them talked much about the Boston trip, at least not out loud. It sat under every conversation, under the pizza crusts and calculus homework, under patrol updates and band practice and training schedules. Sometimes Cordelia would shoot Xander a look across the lunch table, and he'd give her one of those half-shrugs that meant, "We're doing this, right?" Tara started wearing gloves, the black fingerless kind, and once Cordelia made a point of bringing her extra eyeliner-"Boston's a city, not a convent, sweetie"-but mostly, nothing changed. Xander kept things light. Joked about the weather. He was always like that when something big was coming.
The day before they were set to go, Xander and Buffy took a walk through the graveyard after school. The sky was the thin gray of late February, and the grass sucked at their sneakers with every step.
"Gonna miss me?" Buffy asked, nudging him with her elbow.
He grinned, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Please. Who else is gonna save me from PE? Snyder's out for my blood."
Buffy considered this. "Maybe don't die on me?"
He looked up at the sky, as if accounting for all possible outcomes. "That's the plan," he said, and for once, he didn't look like he was joking.
Sunnydale was like that. Always something churning under the surface, waiting for a moment to erupt. But for two weeks, life pretended it was regular-cafeteria lines, late homework, the smell of chlorine in the school pool. Buffy guessed it was the best you could hope for.
The morning of the trip, Joyce made pancakes and fussed over everyone equally. By the time Xander, Cordelia, and Tara left, they had accumulated enough travel advice and snack food to survive a cross-country expedition.
Buffy watched them get into the car-Tara up front, eyes fixed on the road; Cordelia adjusting the mirror with surgeon-like intensity; Xander, for once, not making a joke. She waved, and they waved back. Then the car was gone, and Sunnydale's quiet clicked back into place.
That night, patrol was the easiest it had been in months. Three cemeteries, not a single vamp. Willow met her at the Espresso Pump, cheeks flushed from the evening cold, and they sat on the curb with paper cups and watched the world do its thing. They didn't talk about the trip. They talked about the future, but only in the way you do when you know it's going to surprise you, no matter what.
Across town, Giles and Jenny played chess in the library, the pieces clacking as they argued over the merits of castling early. Kendra and Oz were sitting in Oz's living room, arguing over song arrangements. It didn't really matter what anyone did, Buffy thought. Change was already in motion.
TCOS & TCOS & TCOS
Logan International Airport
Terminal C,
Wednesday, November 26th, 1997
2:15 PM.
Logan Airport was crowded, noisy, and somehow colder than the air outside. By the time Xander, Cordelia, and Tara collected their luggage and made their way through the terminal, Xander was beginning to understand why people complained about holiday travel.
"Remind me again why teleportation isn't a thing?" he asked.
"Because you'd probably leave part of yourself behind," Tara replied.
"See? That's exactly the sort of information I don't need."
Cordelia rolled her eyes and pointed toward the arrivals area. "Found them."
Two women stood waiting near one of the support columns. The older woman was impossible to miss. She carried herself with the easy confidence of someone who spent her life assessing threats and had yet to find one she couldn't handle.
The younger woman leaning against the wall beside her looked bored.
Dangerously bored. Faith Lehane straightened as they approached.
For a moment nobody spoke. Then Faith looked them over and smirked.
"You came all the way from California?"
Xander shrugged. "Boston was next on our list."
Faith snorted.
Diana looked considerably less amused. "Mr. Harris?"
"Xander."
She nodded once. "Welcome to Boston."
The airport had the taste of old French fry grease and the wet wool stink of winter coats. Xander could feel the damp through his shirt just walking between curbside and baggage claim, but he kept his easy grin in place. Faith's posture said she could turn every head in the room without meaning to. Even Cordelia looked momentarily impressed, and Cordelia's standards redefined the upper atmosphere.
Diana Dormer was a different quantity. She'd dressed in the kind of severe dark slacks and soft-wool blazer that could pass for authority in any school, courtroom, or Watchers' Council reception. Up close, the lines at the corners of her eyes didn't move. Her handshake was quick, dry, and uninterested in confirming the rumors about British manners.
"Thank you for meeting us," she said, then turned away as if the entire group belonged to her and had for years. They fell in behind, a flotilla drifting under Diana's command.
The drive was mostly silent. Diana's sedan was immaculate except for a dog-eared copy of Emily Dickinson on the dash, and the trunk already contained two insulated grocery totes and a collapsible ice scraper. She navigated the tunnels and winter-clogged streets one-handed, phone in her lap, never once checking GPS.
Faith didn't talk. She cracked her window and watched the city scroll past in washed-out daylight-brick warehouses, half-dead strip malls, snow banks the color of concrete. She didn't look at her passengers. She didn't look at Diana. Every now and then her gaze found the rearview, where Tara sat quiet but attentive.
After a half-hour they reached a squat brownstone in Brighton. The stairs were old, polished by decades of boots. Inside: a hallway lined floor-to-ceiling with books, ordinary groceries in the kitchen, laundry basket on the stairs. Not a safehouse. Not even a Watcher's library. Xander felt a weird relief balloon in his chest.
"You look disappointed," Faith said, nodding her chin at him while she peeled out of her jacket. "Expecting stakeproof glass?"
"Honestly," Xander said, "I was expecting more tea cozies." He watched Faith watching Diana, saw how every move orbited around the older woman's presence.
Cordelia hung her coat in the entryway and immediately scanned for the best chair in the living room. She occupied it before anyone else could move. Xander liked that about her-no hesitation.
Diana led the way to the kitchen, where she arranged mismatched mugs and made coffee in an ancient ceramic drip. She poured the last cup for herself, then waited-for what, Xander wasn't sure. Maybe for someone to state the mission, draw the first blood.
"We don't want to waste your time," Tara said finally, wrapping both hands around her mug. "We're not here recruiting."
Diana's gaze didn't leave hers. "That's not what the Council implied."
Tara's mouth quirked, something like a wince. "The Council says things. They don't listen much."
Now Faith looked at Tara. Really looked at her.
"So what's this, then?" Faith tipped her chair back, balancing on two legs. "You touring the country for fun, or was prom canceled?"
Xander laughed, but it came out awkward, thinner than it was in his head. "We came because you're in danger," he said. "And because things in Sunnydale are… not normal, even by our standards."
He saw Diana take that in, filing it somewhere for later. Faith just looked bored.
Cordelia set her mug down with a clink.
"You're not supposed to be dealing with this alone."
Faith snorted.
"Says who?"
"Anyone with common sense," Cordelia replied.
That earned a reluctant smirk.
"We know," Xander said. "But Kakistos isn't exactly a normal problem."
The smirk vanished.
"You know about him."
"We know enough," Xander said carefully.
She didn't answer right away, just let the silence creep in. It didn't feel like a threat. More like she was seeing how long he could go without filling it.
She held up a hand, finally. "Why me?"
Xander hadn't prepared for the question, though he should have. He glanced at Cordelia. Tara, still holding her mug, looked at the steam like the answer might be buried there.
"You deserve options," Tara said, quietly. "Everyone does."
Faith studied her for several seconds. "That's it?"
Tara blinked. "What?"
"You flew across the country to tell me I deserve options?"
The challenge wasn't hostile. Just skeptical. Like Faith had spent most of her life waiting for the catch.
Cordelia nodded, and pointed at Faith with deadly sincerity. "You're a mess. So's everyone in Sunnydale. At least in a group, the odds of spontaneous combustion drop. Slightly."
Faith let out a low, incredulous laugh and shook her head, but she didn't look mad.
Diana set her mug carefully in the sink, then folded her arms. "Let's assume for a moment that everything you've told us is true," Diana said. "How exactly does Sunnydale function with two active Slayers?"
Xander glanced toward Tara and Cordelia. "They work together."
Diana raised an eyebrow. "That simple?"
"No," Cordelia said. "Nothing involving Slayers is ever simple. But Buffy and Kendra trust each other."
Diana looked unconvinced. "And patrols?"
"They coordinate," Tara said. "Sometimes together. Sometimes separately. Depends on what is happening."
Diana nodded slowly. "That sounds good in theory." She wrapped both hands around her coffee mug. "What happens when one of them gets hurt?"
Nobody answered immediately.
"Or when they disagree?" she continued. "I've watched Councils make a mess of those situations. Informal groups aren't always better."
"Depends on the people involved," Cordelia replied. "Not some committee in London."
For the first time, Diana's expression shifted slightly. That answer interested her.
Xander met her gaze. "We're trying to do things differently. Doesn't mean we've got it all figured out. It just means nobody in Sunnydale gets to make decisions for a Slayer except the Slayer."
Diana studied him for a long moment. That answer seemed to satisfy her more than certainty would have.
Diana looked at Faith. "Nothing binding?"
Tara shook her head. "We don't want to control you."
Faith seemed to chew on that, turning it around until it tasted like something she could swallow.
"Maybe I just like Boston," Faith said. "Maybe your Hellmouth isn't my scene."
Cordelia shrugged with admirable indifference. "You'd be bored in a week."
Faith barked a laugh, then narrowed her eyes. "Bet you five bucks I last a month."
"Twelve," Cordelia shot back. "Put up or shut up."
They locked eyes. It wasn't a threat. It was something like respect.
"What's in it for you?" Faith asked quietly. "Why come all this way?"
Xander opened his mouth. Closed it again. "Okay, that sounded easier in my head."
Faith's eyebrow climbed. "Good start."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Look, Buffy can't do it alone. Kendra can't do it alone. And honestly?" He shrugged. "Neither can you."
Faith's expression tightened. Not angry. Just listening.
"The Hellmouth doesn't leave people alone," Xander said. He paused. "Trust me, we'd all be a lot happier if it did."
That earned a small snort from Cordelia. "Understatement of the year."
Xander pointed at her. "See? Witness testimony."
Then he looked back at Faith. "We figured it was better to offer help before things got that far."
Faith didn't look at him. She stared past him, or maybe through him, and Xander realized she was weighing a hundred possible betrayals against the simple fact of someone showing up.
Across the table, Diana's posture softened by a fraction.
"We'd need to see it first," Diana said. "And understand exactly what we're walking into."
Her gaze settled on Xander. "I've spent too many years watching organizations promise freedom while demanding obedience."
Faith snorted. "Yeah. Usually right before they tell you it's for your own good."
Diana shot her a look. "A surprisingly common phrase."
"That's because people suck," Faith replied.
Xander nodded. "Fair."
The answer seemed to surprise her more than an argument would have.
"Of course," Tara said, quick and warm.
Diana glanced at Faith. "Is that agreeable?"
Faith shrugged, but Xander caught the edge of hope she tried to smother. "Sure," she said. "Could be fun."
The conversation wandered for a while. There was talk of the flight back-Tara's fear of turbulence, Cordelia's prediction of blizzards, Xander's disgust at airplane food. Once, Faith tried to get a rise out of Cordelia by making fun of her manicure, but Cordelia countered by complimenting Faith's boots ("If you're going to wear secondhand, at least pick something not out of Back to the Future"), and the tension broke for good.
Faith danced around any mentions of her own family, but she let Tara show her pictures of Sunnydale. An albino squirrel, the high school's impossible mascot, the chipped steps outside the Espresso Pump. Faith snorted at each, but always took the phone back for a second look.
By the time night fell, Diana had produced takeout menus and let Xander choose pizza toppings.
Nobody mentioned the Council again, even in code. Nobody pushed. Nobody tried to solve Faith.
Xander thought about Giles back in Sunnydale, probably up to his elbows in card catalogs, probably worrying too much about getting Diana on board. Xander suspected it wasn't Diana that mattered, not really.
Eventually the evening wound down. The visitors gathered coats and bags.
Cordelia and Faith exchanged one final look that somehow managed to be both competitive and approving.
Tara thanked Diana for dinner.
Xander shook Diana's hand. "We'll be here tomorrow," he said.
Diana nodded. "I suspected you would."
Faith rolled her eyes. "They're stubborn."
"You say that like it's a criticism," Diana replied.
Faith walked them to the door but stopped there.
For a moment nobody seemed quite sure what to say.
Then Faith shrugged. "Sunnydale sounds weird."
Cordelia smirked. "You have no idea."
A ghost of a smile appeared on Faith's face. It wasn't a promise. But it wasn't a refusal either.
For now, that was enough.
The door closed behind the Scoobies.
Silence settled over the apartment.
Diana collected mugs while Faith leaned against the counter.
Neither spoke for several moments.
Finally Diana glanced over. "Well?"
Faith considered the question. "They're weird."
Diana waited.
Faith rolled her eyes. "Not bad weird."
Something warm flickered briefly across Diana's face. "High praise."
Faith snorted. "Don't get excited."
But she didn't sound annoyed. Or trapped. Or defensive.
Just thoughtful.
After a moment she looked toward the dark window overlooking Boston. "Sunnydale, huh?"
Diana followed her gaze. "Perhaps."
Neither woman said anything else.
But for the first time, the possibility felt real.
TCOS & TCOS & TCOS
The next morning bled into being with the taste of burned coffee and the grit of city snow caught in the apartment's front rug. Xander made it to the shower before the others, and came out to find Faith already awake. She leaned against the kitchen counter, picking through the fridge, wearing the same jeans as the day before, her hair tied back with a rubber band that looked like it came from the produce aisle. She moved like she expected the world to throw punches before breakfast.
"You raid the fridge or just lurking for effect?" he asked.
Faith didn't look up, just pulled a carton of eggs and set it hard on the counter. "Diana gets weird if I don't eat a 'substantial breakfast' before leaving, so." She shrugged, then cracked eggs one-handed into a chipped mug.
Xander watched her. There was a rhythm to the way she did it, like she'd been cooking for herself as long as she could remember. "You want help?" he asked.
She snorted. "Everybody wants to help. Nobody wants to do the dishes." But when he dragged a skillet out of the dish rack she didn't stop him.
Cordelia appeared in the kitchen doorway, hair still damp, already dressed, probably had been for an hour. She narrowed her eyes at Faith, then at Xander, then at the eggs. "Just scrambled? No toast?"
When Faith ignored her, Cordelia moved to the coffee machine and started it over, dumping yesterday's grounds with efficient violence. "You don't have bagels?" she asked, genuinely affronted. Faith just grinned, eggshells scraping the trash.
Xander kept waiting for the tension, but if it was there, it was subtle-more like the lingering ache of a pulled muscle than a fist fight waiting to happen. Faith didn't hide that she was sizing Cordelia up, but Cordelia was doing the same, just with sharper edges and fewer words.
Tara wandered in last, still sleepy but composed, the way she always managed to seem like a person who lived outside of time. She gave Faith a small, perfectly sincere "Good morning," which caught Faith enough off guard that she nodded back, almost polite.
They ate at the kitchen table, which was more cluttered than yesterday-Diana had left open manila folders on top of the classifieds, a crossword mid-solve. Faith shoveled in her eggs fast, not quite looking at anyone.
Cordelia broke the silence. "How'd you get the scar?" she asked, pointing at the pale slash across Faith's right knuckle.
Faith grinned. "Bottle opener accident. Or maybe a bar fight. I don't remember." She flexed her hand. "What about you? Ever chipped a nail in actual combat, or just at the salon?"
Cordelia smiled, not a real smile but not fake either. "Manicure blades," she said. "They're sharper than you think." She didn't blink. "You'd be surprised how many threats can be neutralized with a good cutter."
Xander almost laughed, but Faith beat him to it. "You should hang out with me next time I gotta deal with vampires in the North End." She jerked her thumb at Tara. "Does she fight too, or is she just here for, like, vibes?"
Tara looked at the table as the words assembled, then at Faith. "She's here because she's the only one who keeps our collective heads from exploding," Cordelia said, before Tara had a chance to answer.
Faith looked at Tara again, more thoughtful this time. "So you're the brains?"
Tara shook her head, her smile gentle. "No. Just don't like it when people get hurt."
Faith made a sound in her throat that could have been a laugh or maybe something else, and for a second the whole thing felt almost normal-like four teenagers at an ordinary breakfast, the world outside ordinary and uninvited.
Diana walked in, already dressed for weather and work, and scanned the table. "Faith, did you remember to-" She saw the eggs, the empty juice carton, and the formation at the table, and stopped. She didn't smile, but something in her posture loosened, almost imperceptible. "That's new," she said, mostly to herself. Then: "I made an arrangement. You'll have the afternoon to yourselves."
Faith's jaw tensed. "You mean a field trip, right?"
Diana leveled a look at her. "That depends on your guests. I trust them not to cause a spectacle."
Cordelia batted her eyelashes. "Who, us?"
Xander raised his hand. "Promise. Low-key. Like, lowest possible key."
Faith wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, shrugged her way into a jacket, and led the way out, heading for the street without looking back. The others followed. The sky was flat and grey, the snow on the sidewalks pocked and filthy. Cordelia pulled her scarf tighter and muttered about California, Tara stepped carefully around the worst of the slush, and Xander just kept pace with Faith, letting the silence be whatever Faith wanted it to be.
After the first block, Faith slowed down. "You ever been here before?" she asked, not quite challenging, but not casual either.
Xander shook his head. "Nah. Closest I ever got was watching Good Will Hunting with Cordy." He didn't admit that everything about the city made him feel like a knockoff, fake credentials barely holding up under scrutiny.
Faith's grin returned. "You're missing out. Not that it's great, but there's a rhythm. If you stay long enough, the city teaches you how to fight back." She sniffed the air, as if even the diesel fumes and ocean rot were precious. "Sunnydale got anything like that?"
Did it? Xander thought of the boneyards and strip malls, the constant low hum of Hellmouth weirdness under every conversation or gym class. "It's got an attitude," he said. "And about a dozen things that want to kill you on any given weekend."
Faith nodded appreciatively. "Sounds like home."
Cordelia fell into step beside them. "You'll hate the shopping," she said, "but the graveyards are picturesque."
Tara smiled at the ground. "And the people are better than you'd think."
Faith stopped suddenly at a crosswalk, letting the others catch up. She looked at Tara, then at Xander, then Cordelia, and back to Tara again. "Why are you here?" she asked, direct. "Not just in Boston-why are you even in the fight? You could bail. Most do."
Xander wasn't sure if the question was for all of them or just Tara.
"Because if I don't help, people get hurt."
Tara looked down briefly.
"Even when it's scary."
Something flickered across Faith's face, almost the urge to laugh, but it twisted into something more complicated. "Most people bail when it's scary."
"Yeah."
A beat.
"I know."
Faith looked away, eyes narrowing as she watched a line of cars creep through the intersection. "You're weird," she said.
Tara nodded, almost proud. "Most people do bail," she repeated, softer.
For a second, Faith looked like she might say something else, then just shrugged. The light changed. They walked.
The rest of the day was a blur of places Xander only knew from movies and postcards. Faith showed them a boxing gym hacked out of an old church basement, where the air was thick with sweat and vows and half the guys looked like they could break Xander in half without pausing. Faith landed three perfect jabs on a heavy bag in the time it took Xander to lace up gloves. When Cordelia made a joke about the décor, Faith corrected her form with an ease that made it clear: in another world, she could have been a coach, or maybe the kid who always hung around until closing.
They stopped for meatball sandwiches at a place that looked like an OSHA violation, and Faith ate hers in three bites, swallowing each without complaint. She didn't say anything for a while after that, but she didn't drift away either.
Later, as dusk pressed down, they ended up at a playground overlooking the frozen river. Faith perched on the edge of a swing, boots scuffing the ground. "So this Slayer in Sunnydale," she said, not looking at anyone. "She any good?"
Xander didn't hesitate. "Best I've ever seen."
Faith tipped her head, considering.
Cordelia chimed in, "She's the gold standard. If you're gonna test yourself, might as well go against the best."
Faith's smile was a tiger's, all teeth. "Maybe I will."
That night, back at the apartment, Diana joined them for dinner-takeout: Greek this time, Faith's choice. The table was brighter than the day before. Even Faith filled the silences with the occasional dig or story. Cordelia and Diana found a common enemy in the Council's taste for ugly tweed, and Xander tried to prank Faith with extra-hot pepperoncini, which earned him a punch in the shoulder so hard his vision flickered.
Tara and Diana ended up on the couch afterward, comparing notes on some obscure poet, while Faith and Cordelia arm-wrestled for control of the remote. Xander watched all of it, letting it sink in that for the first time it didn't feel like a mission. It felt like a weird, stitched-together family, and he didn't hate it.
Later, as the others drifted toward bed, Faith stood alone in the kitchen, drinking orange juice straight from the carton and staring out the window.
The city lights reflected faintly in the glass.
After a minute, Diana stepped into the room.
Neither spoke immediately.
Finally Diana asked, "Well?"
Faith snorted.
"They're weird."
"That wasn't the question."
Faith rubbed the back of her neck.
"Happy?"
Faith took another drink.
"No."
Diana waited.
Faith hated when she did that.
"They're not what I expected."
"Neither was Rupert Giles, once upon a time."
That earned a reluctant smile.
The silence settled again.
After a while Diana said, "You don't have to decide tonight."
Faith nodded.
"I know."
Diana squeezed her shoulder once before heading back toward her room.
Faith remained at the window.
Sunnydale.
Buffy.
Two Slayers.
A whole group of people who seemed determined to stand together instead of apart.
She still wasn't sure what to make of any of it.
But for the first time since Kakistos entered her life, she found herself wondering what might happen if she stopped fighting alone.
The thought lingered long after the apartment had gone quiet.
TCOS & TCOS & TCOS
Mayor Wilkins's office did not have windows, not in the traditional sense. It had panorama-an entire wall of glass set behind fifty-year-old landscaping. Some called the effect disorienting, but Richard Wilkins III preferred it. Real windows invited the wrong sort of attention: pigeons, teenagers with nothing better to do, and the occasional local reporter who thought staring through glass equated to insight. The view granted a sense of height and safety, both of which he valued.
It was just after sunrise, and the light filtering into City Hall had the color of watered-down cough syrup. Wilkins read the morning's reports with his customary bowl of Cream of Wheat (original flavor, salt and sugar both measured with a teaspoon). His correspondence arrived in slim manila packets-copies prepared for his review with the same precision he demanded of his staff. He preferred facts trimmed of interpretation, never trusting the conclusions of others until he'd drawn his own.
The first file detailed a minor electrical fire at the old tannery. The fire department called it an accident, but the investigator's notes referenced two teenagers seen loitering in the vicinity, no identification. He annotated this with a red pen: "Possible vagrancy. Check with Youth Outreach?" He did not like open ends.
Next: a memo from the high school regarding Rom Snyder. Wilkins smiled at the phrasing-"exceptional vigilance," "renewed commitment to student discipline," "concern for non-academic activities." He'd always considered Snyder a useful asset: inflexible, unyielding, and so eager to impress that he'd interrogate his own staff for sport. Yet the report described him as "increasingly preoccupied with extracurricular timekeeping," and noted several unsanctioned gymnasium sessions with former employees. Wilkins made another note, this one in black ink: "Monitor. Unusual alliances?"
Page three concerned nothing more alarming than municipal recreation records. Most people never realized how much information local government collected. Facility reservations. Maintenance schedules. Liability waivers. After-hours access logs.
Normally such reports were beneath his notice. This one mentioned repeated evening use of school and community recreation facilities by several familiar names. Harris. Snyder. Chase.
Individually, the entries meant nothing.
Together, they suggested purpose.
Wilkins circled the names.
Curious.
Harris.
The father had once been easy to dismiss.
The mother had never seemed especially noteworthy.
Their son, however, had developed an unfortunate tendency to appear near the center of situations that later required explanation.
Penultimate: routine code violations. In the margin, someone-he suspected young Megan at City Permitting-had scribbled a question mark beside a name: Chase, Charles. Wilkins scrawled "Family background?" and "Recent acquisitions?" He preferred a full ledger.
The last item pricked most. It was an internal Watcher report, intercepted per protocol. Giles, Rupert: correspondence irregular. The man had always seemed a touch unstable, but lately his missives left Council channels entirely. "Possible independent action," the attached note suggested. Wilkins considered what that meant: disruption, perhaps. Or something less easily managed.
He sipped his cooling cereal and traced the common thread through the morning's documents. No single entry required intervention. No evidence suggested a coordinated effort. Just the usual background noise-a town's worth of secrets, grievances, little betrayals pushing up through the concrete.
Still, the pattern itched.
Wilkins set the reports in order of priority and buzzed his secretary.
"Megan, I'll need fresh dossiers on the following. Also, instruct Rom Snyder to document any post-hours gym activity directly to me, no exceptions. And Megan? If you see Officer Stein, remind him he's late for our standing meeting."
She answered, yes sir, her tone brisk. He liked that about her.
He stood, smoothing his blazer, and considered the line of ornamental maple outside his not-quite-window. Last week, someone had broken off a low branch-likely a local child, perhaps two. The mark it left was minor but permanent, at least for the season. The absence nagged at him every time he looked through the glass, and he made a point to notice it. Over time, such losses accumulated. Over time, they made a difference.
He sat again, hands folded perfectly atop the next stack of work.
Richard Wilkins occasionally read Ian Fleming.
One observation from the novels had remained with him for years.
Once was happenstance.
Twice was coincidence.
The third time was enemy action.
Richard Wilkins had learned long ago that the principle applied just as well to politics, dark magic, and troublesome citizens.
Lately, Sunnydale seemed determined to provide him with all three.
End Chapter Twenty-Three
PART: 23 of 30
AUTHOR: Red Jacobson (red.jacobson@gmail.com)
DISTRIBUTION: FanFiction.net, Archive of Our Own, Twisting the Hellmouth
DISCLAIMER: None of the Characters You Recognize belong to me, the Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Angel Characters belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy (Grrr! Argh!), and the Boondock characters belong to the Estate of Robert A Heinlein and his publishers. The concept of Highlander Immortals and all associated characters are the property of Rysher Entertainment.
SUMMARY: The activation of the world's slayers has caused massive destruction throughout the multiverse, and the Circle of Ouroborus is determined to prevent that from happening and recruit three natives of the critical timeline to save the Multiverse!
FEEDBACK: Of Course! It Makes Me Write Faster
RELATIONSHIPS: Xander/Cordelia/Tara, Buffy/Willow, Giles/Jenny, Kendra/Oz
RATING: PG-13
WORD COUNT: <5,852>
SPOILERS: A Crossover with RAH's Lazarus Long Books. I'm afraid that, while I'm going to do my best to explain things, at least a passing familiarity with Time Enough For Love, The Number of the Beast, The Cat Who Walks Through Walls, and To Sail Beyond the Sunset would help you understand who these characters are. There are no spoilers, but if you don't know how the Buffy the Vampire Slayer story goes by now, why are you reading this story?
ATTENTION 'PROFESSIONAL ARTISTS': I'm not looking to commission any artwork. If you contact me about it, I'll ignore you and block your username. Please save us both the trouble and don't bother.
Sunnydale
November 18th - November 26th, 1997
The days passed quickly after the Misfits returned from Los Angeles. Heather's return had reminded all of them how much time had passed. None of the Misfits said it aloud, but over the next two weeks each quietly began correcting that problem. After returning to Sunnydale, the Misfits resumed habits most of them had abandoned years earlier. Tony and Jess hauled an old treadmill out of storage and set it up in the basement, claiming they were tired of feeling old every time Xander dragged them onto a training mat. Paul started taking longer routes through his patrol districts and rediscovered that foot pursuits required a different set of muscles than paperwork. Rom somehow managed to assign himself regular after-school supervision in the gymnasium, insisting he was setting a positive example for the students while spending suspicious amounts of time around the weight room. Charles and Margaret took to long evening walks through the better neighborhoods, gradually increasing the distance each week. None of it attracted attention. None of it looked unusual. By the end of the second week, however, every one of them was moving a little easier than before, and nobody was quite as out of breath climbing a flight of stairs.
School, patrols, research, training, and family obligations filled the hours much as they always had. To anyone looking from the outside, life in Sunnydale appeared perfectly normal. Behind the scenes, however, dozens of small preparations were slowly falling into place.
Buffy spent most afternoons running the dirt loop at the edge of Crestview Cemetery, sneakers pounding out a rhythm that brought her back to baseline even when the world felt crooked. Sometimes Willow came along and spent the entire route complaining about exercise being a conspiracy invented by gym teachers, but more often Buffy ran alone. She liked the quiet, just crows, the wind, maybe the far-off drone of Snyder berating the custodian for letting leaves pile up by the gym. Patrol was patrol, same as ever. The graveyards were busy, sure, but not apocalypsy. She dusted two vamps in the Oaks on a Thursday, and a third-a baby vamp, looked maybe twelve when he died-in the Goodwill parking lot that Sunday, but otherwise, business as usual.
Afterward, she'd head home, where everything smelled faintly of mint tea, printer ink, and whatever experiment Willow was currently running on the family computer. Joyce usually left snacks scattered around the kitchen; carrot sticks, Doritos, half-empty bottles of Diet Coke. Buffy liked the normalcy of it. Friends drifted in and out of the house almost every day. Xander and Cordelia usually arrived together now, often dressed in colors that somehow matched without either of them admitting they'd planned it. Tara showed up often as well, settling quietly into whatever room everyone else occupied. Buffy never quite understood how Tara could sit so still, but somehow her calm presence made the entire house feel less hectic.
Kendra and Oz had become a thing, at least if "thing" meant they sat on the sidewalk wall near the hardware store and played dice, or that Kendra spent as much time with the Dingoes as she did with the Scoobies. By the second week, nobody seemed entirely sure whether she was Oz's girlfriend who occasionally sang with the band, or a member of the band who happened to be dating Oz. Sometimes, if Buffy passed by during patrol, she'd see them like that, just two shapes bathed in neon and parking lot light, Kendra's laugh a staccato bright against Oz's soft, almost nonexistent drawl. Kendra seemed lighter these days, like she'd finally been told it was okay to exist outside of Watcher rulebooks.
Giles and Jenny treated the library like a second home. Between Diana Dormer's letters, research projects, and whatever new system Jenny was installing this week, neither of them seemed to spend much time anywhere else.
None of them talked much about the Boston trip, at least not out loud. It sat under every conversation, under the pizza crusts and calculus homework, under patrol updates and band practice and training schedules. Sometimes Cordelia would shoot Xander a look across the lunch table, and he'd give her one of those half-shrugs that meant, "We're doing this, right?" Tara started wearing gloves, the black fingerless kind, and once Cordelia made a point of bringing her extra eyeliner-"Boston's a city, not a convent, sweetie"-but mostly, nothing changed. Xander kept things light. Joked about the weather. He was always like that when something big was coming.
The day before they were set to go, Xander and Buffy took a walk through the graveyard after school. The sky was the thin gray of late February, and the grass sucked at their sneakers with every step.
"Gonna miss me?" Buffy asked, nudging him with her elbow.
He grinned, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Please. Who else is gonna save me from PE? Snyder's out for my blood."
Buffy considered this. "Maybe don't die on me?"
He looked up at the sky, as if accounting for all possible outcomes. "That's the plan," he said, and for once, he didn't look like he was joking.
Sunnydale was like that. Always something churning under the surface, waiting for a moment to erupt. But for two weeks, life pretended it was regular-cafeteria lines, late homework, the smell of chlorine in the school pool. Buffy guessed it was the best you could hope for.
The morning of the trip, Joyce made pancakes and fussed over everyone equally. By the time Xander, Cordelia, and Tara left, they had accumulated enough travel advice and snack food to survive a cross-country expedition.
Buffy watched them get into the car-Tara up front, eyes fixed on the road; Cordelia adjusting the mirror with surgeon-like intensity; Xander, for once, not making a joke. She waved, and they waved back. Then the car was gone, and Sunnydale's quiet clicked back into place.
That night, patrol was the easiest it had been in months. Three cemeteries, not a single vamp. Willow met her at the Espresso Pump, cheeks flushed from the evening cold, and they sat on the curb with paper cups and watched the world do its thing. They didn't talk about the trip. They talked about the future, but only in the way you do when you know it's going to surprise you, no matter what.
Across town, Giles and Jenny played chess in the library, the pieces clacking as they argued over the merits of castling early. Kendra and Oz were sitting in Oz's living room, arguing over song arrangements. It didn't really matter what anyone did, Buffy thought. Change was already in motion.
TCOS & TCOS & TCOS
Logan International Airport
Terminal C,
Wednesday, November 26th, 1997
2:15 PM.
Logan Airport was crowded, noisy, and somehow colder than the air outside. By the time Xander, Cordelia, and Tara collected their luggage and made their way through the terminal, Xander was beginning to understand why people complained about holiday travel.
"Remind me again why teleportation isn't a thing?" he asked.
"Because you'd probably leave part of yourself behind," Tara replied.
"See? That's exactly the sort of information I don't need."
Cordelia rolled her eyes and pointed toward the arrivals area. "Found them."
Two women stood waiting near one of the support columns. The older woman was impossible to miss. She carried herself with the easy confidence of someone who spent her life assessing threats and had yet to find one she couldn't handle.
The younger woman leaning against the wall beside her looked bored.
Dangerously bored. Faith Lehane straightened as they approached.
For a moment nobody spoke. Then Faith looked them over and smirked.
"You came all the way from California?"
Xander shrugged. "Boston was next on our list."
Faith snorted.
Diana looked considerably less amused. "Mr. Harris?"
"Xander."
She nodded once. "Welcome to Boston."
The airport had the taste of old French fry grease and the wet wool stink of winter coats. Xander could feel the damp through his shirt just walking between curbside and baggage claim, but he kept his easy grin in place. Faith's posture said she could turn every head in the room without meaning to. Even Cordelia looked momentarily impressed, and Cordelia's standards redefined the upper atmosphere.
Diana Dormer was a different quantity. She'd dressed in the kind of severe dark slacks and soft-wool blazer that could pass for authority in any school, courtroom, or Watchers' Council reception. Up close, the lines at the corners of her eyes didn't move. Her handshake was quick, dry, and uninterested in confirming the rumors about British manners.
"Thank you for meeting us," she said, then turned away as if the entire group belonged to her and had for years. They fell in behind, a flotilla drifting under Diana's command.
The drive was mostly silent. Diana's sedan was immaculate except for a dog-eared copy of Emily Dickinson on the dash, and the trunk already contained two insulated grocery totes and a collapsible ice scraper. She navigated the tunnels and winter-clogged streets one-handed, phone in her lap, never once checking GPS.
Faith didn't talk. She cracked her window and watched the city scroll past in washed-out daylight-brick warehouses, half-dead strip malls, snow banks the color of concrete. She didn't look at her passengers. She didn't look at Diana. Every now and then her gaze found the rearview, where Tara sat quiet but attentive.
After a half-hour they reached a squat brownstone in Brighton. The stairs were old, polished by decades of boots. Inside: a hallway lined floor-to-ceiling with books, ordinary groceries in the kitchen, laundry basket on the stairs. Not a safehouse. Not even a Watcher's library. Xander felt a weird relief balloon in his chest.
"You look disappointed," Faith said, nodding her chin at him while she peeled out of her jacket. "Expecting stakeproof glass?"
"Honestly," Xander said, "I was expecting more tea cozies." He watched Faith watching Diana, saw how every move orbited around the older woman's presence.
Cordelia hung her coat in the entryway and immediately scanned for the best chair in the living room. She occupied it before anyone else could move. Xander liked that about her-no hesitation.
Diana led the way to the kitchen, where she arranged mismatched mugs and made coffee in an ancient ceramic drip. She poured the last cup for herself, then waited-for what, Xander wasn't sure. Maybe for someone to state the mission, draw the first blood.
"We don't want to waste your time," Tara said finally, wrapping both hands around her mug. "We're not here recruiting."
Diana's gaze didn't leave hers. "That's not what the Council implied."
Tara's mouth quirked, something like a wince. "The Council says things. They don't listen much."
Now Faith looked at Tara. Really looked at her.
"So what's this, then?" Faith tipped her chair back, balancing on two legs. "You touring the country for fun, or was prom canceled?"
Xander laughed, but it came out awkward, thinner than it was in his head. "We came because you're in danger," he said. "And because things in Sunnydale are… not normal, even by our standards."
He saw Diana take that in, filing it somewhere for later. Faith just looked bored.
Cordelia set her mug down with a clink.
"You're not supposed to be dealing with this alone."
Faith snorted.
"Says who?"
"Anyone with common sense," Cordelia replied.
That earned a reluctant smirk.
"We know," Xander said. "But Kakistos isn't exactly a normal problem."
The smirk vanished.
"You know about him."
"We know enough," Xander said carefully.
She didn't answer right away, just let the silence creep in. It didn't feel like a threat. More like she was seeing how long he could go without filling it.
She held up a hand, finally. "Why me?"
Xander hadn't prepared for the question, though he should have. He glanced at Cordelia. Tara, still holding her mug, looked at the steam like the answer might be buried there.
"You deserve options," Tara said, quietly. "Everyone does."
Faith studied her for several seconds. "That's it?"
Tara blinked. "What?"
"You flew across the country to tell me I deserve options?"
The challenge wasn't hostile. Just skeptical. Like Faith had spent most of her life waiting for the catch.
Cordelia nodded, and pointed at Faith with deadly sincerity. "You're a mess. So's everyone in Sunnydale. At least in a group, the odds of spontaneous combustion drop. Slightly."
Faith let out a low, incredulous laugh and shook her head, but she didn't look mad.
Diana set her mug carefully in the sink, then folded her arms. "Let's assume for a moment that everything you've told us is true," Diana said. "How exactly does Sunnydale function with two active Slayers?"
Xander glanced toward Tara and Cordelia. "They work together."
Diana raised an eyebrow. "That simple?"
"No," Cordelia said. "Nothing involving Slayers is ever simple. But Buffy and Kendra trust each other."
Diana looked unconvinced. "And patrols?"
"They coordinate," Tara said. "Sometimes together. Sometimes separately. Depends on what is happening."
Diana nodded slowly. "That sounds good in theory." She wrapped both hands around her coffee mug. "What happens when one of them gets hurt?"
Nobody answered immediately.
"Or when they disagree?" she continued. "I've watched Councils make a mess of those situations. Informal groups aren't always better."
"Depends on the people involved," Cordelia replied. "Not some committee in London."
For the first time, Diana's expression shifted slightly. That answer interested her.
Xander met her gaze. "We're trying to do things differently. Doesn't mean we've got it all figured out. It just means nobody in Sunnydale gets to make decisions for a Slayer except the Slayer."
Diana studied him for a long moment. That answer seemed to satisfy her more than certainty would have.
Diana looked at Faith. "Nothing binding?"
Tara shook her head. "We don't want to control you."
Faith seemed to chew on that, turning it around until it tasted like something she could swallow.
"Maybe I just like Boston," Faith said. "Maybe your Hellmouth isn't my scene."
Cordelia shrugged with admirable indifference. "You'd be bored in a week."
Faith barked a laugh, then narrowed her eyes. "Bet you five bucks I last a month."
"Twelve," Cordelia shot back. "Put up or shut up."
They locked eyes. It wasn't a threat. It was something like respect.
"What's in it for you?" Faith asked quietly. "Why come all this way?"
Xander opened his mouth. Closed it again. "Okay, that sounded easier in my head."
Faith's eyebrow climbed. "Good start."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Look, Buffy can't do it alone. Kendra can't do it alone. And honestly?" He shrugged. "Neither can you."
Faith's expression tightened. Not angry. Just listening.
"The Hellmouth doesn't leave people alone," Xander said. He paused. "Trust me, we'd all be a lot happier if it did."
That earned a small snort from Cordelia. "Understatement of the year."
Xander pointed at her. "See? Witness testimony."
Then he looked back at Faith. "We figured it was better to offer help before things got that far."
Faith didn't look at him. She stared past him, or maybe through him, and Xander realized she was weighing a hundred possible betrayals against the simple fact of someone showing up.
Across the table, Diana's posture softened by a fraction.
"We'd need to see it first," Diana said. "And understand exactly what we're walking into."
Her gaze settled on Xander. "I've spent too many years watching organizations promise freedom while demanding obedience."
Faith snorted. "Yeah. Usually right before they tell you it's for your own good."
Diana shot her a look. "A surprisingly common phrase."
"That's because people suck," Faith replied.
Xander nodded. "Fair."
The answer seemed to surprise her more than an argument would have.
"Of course," Tara said, quick and warm.
Diana glanced at Faith. "Is that agreeable?"
Faith shrugged, but Xander caught the edge of hope she tried to smother. "Sure," she said. "Could be fun."
The conversation wandered for a while. There was talk of the flight back-Tara's fear of turbulence, Cordelia's prediction of blizzards, Xander's disgust at airplane food. Once, Faith tried to get a rise out of Cordelia by making fun of her manicure, but Cordelia countered by complimenting Faith's boots ("If you're going to wear secondhand, at least pick something not out of Back to the Future"), and the tension broke for good.
Faith danced around any mentions of her own family, but she let Tara show her pictures of Sunnydale. An albino squirrel, the high school's impossible mascot, the chipped steps outside the Espresso Pump. Faith snorted at each, but always took the phone back for a second look.
By the time night fell, Diana had produced takeout menus and let Xander choose pizza toppings.
Nobody mentioned the Council again, even in code. Nobody pushed. Nobody tried to solve Faith.
Xander thought about Giles back in Sunnydale, probably up to his elbows in card catalogs, probably worrying too much about getting Diana on board. Xander suspected it wasn't Diana that mattered, not really.
Eventually the evening wound down. The visitors gathered coats and bags.
Cordelia and Faith exchanged one final look that somehow managed to be both competitive and approving.
Tara thanked Diana for dinner.
Xander shook Diana's hand. "We'll be here tomorrow," he said.
Diana nodded. "I suspected you would."
Faith rolled her eyes. "They're stubborn."
"You say that like it's a criticism," Diana replied.
Faith walked them to the door but stopped there.
For a moment nobody seemed quite sure what to say.
Then Faith shrugged. "Sunnydale sounds weird."
Cordelia smirked. "You have no idea."
A ghost of a smile appeared on Faith's face. It wasn't a promise. But it wasn't a refusal either.
For now, that was enough.
The door closed behind the Scoobies.
Silence settled over the apartment.
Diana collected mugs while Faith leaned against the counter.
Neither spoke for several moments.
Finally Diana glanced over. "Well?"
Faith considered the question. "They're weird."
Diana waited.
Faith rolled her eyes. "Not bad weird."
Something warm flickered briefly across Diana's face. "High praise."
Faith snorted. "Don't get excited."
But she didn't sound annoyed. Or trapped. Or defensive.
Just thoughtful.
After a moment she looked toward the dark window overlooking Boston. "Sunnydale, huh?"
Diana followed her gaze. "Perhaps."
Neither woman said anything else.
But for the first time, the possibility felt real.
TCOS & TCOS & TCOS
The next morning bled into being with the taste of burned coffee and the grit of city snow caught in the apartment's front rug. Xander made it to the shower before the others, and came out to find Faith already awake. She leaned against the kitchen counter, picking through the fridge, wearing the same jeans as the day before, her hair tied back with a rubber band that looked like it came from the produce aisle. She moved like she expected the world to throw punches before breakfast.
"You raid the fridge or just lurking for effect?" he asked.
Faith didn't look up, just pulled a carton of eggs and set it hard on the counter. "Diana gets weird if I don't eat a 'substantial breakfast' before leaving, so." She shrugged, then cracked eggs one-handed into a chipped mug.
Xander watched her. There was a rhythm to the way she did it, like she'd been cooking for herself as long as she could remember. "You want help?" he asked.
She snorted. "Everybody wants to help. Nobody wants to do the dishes." But when he dragged a skillet out of the dish rack she didn't stop him.
Cordelia appeared in the kitchen doorway, hair still damp, already dressed, probably had been for an hour. She narrowed her eyes at Faith, then at Xander, then at the eggs. "Just scrambled? No toast?"
When Faith ignored her, Cordelia moved to the coffee machine and started it over, dumping yesterday's grounds with efficient violence. "You don't have bagels?" she asked, genuinely affronted. Faith just grinned, eggshells scraping the trash.
Xander kept waiting for the tension, but if it was there, it was subtle-more like the lingering ache of a pulled muscle than a fist fight waiting to happen. Faith didn't hide that she was sizing Cordelia up, but Cordelia was doing the same, just with sharper edges and fewer words.
Tara wandered in last, still sleepy but composed, the way she always managed to seem like a person who lived outside of time. She gave Faith a small, perfectly sincere "Good morning," which caught Faith enough off guard that she nodded back, almost polite.
They ate at the kitchen table, which was more cluttered than yesterday-Diana had left open manila folders on top of the classifieds, a crossword mid-solve. Faith shoveled in her eggs fast, not quite looking at anyone.
Cordelia broke the silence. "How'd you get the scar?" she asked, pointing at the pale slash across Faith's right knuckle.
Faith grinned. "Bottle opener accident. Or maybe a bar fight. I don't remember." She flexed her hand. "What about you? Ever chipped a nail in actual combat, or just at the salon?"
Cordelia smiled, not a real smile but not fake either. "Manicure blades," she said. "They're sharper than you think." She didn't blink. "You'd be surprised how many threats can be neutralized with a good cutter."
Xander almost laughed, but Faith beat him to it. "You should hang out with me next time I gotta deal with vampires in the North End." She jerked her thumb at Tara. "Does she fight too, or is she just here for, like, vibes?"
Tara looked at the table as the words assembled, then at Faith. "She's here because she's the only one who keeps our collective heads from exploding," Cordelia said, before Tara had a chance to answer.
Faith looked at Tara again, more thoughtful this time. "So you're the brains?"
Tara shook her head, her smile gentle. "No. Just don't like it when people get hurt."
Faith made a sound in her throat that could have been a laugh or maybe something else, and for a second the whole thing felt almost normal-like four teenagers at an ordinary breakfast, the world outside ordinary and uninvited.
Diana walked in, already dressed for weather and work, and scanned the table. "Faith, did you remember to-" She saw the eggs, the empty juice carton, and the formation at the table, and stopped. She didn't smile, but something in her posture loosened, almost imperceptible. "That's new," she said, mostly to herself. Then: "I made an arrangement. You'll have the afternoon to yourselves."
Faith's jaw tensed. "You mean a field trip, right?"
Diana leveled a look at her. "That depends on your guests. I trust them not to cause a spectacle."
Cordelia batted her eyelashes. "Who, us?"
Xander raised his hand. "Promise. Low-key. Like, lowest possible key."
Faith wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, shrugged her way into a jacket, and led the way out, heading for the street without looking back. The others followed. The sky was flat and grey, the snow on the sidewalks pocked and filthy. Cordelia pulled her scarf tighter and muttered about California, Tara stepped carefully around the worst of the slush, and Xander just kept pace with Faith, letting the silence be whatever Faith wanted it to be.
After the first block, Faith slowed down. "You ever been here before?" she asked, not quite challenging, but not casual either.
Xander shook his head. "Nah. Closest I ever got was watching Good Will Hunting with Cordy." He didn't admit that everything about the city made him feel like a knockoff, fake credentials barely holding up under scrutiny.
Faith's grin returned. "You're missing out. Not that it's great, but there's a rhythm. If you stay long enough, the city teaches you how to fight back." She sniffed the air, as if even the diesel fumes and ocean rot were precious. "Sunnydale got anything like that?"
Did it? Xander thought of the boneyards and strip malls, the constant low hum of Hellmouth weirdness under every conversation or gym class. "It's got an attitude," he said. "And about a dozen things that want to kill you on any given weekend."
Faith nodded appreciatively. "Sounds like home."
Cordelia fell into step beside them. "You'll hate the shopping," she said, "but the graveyards are picturesque."
Tara smiled at the ground. "And the people are better than you'd think."
Faith stopped suddenly at a crosswalk, letting the others catch up. She looked at Tara, then at Xander, then Cordelia, and back to Tara again. "Why are you here?" she asked, direct. "Not just in Boston-why are you even in the fight? You could bail. Most do."
Xander wasn't sure if the question was for all of them or just Tara.
"Because if I don't help, people get hurt."
Tara looked down briefly.
"Even when it's scary."
Something flickered across Faith's face, almost the urge to laugh, but it twisted into something more complicated. "Most people bail when it's scary."
"Yeah."
A beat.
"I know."
Faith looked away, eyes narrowing as she watched a line of cars creep through the intersection. "You're weird," she said.
Tara nodded, almost proud. "Most people do bail," she repeated, softer.
For a second, Faith looked like she might say something else, then just shrugged. The light changed. They walked.
The rest of the day was a blur of places Xander only knew from movies and postcards. Faith showed them a boxing gym hacked out of an old church basement, where the air was thick with sweat and vows and half the guys looked like they could break Xander in half without pausing. Faith landed three perfect jabs on a heavy bag in the time it took Xander to lace up gloves. When Cordelia made a joke about the décor, Faith corrected her form with an ease that made it clear: in another world, she could have been a coach, or maybe the kid who always hung around until closing.
They stopped for meatball sandwiches at a place that looked like an OSHA violation, and Faith ate hers in three bites, swallowing each without complaint. She didn't say anything for a while after that, but she didn't drift away either.
Later, as dusk pressed down, they ended up at a playground overlooking the frozen river. Faith perched on the edge of a swing, boots scuffing the ground. "So this Slayer in Sunnydale," she said, not looking at anyone. "She any good?"
Xander didn't hesitate. "Best I've ever seen."
Faith tipped her head, considering.
Cordelia chimed in, "She's the gold standard. If you're gonna test yourself, might as well go against the best."
Faith's smile was a tiger's, all teeth. "Maybe I will."
That night, back at the apartment, Diana joined them for dinner-takeout: Greek this time, Faith's choice. The table was brighter than the day before. Even Faith filled the silences with the occasional dig or story. Cordelia and Diana found a common enemy in the Council's taste for ugly tweed, and Xander tried to prank Faith with extra-hot pepperoncini, which earned him a punch in the shoulder so hard his vision flickered.
Tara and Diana ended up on the couch afterward, comparing notes on some obscure poet, while Faith and Cordelia arm-wrestled for control of the remote. Xander watched all of it, letting it sink in that for the first time it didn't feel like a mission. It felt like a weird, stitched-together family, and he didn't hate it.
Later, as the others drifted toward bed, Faith stood alone in the kitchen, drinking orange juice straight from the carton and staring out the window.
The city lights reflected faintly in the glass.
After a minute, Diana stepped into the room.
Neither spoke immediately.
Finally Diana asked, "Well?"
Faith snorted.
"They're weird."
"That wasn't the question."
Faith rubbed the back of her neck.
"Happy?"
Faith took another drink.
"No."
Diana waited.
Faith hated when she did that.
"They're not what I expected."
"Neither was Rupert Giles, once upon a time."
That earned a reluctant smile.
The silence settled again.
After a while Diana said, "You don't have to decide tonight."
Faith nodded.
"I know."
Diana squeezed her shoulder once before heading back toward her room.
Faith remained at the window.
Sunnydale.
Buffy.
Two Slayers.
A whole group of people who seemed determined to stand together instead of apart.
She still wasn't sure what to make of any of it.
But for the first time since Kakistos entered her life, she found herself wondering what might happen if she stopped fighting alone.
The thought lingered long after the apartment had gone quiet.
TCOS & TCOS & TCOS
Mayor Wilkins's office did not have windows, not in the traditional sense. It had panorama-an entire wall of glass set behind fifty-year-old landscaping. Some called the effect disorienting, but Richard Wilkins III preferred it. Real windows invited the wrong sort of attention: pigeons, teenagers with nothing better to do, and the occasional local reporter who thought staring through glass equated to insight. The view granted a sense of height and safety, both of which he valued.
It was just after sunrise, and the light filtering into City Hall had the color of watered-down cough syrup. Wilkins read the morning's reports with his customary bowl of Cream of Wheat (original flavor, salt and sugar both measured with a teaspoon). His correspondence arrived in slim manila packets-copies prepared for his review with the same precision he demanded of his staff. He preferred facts trimmed of interpretation, never trusting the conclusions of others until he'd drawn his own.
The first file detailed a minor electrical fire at the old tannery. The fire department called it an accident, but the investigator's notes referenced two teenagers seen loitering in the vicinity, no identification. He annotated this with a red pen: "Possible vagrancy. Check with Youth Outreach?" He did not like open ends.
Next: a memo from the high school regarding Rom Snyder. Wilkins smiled at the phrasing-"exceptional vigilance," "renewed commitment to student discipline," "concern for non-academic activities." He'd always considered Snyder a useful asset: inflexible, unyielding, and so eager to impress that he'd interrogate his own staff for sport. Yet the report described him as "increasingly preoccupied with extracurricular timekeeping," and noted several unsanctioned gymnasium sessions with former employees. Wilkins made another note, this one in black ink: "Monitor. Unusual alliances?"
Page three concerned nothing more alarming than municipal recreation records. Most people never realized how much information local government collected. Facility reservations. Maintenance schedules. Liability waivers. After-hours access logs.
Normally such reports were beneath his notice. This one mentioned repeated evening use of school and community recreation facilities by several familiar names. Harris. Snyder. Chase.
Individually, the entries meant nothing.
Together, they suggested purpose.
Wilkins circled the names.
Curious.
Harris.
The father had once been easy to dismiss.
The mother had never seemed especially noteworthy.
Their son, however, had developed an unfortunate tendency to appear near the center of situations that later required explanation.
Penultimate: routine code violations. In the margin, someone-he suspected young Megan at City Permitting-had scribbled a question mark beside a name: Chase, Charles. Wilkins scrawled "Family background?" and "Recent acquisitions?" He preferred a full ledger.
The last item pricked most. It was an internal Watcher report, intercepted per protocol. Giles, Rupert: correspondence irregular. The man had always seemed a touch unstable, but lately his missives left Council channels entirely. "Possible independent action," the attached note suggested. Wilkins considered what that meant: disruption, perhaps. Or something less easily managed.
He sipped his cooling cereal and traced the common thread through the morning's documents. No single entry required intervention. No evidence suggested a coordinated effort. Just the usual background noise-a town's worth of secrets, grievances, little betrayals pushing up through the concrete.
Still, the pattern itched.
Wilkins set the reports in order of priority and buzzed his secretary.
"Megan, I'll need fresh dossiers on the following. Also, instruct Rom Snyder to document any post-hours gym activity directly to me, no exceptions. And Megan? If you see Officer Stein, remind him he's late for our standing meeting."
She answered, yes sir, her tone brisk. He liked that about her.
He stood, smoothing his blazer, and considered the line of ornamental maple outside his not-quite-window. Last week, someone had broken off a low branch-likely a local child, perhaps two. The mark it left was minor but permanent, at least for the season. The absence nagged at him every time he looked through the glass, and he made a point to notice it. Over time, such losses accumulated. Over time, they made a difference.
He sat again, hands folded perfectly atop the next stack of work.
Richard Wilkins occasionally read Ian Fleming.
One observation from the novels had remained with him for years.
Once was happenstance.
Twice was coincidence.
The third time was enemy action.
Richard Wilkins had learned long ago that the principle applied just as well to politics, dark magic, and troublesome citizens.
Lately, Sunnydale seemed determined to provide him with all three.
End Chapter Twenty-Three