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The Circle of Scooby Chapter Nineteen
🕑 Added 2025-11-05 01:51:42 +0000 UTCThe Chapter and the Collected Stories are in the Subfolder - https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1kiJiqSezjz38di9wj31KbEuI-uJH4P0h?usp=sharing
STORY TITLE: The Circle of Scooby
PART: 19 of?
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: <6,857>
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?
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I'm going to try something unusual for this story, no lemons. Frankly, they've gotten to be a bore to write, and I imagine they've become boring to read as well. Hope this goes well.
#
The Westin Hotel
Manhattan, NYC
Sunday, November 9th, 1997
Evening
By the time Charles Chase reached the thirty-fourth floor, dusk had already painted a stained-glass tapestry of Manhattan--windows winking on in constellations of artificial light, blue shadows pooling between the towers. He slipped his key card into the lock with a practiced flick, eased the door open, then paused to let it swing closed behind him. The suite's air was filtered, hushed, undeniably expensive.
He lingered in the hallway long enough to sweep every angle with vigilant eyes. He smiled, hearing Margaret singing in the bedroom, and Charles hoped that she would still feel like singing when they finished their conversation. A quick look across the main room, and he was standing in front of the wall of glass that looked down on Park Avenue. Charles braced his palms on the cool surface and watched brake lights crawl south, tiny figures scuttling on the sidewalks. He drew the heavy curtains shut--top to bottom--until all he could see was the dim glow of the room and the steady hum of the air conditioner.
He moved methodically, checking every door, every closet, even the bathroom. The place had the feel of a minor royal's temporary residence: creams and blacks and golds, furniture so plush you needed steel core to rise from it. He circled the couch once, twice, then dropped his briefcase on the lacquered desk and exhaled, long and slow.
He'd always been the worrier. But over fifteen years of marriage to Margaret--through Sunnydale and every curve-ball life threw at them--he'd learned the world's capacity for danger far outstripped even his darkest expectations.
Margaret's singing ended, and Charles heard her voice from the bedroom, "Charles? I'm almost ready, and I put an order for the plastic sheets and the ice cream so we don't have to wait when we bring a playmate to the room." Charles didn't answer, although he focused on Margaret's tone; she sounded almost perfect, but there was a twinge of something in her voice, making him turn toward the bedroom door.
His wife stepped through the doorway, closing the latch on her earrings, "Charles? Is something wrong? I know you said that you only had a couple of small matters last night. Has that changed?"
He shook his head, "No, it's just that something really strange was brought to my attention, mine and the others, and I'm still not sure what to make of it. But I do need to ask you, what happened at Russell Nash's Antique shop that shocked you so much?"
Margaret grinned wryly, "Starting with an easy one, I see," before walking over to the bar and pouring a drink, before offering the bottle to Charles. He shook his head, a confused expression on his face, and she continued, "To start with, I met and fell in love with you just the way I told you, nothing underhanded at all. But there is more to the story than I told you. To be blunt, I've lied. To you--and everyone else--for a very long time."
He nodded because after fifteen years, he knew her patterns. She braced herself before big confessions. "Go on."
"I know that sounds like the start of a bad support group speech," she said, tipping her glass back and swallowing. The amber liquid slid smooth down her throat. She set the glass down, fingers tightening around the stem. "I'm sure in your investigation, you found mention of my picking up an interest in bladed weapons." Charles nodded, "That was how I ended up meeting Russell Nash. You actually met him, I recently learned, under the name Clinton MacGregor. Do you remember him?"
Charles frowned slightly. "Yes, he was a damn good investigator, but then he disappeared. I thought that he might have found someone better at hiding things than he was at finding them, and put an end to his investigations. You're telling me that he changed in name and career, why would he do that?"
Margaret's eyes flicked up to the ceiling, as if the crystal chandelier could bear the weight of her words. "Russell Nash isn't his real name either; he was born Connor Macleod in Glenfinnan, Scotland, in the year 1518, and was killed in battle in 1536. He recovered and has been alive for the last 450 years, give or take. Russell is an Immortal, with a Capital I, and has been fighting to stay alive for all those years."
Charles swallowed, looked at her in disbelief. "Immortal? Like Elric? Or Dorian Hawkmoon? Some kind of Eternal Champion Immortal?"
She nodded. "Yes. And so am I."
His eyebrow shot up, a habitual gesture from the years they'd spent decoding odd threats. When no punchline came, he laughed--sharp, short--a reflex to stall while his mind raced. "You're kidding. Maggie, are you on something?"
She let out a humorless chuckle. "No. No drugs, no secret labs. Just me. And if you want proof--"
"Please," he said, leaning forward, hands clasped. "Surprise me."
Her gaze met his, steady. "All right. Russell and I aren't the only ones. There's another Immortal--"
"Maggie," he interrupted, "if this is a game--"
She shook her head, lips curving with sorrow. "It's not. It's Heather."
Charles swallowed so hard it hurt. "Heather... MacLeod?"
She nodded. "Our Heather. The one you buried."
His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the couch. The memory pressed in--rain-soaked cemetery, a coffin lid, the neighbors whispering. "That... that's impossible. We saw--"
"I know what you saw," Margaret said. "But this is the truth. Heather is Immortal. She survived."
Margaret reached across, took both his hands in hers. "I saw her tonight. She's alive, Charles. She hasn't aged a day since nineteen seventy-nine."
He closed his eyes, pressing his fingertips into his forehead. "Why didn't Heather contact us? Why let us think she was dead?"
Her thumb stroked the back of his hand. "Because Immortals disappear when they change. It's how they survive. If anyone from their mortal life sees them, they risk being exposed--and hunted. Our world, your world, is violent. More dangerous than anything we faced in Sunnydale."
He pulled his hands back, ran them through his hair. "So Heather's been out there for almost twenty years, living among shadows?"
"Not alone," Margaret said quietly. "She's had a guardian--an older Immortal who found her after... the Ritual, Russell found her, he's been training her, keeping her safe."
Silence settled between them like a living thing. Charles moved to the bar and poured himself a drink to match his wife's, and took a swallow.
After a moment, he said, "You realize if this is real, Rom and the rest need to know immediately."
Margaret's smile was small, full of regret and relief all at once. "I know. But let's finish our drinks first, okay? Because whatever comes next, I want you by my side--like always."
He offered her his glass; she took it. They tipped back their heads in unison, let the warmth chase away the cold truth for a heartbeat. Then Charles reached across, folded her hand in his.
"Fifteen years," he said softly. "We've faced monsters, Maggie. We'll face this one too."
"Yes," Margaret said. "But you should also know: the Mayor is still out there. Wilkins. And if he finds out what she is--what any of us are--"
She let the thought hang.
Seemingly apropos of nothing, Charles said, "This is going to sound insane, but--did you ever notice a birthmark on Heather? Either when you first met her, or last night?"
Margaret's eyebrows went up. "A lightning bolt, right above the collarbone."
Charles slumped, as if some invisible wire had been cut inside him. His face drained of all color. He said, "Sweet Jesus," he breathed, "Tony and Jess had a daughter. Lost her when she was three. Snatched right out of the backyard. They never found her. She had the same mark."
Margaret stared at him, "What? How? That's insane!"
"I know, it's the thing that I was bothered about when I got here, I don't know how, or why," Charles said, staring at his hands. "Heather is, she's their daughter."
Margaret shrugged, "It's the only thing I can think of that makes sense, but I have no idea how it happened, and I doubt seriously that Heather has any memories of being a toddler to answer any of our questions."
For a long minute, neither spoke. Charles felt as if the walls were slowly closing in, the plush, anonymous suite shrinking by the second.
He said, softly, "We need to tell Tony. And Jess."
Margaret's smile was small, bitter, the smile of someone who has finally unburdened herself but wishes the weight hadn't been so heavy to begin with.
"I know," she said. "But let's finish the bourbon first, and then we can take the car to Russell's shop and you can meet Heather again."
They drank in silence, the city pressing close against the dark glass, two old soldiers staring down the barrel of an entirely new kind of war.
TCOS & TCOS & TCOS
#
Casa Harris
Sunday, November 9th, 1997
Dinner Time
The Harris living room looked like it had been set-dressed for an unusually intense episode of a family sitcom--plates set neatly, lasagna steaming on the sideboard, salad languishing in a crystal bowl, and a pitcher of lemonade sweating gently on the table. But the players moving through the scene were anything but sitcom normal: Xander Harris, Cordelia Chase, Tara Maclay, and the slightly shell-shocked Tony and Jess, all wearing the taut, haunted expressions of people who had just glimpsed the edge of a world they no longer recognized.
Cordy was first through the door, holding it for Xander and Tara, who each carried a box--Tupperware, books, mysterious brown bags marked only with sharpie runes. Tara drifted toward the table, reaching for a lighter and a small sachet of dried herbs as if she were simply seasoning her food. In one smooth, practiced movement, she flicked flame to the bundle, whispered a string of syllables, and let the blue-gray smoke unfurl through the entryway, then billow--almost sentient--into the corners of the room.
"Is that going to set off the smoke detectors again?" Tony said, only half joking, as he watched the haze curl around the ceiling and vanish, like fog being sucked into a vent.
Tara shook her head, mouth quirking up at the corner. "No, I tuned the spell. It'll only bother people who aren't supposed to hear what we're saying." She tapped a finger to her temple. "Mental static, like in those bad radio stations. Nobody outside this tent hears anything but normal family drama." She winked at Jess.
Jess, who'd been rolling up her sleeves for some reason she couldn't articulate, dropped her hands to her lap and forced a smile. "Thanks for coming, girls. And you, Xander. I just--if we're really in that much trouble, I want to know sooner, not later."
Xander nodded, glancing at Cordy and Tara before turning to face the Harrises. He cleared his throat, arranging his words with care. "You're not wrong. There's something new--something big. And we need to tell you before anything else can get... more complicated."
Tony gestured for him to sit. "You've got the floor, son."
Xander hesitated just long enough for Cordy to reach over and squeeze his hand under the table, her nails digging in for moral support. He looked her way, grateful, and took a slow breath.
"It's about Heather."
Jess turned white, so abruptly that Tara thought she might faint.
Tony said, "Heather Harris?"--the name tumbling from his mouth with all the subtlety of a dropped brick.
Xander nodded. "After Uncle Paul had that reaction to the pictures, we decided to contact Boondock, Tara was the one who made the call, since she isn't as deeply involved in that part of 'As the Hellmouth Turns', and she spoke to Deety, in case there was anything in the records about the Time Corps operatives showing up in Sunnydale either when my sister went missing, or when Slayer Heather arrived at the orphanage." He looked at Tara, who picked up the narrative.
"I asked if anyone from the Corps had been operating in the area when Heather went missing, and the computer system--a real AI voice, not just Deety--responded instead. It wouldn't answer yes or no. All it said was that the records for those years are sealed, and that if we kept digging, we could cause 'multiple paradox.'"
Cordy put her elbows on the table, chin in her hands. "I don't think I have to explain that if an outfit like Time Corps seals something, it's the real deal. Not just classified, but like, burn-after-reading, memory-wipe level locked."
Jess absorbed this, eyes darting between the teenagers and her husband. "But how would that connect to Heather?" She blinked back sudden tears. "Unless--do you mean...?"
Xander nodded again, but softer this time. "We don't know for sure, but there's a good chance that the Heather MacLeod they buried wasn't really the end of the story. We think she's alive. Or, at least, still somewhere in the timeline."
Tony leaned forward, arms on the table, all the tough-guy bravado gone. "We have to find her. And if the records are sealed, who's the person who can unseal them? Lazarus, right?"
Cordy shrugged, her face a mask of skepticism. "If the records are sealed, there's a reason. And even if Lazarus could do it, it's not like he'd risk a timeline meltdown for our sake. They play cosmic chess, not checkers." She paused, thinking. "Unless we can get Deety to relay a message for us. Maybe she could send something up the chain, let Lazarus know we need more info."
Tara stared at the flickering herbs on her plate as if divining the future in the smoke. "We could try. But if the records are sealed, there's probably a reason. Maybe even something about Heather that she herself can't know yet. Or us."
Jess bit her knuckle, a nervous habit she thought she'd left behind when Xander started grade school. "If it's dangerous to even ask, does that mean the Mayor might already know? Or guess?"
Xander shook his head. "No. That's the good news. The Mayor doesn't know--yet. But he's got spies everywhere. That's why Tara's spell is so important." He turned to Tara. "You said you could put up a shield on the house, keep all the surveillance out?"
Tara nodded, eyes serious. "Yes. But it's temporary. If he puts a real mage on us, or if someone rats us out, it could break. But for now, we're safe."
Tony exhaled, slumping back in his chair. "So what do we do?"
Cordy leaned in, her voice low and urgent. "First, you keep doing what you're doing. It's going to be obvious that you have stopped drinking; you can say that you finally got someone to help you deal with the loss of Heather. Which isn't exactly a lie, is it? If anyone happens to ask about Xander, Tara and me, just play dumb."
After a minute, Tony said, "On a different subject, you three know Boondock a lot better than Jess and I do. Do they have technology to guarantee keeping secrets? Or is it just magic?"
Tara's eyes narrowed, calculating. "If you are thinking about bringing the rest of your group into the big picture, they mostly rely on discipline, but they do have isolation tech. Like, real-deal soundproofing--memetic dampers, spatial locks, whatever you want to call them. If you want, we could ask to bring the whole crew--Buffy, Willow, even Giles--out there for training. Weapons, tactics, maybe even a checkup for Joyce."
Tony looked at Jess, who nodded, still reeling but grasping at the plan like a lifeline. "Do it. We'll say it's a retreat or something."
Cordy grinned, sharp and wolfish. "I always wanted to see how Buffy would handle the obstacle course."
The tension broke, laughter bubbling up from the younger trio, some of the darkness lifting from the table. Xander raised his glass--lemonade, of course-- and said, "To family. Blood or not."
They clinked glasses, the sound ringing in the privacy bubble like a promise.
As the lasagna cooled and the salad wilted, the Harris family and their strange coven of friends plotted their next move, knowing that Wilkins was still out there, unknowable and hungry. But for the first time in a long time, it felt like the home team might stand a chance.
TCOS & TCOS & TCOS
#
Nash Antiques
Upper East Side,
Manhattan
Sunday, November 9th, 1997
After Hours
Charles stood with his forehead pressed against the limousine's glass, watching the city mutate around him as the driver swam uptown. At this hour, the Upper East Side turned in on itself--shutters drawn, doormen slouched, old money sleeping beneath blackout drapes. The antique shop fronted a strip of brownstones in perfect disrepair, its window a frostbitten square etched with gold: "Nash Antiques--We Buy Estates."
The car rolled to a stop. Margaret fished out a lipstick, touched up in the glass. "You ready?" she said, not looking at him. Her voice was low, not quite steady.
He took her hand before it could slip into the anxious fold of her lap. "We go in together," he said, and she nodded.
The shop looked closed, but the bell above the door announced their arrival with a long, plaintive chime. Inside was a hush so absolute that Charles felt compelled to shut the door softly, as if to avoid waking the sleeping centuries. The place was a cathedral to dead things: swords and rifles in velvet-lined racks, phonographs that had played their last record, shelves burdened by clockwork and silver, each item tagged and precisely arranged. The air was thick with beeswax and old secrets.
Margaret's grip on his hand tightened. She always claimed not to fear death, but the past was another story.
From the back, a voice: "One moment, please."
Charles recognized it instantly. Even in their reckless youth, he'd thought MacGregor (now Nash, per the file) could command a room simply by choosing not to rush. A shape appeared behind the counter--a tall, blunt man with the patient face of a midwestern shopkeeper and the eyes of someone who'd outlived empires. He wore an apron, as if the bloodstains he'd seen could be scrubbed away with lemon oil.
"Mr. Chase. Mrs. Chase. Welcome." He wiped his hands on a rag, offered a handshake to both. Margaret's was accepted with a faint, polite pressure; Charles's with a solid, warm grip that seemed designed to remind him which of them had never lost a barfight.
"Russell Nash," Charles said, rolling the name around his mouth like a puzzle piece. "You haven't changed much."
Nash shrugged. "Comes with the territory."
They moved through the maze of history to a small sitting area, where a battered samovar steamed on a tray beside three chipped porcelain cups. "Heather will be down in a minute," Nash said, pouring tea. "First meeting since the late seventies? You must have questions."
Margaret shook her head, but Charles couldn't help himself. "Is she... all right? Really, all right?"
Nash's gaze flicked upward, calculating. "Heather's as well as any of us can be." He poured a fourth cup, then paused. "I'll let you talk."
A faint creak of stairs drew their attention to the balcony. Heather appeared--her footfalls a cadence Charles remembered from the echoing halls of Sunnydale High: brisk, certain, with a hitch at the third step. He saw her before she saw him, and in the split second before her face rearranged itself into composure, Charles read pure, unfiltered panic.
"Heather," Margaret said. The name landed like a thrown stone.
Heather wore a white button-down and jeans, hair twisted into a severe knot at the back of her skull. Her eyes, unblinking, fixed first on Margaret and then on Charles.
She came down the last five steps too fast and nearly tripped, catching herself on the banister. "Chuck?" she said, as if the syllable might vanish before she finished it.
Charles didn't plan to cry, but the tears came anyway--saltwater, old and bitter. He tried to say, "We thought you were dead," but all that came out was a strangled, "Jesus, Heather."
She crossed the room and caught him up in an embrace so tight his vertebrae crackled. The next few seconds were a confusion of Margaret's arms around both of them, Heather's wet face pressed to Charles's shoulder, and Nash stepping back with the awkwardness of a man who knows when he isn't needed.
They rocked in place, the three of them, until Heather broke away, scrubbing her cheeks with the sleeve of her shirt. "Sorry. I didn't--Nash said you were in New York, but I thought--" She trailed off.
"God, Heather," Charles said, voice thick. "What happened to you?"
She gave a little laugh, still watery. "You mean, after they tried to kill me? Or after the funeral?"
Margaret flinched, but Charles only nodded. "Both."
Heather leaned against the arm of the sofa, her gaze darting between them as if waiting for someone to yell, "Surprise, it's a prank." When no one did, she inhaled sharply, looked away. "After the... ritual, I don't remember much. Blood, pain, then Nash pulling me out of the hospital morgue. He said the Watchers thought I was dead, but I just... didn't stay dead."
"Immortal," Charles said. "Like him." He jerked a thumb at Nash, who watched from a polite distance, half-hidden behind a glass cabinet.
Heather nodded. "It's complicated. I heal. I can't die, except by... certain means." She looked away again, as if embarrassed. "After the first time, Nash told me to leave everyone behind. It's the only way to survive."
Margaret made a sound, part sob, part laugh. "We buried you."
"I'm sorry," Heather said, and it was clear she meant it.
They sat for a minute, the three of them orbiting the coffee table, Nash out of the periphery like a ghost at his own wake.
Heather finally said, "Why are you really here?"
Margaret straightened, glancing at Charles. She was the strong one, always had been. "We need to tell you something. It's about your family."
Heather's eyebrows knitted, confusion etched deep. "What family?"
Charles reached into his briefcase and pulled out a battered envelope, one he'd carried for over a decade. "You were adopted," he said. "We--your group, the Misfits--never knew where you came from. But I've been digging, even after... You died."
Heather stiffened. "Adopted from where? I never had--" She stopped, something clicking behind her eyes.
Charles opened the envelope and drew out a photocopy of an old police report. He slid it across the table to her. "Heather Anne Harris. Kidnapped in 1983, Sunnydale. Lightning-bolt birthmark over the collarbone." He hesitated. "We thought it was just a coincidence. But the more I looked..."
Margaret took Heather's hand, gently. "We think you're Tony and Jess's daughter. Heather Harris."
Heather's hands shook as she read the report. She squinted at the dates, the witness statements, the Xeroxed photo. Her thumb traced the faint outline of the birthmark in the photograph, then vanished into her shirt collar to touch her own skin.
She looked up, eyes wide and raw. "Why? Why didn't anyone tell me?"
Charles hesitated. "We didn't know for sure. Not until tonight."
Nash spoke quietly from the corner. "It's better this way, Heather. The fewer connections you have, the safer you are."
Heather rounded on him, her voice tight and wild. "I spent my whole life not knowing where I came from. Now I find out I have a family, and you--" She swallowed, pressed her fist to her mouth, then let it drop. "You kept me away from them?"
Nash didn't flinch. "You would have watched them die, one by one. It's the way of our kind. The Watchers wouldn't have stopped. The Council would have--"
Heather cut him off with a snarl. "I'm not like you. I don't want to live forever if it means losing everyone."
Margaret's hand stayed on hers. "You don't have to be alone anymore. We can fix this."
Heather drew a ragged breath, then wiped her face again. "How old was I when...?"
"Three," Charles said. "You disappeared from your backyard."
She nodded, then asked, "Do they know? My parents?"
Margaret shook her head. "Not yet. Xander--your brother--he's in California. We can arrange a meeting, if you want."
Heather absorbed this in silence. Her jaw was set, stubborn, the way Charles remembered from every time she'd picked a fight for someone else's sake. "Yes," she said at last. "But I want answers. Everything. I want to know what happened to me--what happened to them."
Nash stepped forward, face grave. "It will be dangerous. If the Mayor learns--"
"I don't care," Heather said. "I'll go back if I have to. I want to see them."
Margaret smiled, a tremor behind it, but there was no fear anymore. "Then we'll do it together," she said.
Heather clung to the report, her knuckles white, but her eyes were alive with something new: hope, and something hungry and sharp beneath it. "When do we leave?" she asked.
Charles said, "Tomorrow, if you want."
Heather nodded, then turned to Nash. "You coming?"
He gave the ghost of a smile. "Wouldn't miss it."
As they left the shop, the bell above the door gave one last, cheerful peal, as if to announce the arrival of a long-lost child.
TCOS & TCOS & TCOS
#
Sunnydale High Library
Monday, November 10th, 1997
7:10 a.m.
Rupert Giles prided himself on arriving before dawn and leaving after dark. The library was a sanctuary at such hours, the silence absolute save for the distant hum of vending machines in the teacher's lounge and the occasional complaint of a floorboard, warped by decades of gumshoe traffic. The reference desk was a sacrament of his faith in order: green-shaded lamps, lined index cards, and an inkwell he'd brought from home, as much for the ritual of the thing as for any practical need.
He selected his favorite fountain pen--Montblanc, silver-trimmed, a gift from a certain Council operative who had not lived to see his own retirement--and set to work on the thick, watermarked parchment. His brow knit as he considered the wording. "To Doctor Diana Dormer, C/O Massachusetts General Hospital, Department of Neurology, Boston, MA. Re: Subject: Miss Faith Lehane--Slayer."
He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction at the clarity of the opening, then frowned at the next section. How much to say? How to phrase it so that a Watcher, possibly under observation, would recognize the urgency and necessity, while not raising suspicion among prying eyes? His pen hovered, then dipped for more ink.
Across the main hall, Xander Harris perched on the edge of a rolling ladder, a stack of encyclopedias as his makeshift throne. The boy's eyes were rimmed red, but there was a new steel to his posture--a set to the jaw and an edge in the voice that Giles had only seen in veterans, or the very recently bereaved. He watched Giles's every move, radiating impatience.
Next to the card catalog, Cordelia Chase--resplendent in navy cashmere, her hair twisted up in an elaborate bun--held the handset to her ear, shoulder angled to allow Tara Maclay to listen in as well. Cordelia's nails--freshly shellacked--clacked against a legal pad as she scribbled times, prices, and confirmation numbers.
"Yes, I said three: first class, one way. And I need the seats together--no, not coach, first class. Do I sound like a person who would accept less?" Her tone brooked no argument. "Excellent. Departing from Los Angeles International, arriving at Logan, the day before Thanksgiving. Confirm the tickets under Harris, Alexander. H-A-R-R-I-S. Yes, that's right." She shot a sly look at Xander, then underlined his name three times.
Tara said nothing, but her face glowed with anticipation, eyes darting to the phone, then back to Cordy's scribbles. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, as if unsure whether to be nervous or excited.
Giles sealed the letter and pressed his signet into the hot wax, an archaic flourish that would signal to Dormer that this was Council business of the highest order. He wiped his hands, then turned to face the trio.
"Everything in order?" he asked.
Cordelia cradled the receiver against her chin. "We're all set. LAX to Boston, direct flight. First class, so nobody can say we didn't treat Faith's Watcher with respect." She gave Giles a quick up-down look. "Unless you want to come and play chaperone, in which case, I can try for a business upgrade."
Giles shook his head. "This is your mission, not mine. I don't want the Council to notice I've left the Hellmouth and start to ask questions." He hesitated, glancing at Xander. "You understand how dangerous this could be?"
Xander shrugged, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of nerves. "It's not like we're storming the Bastille. Just meeting Faith's Watcher, getting her out of the city, and then... what?"
Tara spoke, her voice quiet but steady. "If we can help Faith, it'll change everything. No more rogue Slayers. No more accidents." She bit her lip, then added, "I think she wants help. She just doesn't know it yet."
Cordelia hung up the phone, then smoothed the legal pad with a gesture halfway between prim and anxious. "Three tickets. Nonrefundable. I hope you're right, Xander."
Giles weighed the letter in his hand. "I'll send this by courier. With luck, Doctor Dormer will respond promptly." He hesitated, then offered, "If anything goes wrong, you're to return at once. Is that understood?"
They all nodded, in the haphazard but oddly unified manner Giles had come to expect from this generation of improvisational heroes.
He walked to the window, watched the pale sun creep over the empty quad. "Take care," he said, the words meant for all of them, but especially for the part of himself that still believed he could protect anyone.
Behind him, Xander hopped down from the ladder. "We'll be back before the turkey gets cold."
Cordelia rolled her eyes. "If we survive the TSA, I'll consider it a win."
Giles smiled, then returned to his desk. There was comfort, after all, in the routines: the pen, the parchment, the calculated risks that came from sending teenagers across the country to save the world, one problem at a time.
As the others filed out, he began drafting a second letter, this one to a certain librarian in Boston, whose reputation for rule-breaking nearly matched his own. In the world they lived in now, even the smallest advantage was worth the cost.
TCOS & TCOS & TCOS
#
Sunnydale High had many rooms after the final bell rang, most of them more haunted by rumor and the ghosts of detention than by actual monsters. But today, the old gymnasium--the one the school board never managed to raze after the original burned down--held a different sort of afterlife.
Seven teenagers, each of them already a survivor of their own personal apocalypse, filed in one by one. Cordelia and Tara came first, moving with the calculated grace of people who knew the world was watching. Xander followed, a shoulder bag thumping against his hip, half-full of protein shakes and aspirin. He'd offered to bring ice packs, but Cordy vetoed it ("It's martial arts, not actual war, Xander").
Buffy arrived next, leading Willow like a child off to the principal's office. The redhead wore shorts, a baggy t-shirt with the logo of a computer convention, and the doomed expression of someone about to be drafted into a cult. "This better not be CrossFit," Willow muttered.
Buffy squeezed her hand. "It's SlayerFit. Totally different cult. We have better snacks."
"Lies," Willow whispered, but she smiled.
Last came Kendra, who showed up with Oz at her side, both carrying gym bags. Oz's was patched with band logos, Kendra's looked like it had been borrowed from the Sunnydale police evidence locker. Oz surveyed the room with a musician's detachment. "Nice acoustics. Too bad the scoreboard's out."
Kendra nodded, then caught Buffy's eye. "We're ready."
Buffy clapped her hands. "Okay! Everyone, grab a mat. You too, Xander. I don't care if you're not a Slayer--statistically, you're more likely to be kidnapped than the rest of us combined."
Xander rolled his eyes. "Way to shame my gender, Buff."
Cordy planted herself next to him, stretching her arms above her head. "I want to see how much damage my nails can do if I have to gouge a vampire's eyes out," she said, entirely serious.
Tara stifled a giggle and knelt on her mat, closing her eyes for a moment, lips moving silently--maybe a prayer, maybe a protective charm, maybe just a breath before the plunge.
Buffy took command like she was born for it. "Today's lesson: how to get out of a hold, or, failing that, how to scream so loud the cops show up before you're drained of blood. Kendra and I will demo, then we'll pair up. Anyone who feels too weird about body contact, see me after class for the safe word."
Willow raised her hand. "Is it 'banana' again?"
"Only if you want it to be," Buffy said, with a wink that made Willow's ears turn a very un-stealthy shade of pink.
She motioned Kendra forward. "Okay, show me your best creeper-grab."
Kendra moved with an almost frightening speed; her arms shot around Buffy's torso from behind, pinning the Slayer's arms. For a second, Buffy didn't move. She let the class see the whole setup: attacker behind, victim immobilized, head angled just right for a vampire bite.
Then she moved--one brutal stomp to Kendra's foot, a sharp backward jab with her head, and a torque of her hips that flung Kendra over her shoulder. Kendra landed flat on her back, blinked at the ceiling, and exhaled. Oz gave a little clap.
Buffy grinned. "See? Even if the creep's stronger than you, gravity's a thing. Plus, aim for the nose with your head, it'll make 'em ugly-cry."
Cordy looked skeptical. "You're assuming the attacker has a nose."
Tara raised her hand, deadpan. "Do we get extra credit for creativity? Like, if I hex them to grow a nose first?"
Buffy looked at her, eyes twinkling. "If you can do that mid-attack, you get a gold star and a free pass on burpees. Okay, let's try pairs!"
They sorted out partners: Cordy and Xander, Tara and Willow, Oz and Kendra, with Buffy floating between the mats, correcting form and occasionally demonstrating what not to do by letting Xander flip her onto the ground. She was up again in seconds, grinning even as Xander tried to apologize.
Willow's first attempt to break Tara's hold failed miserably. She squeaked, wriggled, and then went limp, forcing Tara to let her go for fear of accidentally invoking some kind of magical failsafe. "Sorry, Willow," Tara whispered, "I didn't mean--"
"It's okay," Willow panted, "I just... I'm not very good at physical stuff."
Buffy knelt next to them. "You don't have to be. You just have to practice. Besides, with all the supervillains around, odds are one of us will be the weak link. Might as well train up."
Willow frowned, then shot Buffy a pleading look. "Is there a reward system?"
Buffy leaned in, conspiratorial. "If you get through the whole session without faking a seizure, I'll let you help me wash off all this sweat afterward. In the locker room. Alone."
Willow's frown inverted into a beam, and she threw herself into the next attempt with newfound vigor. The next time Tara caught her, Willow wriggled, stomped, and finally managed to elbow Tara in the side. They toppled together onto the mat, giggling uncontrollably.
Across the room, Oz had Kendra in what looked like a classic wrestling hold, one arm around her middle, the other braced on her shoulder. "Ready?" he asked.
Kendra nodded, tensing every muscle. She feinted left, ducked, and then spun out of the hold with a maneuver that Oz clearly hadn't expected. He landed on his knees, and she stood over him, triumphant but immediately offering him a hand up.
"Not bad," Oz said, accepting. "How long have you been training?"
Kendra tilted her head, thinking, "Started when I was five, when my parents turned me over to Mister Zabuto, is training. And... practice." She looked away, suddenly bashful. "I am only just now learning to fight for reasons other than duty."
Oz dusted off his knees. "Best reason I've heard."
He grinned at her, then, his expression equal parts wolfish and sincere. "So, Kendra, if you ever want to practice any, uh, other holds, I'm free most afternoons."
Kendra stared at him, her face blank for a moment as she parsed the words. Then she turned the color of strawberry gelato. "That is a fifth-date thing, yes?"
Oz nodded. "At least. But it's important to set goals."
Kendra looked at Buffy, who nodded encouragement from across the mats. "Is good to have goals," she said, almost to herself.
They worked for another half hour, the room growing riper with the scent of effort and liniment and nervous energy. Xander and Cordy started out with jokes, but by the third round, they were both sweating and a little sore. "Never again will I mock your cardio routine," Xander gasped, massaging his ribs.
Cordy popped him lightly on the back of the head. "You're going to thank me when a horde of minions surrounds us and you're the only one who isn't winded."
Tara and Willow finished their set, Willow collapsing onto the mat and pulling Tara down with her. "I am a puddle," she moaned. "A gelatinous puddle."
Tara stroked her hair. "You're a very cute puddle."
Buffy called time, blowing an imaginary whistle. "Great work, everyone! Same time next week, unless the Hellmouth opens or Snyder decides to repurpose the gym for a 'Just Say No' rally." She glanced at Willow, who was still splayed out on the mat. "Shower now, reward later?"
Willow sat up, wiped her brow, and grinned. "Deal."
Oz and Kendra gathered their bags, lingering at the edge of the room. Oz hesitated, then nudged Kendra gently. "So, uh, juice bar?"
Kendra smiled, more confident now that she was out of the line of fire. "Juice bar would be nice. Thank you."
He offered her his arm, and she took it, walking out together into the gold-pink haze of the late afternoon.
Buffy and Willow walked hand in hand down the corridor toward the girls' locker room, giggling over imagined scenarios in which Willow would have to defend herself from vamps armed only with a towel and a bottle of conditioner. Xander lagged behind with Cordy and Tara, inventing increasingly ludicrous Slay-Team slogans ("Because monsters never take the weekend off!") until Cordy threatened to ban him from post-workout smoothies forever.
By the time the sun had set behind the gym, the old walls echoed with something almost like hope. The seven of them, ragtag and reeking of adolescent sweat, had made a little more space for survival. And maybe, just maybe, for happiness.
TCOS & TCOS & TCOS
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Comments
Red Jacobson
The thing that surprised me, when this whole twist fell out of my fingers, was that not all of the immortals were foundlings, according to the lore, there are some that were born and raised by their parents.
Alun Lewis
Really going to have to re-read the first 18 chapters to get any clear idea of how possibly Xander's - adopted, if Heather is an Immortal, due to Highlander lore - little sister ended up at least a decade or two extra in the past for her to have seemingly die as a teenager and was age peers with her own parents at said First Death. Or at least to understand all the world-building fresh...which isn't a hardship 😉
