Commentary!
And I've done the DVD commentary meme - woo! It was actually really fun, which is why I did it so fast when I technically should be studying for finals.
Ahem. Okay, um, one of my New Year's resolutions was to be more aloof and mysterious about my writing, to let the work speak for itself and let everyone just marvel quietly at how I did it (heh). Yeah, so that one really lasted. Aloof and mysterious apparently is not my strong point. So I had a lot of fun adding commentary to this fic, but obviously if you don't care or if you feel the story stands better on its own, etc, just pass on by. I don't want to wreck it by exposing all the bells and whistles and weak spots and stuff, or by over-explaining things that were nice and subtle. But if you're interested in the process of writing it, the back story, and other kinds of things that would go on a DVD commentary, this is the place for you, I guess. So sit back, relax and enjoy. My commentary will be in bold italics.
The Weary World Rejoicing
I think this is probably my favorite of all the fics I've written - I'm just really pleased with it.
So this was the second of two Christmas fics I wrote in December of 2003, with the other of the two "Christmas, Iowa Style", about Riley Finn. It's interesting for me looking back (heh - looking back. It's been, what, a month?) on these two, because I think the two of them managed to encapsulate the two major… themes, I guess, of Christmas for me. (Theme isn't the right word, but I can't think of a better one. Anyway, you get the gist.) "Christmas, Iowa Style" is very much the homey, friends and family, traditional sort of Midwestern Christmas that my own family does, so all the warm fuzziness of that home-for-the-holidays feel is there. But the other side of Christmas to me, the more meaningful side, is the sort of mystical, apocalyptic feel of this story. As a Christian, the church season of Advent leading up to Christmas is a very important religious time which anticipates and celebrates the birth of Christ, as well as looking forward to his second coming. So this theme of waiting and looking for the coming of the Messiah is a huge part of Christmas to me, all wrapped up in images of dark services and candle-lighting and winter and hoping for light to come in the darkness. This story encapsulates all those emotions for me, though the facts of it are quite different - Willow isn't in any way supposed to be a Christ figure, apart from her position in the story. But she's what Xander is waiting and hoping for.
What else contributed to this story is that I play the harp and so people tend to give me harp Christmas CDs as presents. So Christmas, to me, has this medieval, sad, lonely, cold harp music feel to it, which is where the feel of the story comes from. I think I also tended to read books about King Arthur around Christmas time, so the sort of, warriors in the hall, fighting off the darkness, wintry, fifth century Britain kind of society Xander has set up here probably owes a lot to Gillian Bradshaw's trilogy of King Arthur books.
***
December 1, 2003
I think originally I was going to start the story after Thanksgiving, but as it took shape I realized it was an Advent story, and so starts with the first day of December. Also, the dates which mark off the days here were a late addition - originally I was just going to have sections marked off, with internal markers as to the days (e.g. "It's the first day of December" - some of those internal markers got left in), but after a bit I added the date section headers to make the story a bit clearer and better structured.
Xander stands on the wall, looking out over the landscape below, trying to see. Still hasn't quite gotten used to how dark it is without civilization, how bright the stars are. The moon's a quarter full - waxing, he knows without having to think about it. He's more aware of the cycles of the moon and the position of the stars than he's ever been, even when they had Oz around to remind them.
I took an astronomy class in college and so can now always tell by the angle of the sun and moon whether the moon is waxing or waning, rising or setting, etc. I'm inordinately proud of this skill. Also, the remarks on the cycle of the moon throughout the story are accurate for the dates in 2003 - I actually looked it up, because I'm an accuracy nerd like that. Anyway, also, the fact that Xander is so aware of astronomical phenomena is a nod to how much more familiar people in the ancient world were with the movements of the moon and stars - when you live in a world without light pollution and all that, it happens. Also, hopefully it shows that Xander spends a lot of time outside at night. The whole story aims to create this AU in a very few words, so I tried to be very economical about what I said and how much information was in each sentence.
It's the first day of December and she's not back yet. He knows that worrying doesn't do any good but he still spends way too much time on top of this wall watching for her, time he can't afford.
He sees movement out of the corner of his eye, but when he looks it's just Spike, turning the corner as he walks the wall. In the old days, he'd be lighting up a cigarette at this moment, but, well, they don't have cigarettes anymore. How Spike manages to keep his hair peroxided is a mystery no one has solved, but even he can't keep himself supplied with the cancer-sticks indefinitely.
How Spike keeps his hair peroxided is also a mystery the author has not solved, but a Spike without bleached hair would be like having no Spike at all. So either Spike has some mysterious demon supplier of bleach, or a secret lab underground where he makes the bleach, or something like that. Fanwank to your heart's content.
Also, I felt that the world demanded that Spike not have cigarettes anymore, but it pisses me off. I kept wanting to write him lighting up, and I couldn't. It's like he has nothing to do with his hands anymore and I'd keep picturing him searching through his pockets and kind of flapping his hands around aimlessly. Very aggravating.
"No sign of her," Spike asks, but it's not exactly a question.
"No," Xander says.
"How long's it been now?" Spike asks, sounding bored. "Three weeks longer than it should've been?"
I enjoyed the slow reveal of who it is they're waiting for, but I guess since Spike's bored about it you can tell that it's not Buffy. I actually kind of waffled on what emotion Spike would have towards Willow being missing - did he grow to like her over the two years? How have his relationships with the Scoobs changed? But I figured for something this dramatically AU, I should keep as much the same as I could. And Spike's always good as a sort of foil, saying what people don't want to hear and being bored and casual about things they really care about.
Xander glances down at him, wanting to glare but not able to summon up the energy. "More or less."
"Getting cold, these nights," Spike comments. He leans against the rampart beside Xander and looks out across the trees. "Haven't seen anything moving out there since before All Hallow's." Spike usually takes the night watch, walking the walls of their compound. "Good time to get yourself home."
"She'll be all right," Xander says. "Willow can take care of herself."
"If you say so," Spike says.
Xander's ears are pink from cold, and he worries. They cannot afford to lose Willow. They have lost so much already.
I'd be sort of interested to hear what the reader's experience is going through this - the world already existed as a construct in my head, and I knew who was missing and what the story was all along, so no surprises for me, but I'm curious as to what reader's figured out when and how the world took shape. So if anyone wants to comment on that, feel free.
***
December 4, 2003
He is awoken by pounding on the door of his and Anya's tiny room. That's the thing about living in an old monastery - small rooms, few furnishings, the simple life. Anya groans and tries to bury her head in his shoulder at the knocking. But he is awake and alert immediately, half sitting up and calling for whoever it is to come in.
There's actually a monastery in the town of Mt. Angel in the Willamette Valley in Oregon that I found online, so that's where this is located. I thought the name Mt. Angel was kind of ironic and was clearly meant to be as their location, but I didn't put it in the fic because it's a little over the top. And I put them in a monastery because they need a place that's easily defensible, with a wall around it, and monastic complex is the kind of place that fits the bill. And it all fits into the medieval overall feel I was going for.
It's John, looking like he's been back from the hunting expedition for no more than five minutes. He's got blood smeared on his shirt but doesn't look frantic, just tired.
I like John a lot, Xander's second-in-command. I should write a John-centric story sometime.
"Sir? We've found someone. You should probably come hear this," he says and Xander is already out of bed and reaching for his jeans. Xander is wearing boxers, by the way, in case you were wondering whether he just flashed John. "I'll wait outside," John finishes, ducking his head and shutting the door behind him.
I think this is the point where you probably realize that Xander is a pretty important person in the community, what with the calling him Sir and all. I wanted to have little clues to that without a lot of exposition - also, Xander doesn't think of himself that way, so it needs to be external to his thoughts, in what other people say and do when they see him, but not registering with him too much. He has the kind of authority that's very organic - he knows what to do, and so people listen to him and he takes that for granted by this point, while not really thinking of himself as too important. Because our beloved Xander has a good dash of humility in his character. Or else maybe just self-esteem issues. Whatever.
"It's too early," Anya complains sleepily.
"Sun's up," Xander says. There is pale wintry light coming through their one small window, high up on the white-washed wall.
"Barely," Anya replies. Then her face drains of color. "Oof, hand me the bucket." He passes it over quickly and she holds it, looking like she might be sick at any moment and breathing raggedly. He strokes her hair. "I hate morning sickness," she says, after the surge of nausea seems to have died down. "I should be sleeping with Spike. He wouldn't have impregnated me."
The pregnancy thing I went back and forth on, whether I really wanted to do it or not. But if you're living in a world with no birth control for two years, it's fairly likely to happen - also, it adds to the risk factor of Xander's whole life and gives him something else to worry about. For awhile I think I was going to actually have her miscarry during the fic, but ended up deciding that was extraneous to the plot and didn't really have a point. So I just went with pregnancy - actually, I think the deciding factor might've been that I just liked that line of Anya's about sleeping with Spike, which is kind of sad. Heh. Oh well.
"Sorry," Xander says, looking around for his shirt. "And please don't."
"It's okay," Anya concedes. "I know you didn't mean to."
Xander finds his shirt and holds it in one hand as he leans over to kiss her stomach, his own chest bare and pale, leaner now than he's been in years. He rubs his hand softly over the slight bulge of her tummy. "Love you, Ahn," he says, kissing her lightly before turning. He pulls the shirt on as he goes out the door, and John falls into step beside him, heading towards the hall.
I always wished on the show that Xander had been a little nicer to Anya in general, so I made him nicer in the fic. But I think also it reflects her importance to the community, which makes him much less embarrassed about being with her. Also, he has way bigger things to worry about than Anya saying embarrassing things, and I think the last two years have been so hard that they've had to lean heavily on each other, and have a deep affection and trust built from that.
"What happened?" Xander asks as they cross the courtyard between the living quarters and the other buildings. A few grubby children are playing near the chapel as the rest of the complex is beginning to awaken. Xander nods at one of the older women, carrying buckets of water from the well to the kitchen. She smiles at him tiredly.
By the way, as a leader, Xander knows the name, stories and talents of everyone in the community, including this lady. Because he's that kind of guy. But I didn't put in her name because a description was more important for atmosphere, and you get Xander spouting off names and stuff later on, anyway.
"We were camped about a day north-east of here when we heard screaming. Found a gang of vamps attacking some people."
Now I notice that the people were traveling from California and the south, but I have them running into vamps north-east of the settlement. Whoops. I guess they must've gotten a little lost or something.
"Travelers?" Xander asks, already knowing. There are no other living humans within 50 miles of their compound.
"Yeah. We only managed to save one, a middle-aged guy. His wife and son and friends were all already dead. But he said they were traveling from California, so I figured you'd want to talk to him as soon as we got here."
A surge of adrenaline hits Xander's bloodstream and he starts walking even faster. "Thanks, John. How many vamps?" John quickens his pace to match Xander's.
"Looked like around five. We dusted two, but the others took off running and we couldn't keep up. In the morning we tracked them to Woodburn and we're pretty sure they've nested in one of the warehouses on the east side of town."
Woodburn is a real Oregon town, near Mt. Angel. I got that out of an encyclopedia, I know nothing else about the town, which may or may not have warehouses on its east side.
"Woodburn? That close, huh? You'd think they'd know better by now."
"Dangerous but not that bright, I guess."
"We'll send out a patrol this afternoon."
They reach the door to the hall, the large room used for meals and assemblies and decisions. It's furnished with rough wooden tables and backless benches, all in the dark, somber wood that characterizes the old monastery. Sprawled in the middle of it is the rest of the hunting party, sitting wearily on the benches and edges of the tables, though they stand when Xander enters. He strides towards them, sizing them up. Everyone who left has come back; Marshall has a bloody bandage on one arm, but otherwise seems sturdy enough, so it must be a minor injury. Other than the nasty-looking bruise on Beth's cheekbone, the rest of them look all right. A successful outing, then. Xander waves at them to sit down, and they do.
I got a big kick out of them standing up when Xander walks in. It's the little things. Oh, and they were hunting for food, not for vampires, by the way, I don't think that's really clear. But either interpretation works fine.
His eyes rest on the stranger, who is ragged, skinny and malnourished, with a cut above one eye and a bandage on his neck.
"Hi," Xander says gently. "Xander Harris. Welcome." He reaches out his hand to shake and the man stares at it for a moment before taking it, clearing his throat awkwardly, looking nervous and shaken.
"Um… Karl. Karl Lundin." His voice is hoarse.
"You were traveling from California?" Xander says, sitting down across from him. He is keeping very steady, but his heart is pounding. Willow, Willow, Willow.
"Yes," Karl says. "From San Francisco."
Oh.
"Ever go farther south?" Xander asks. Karl actually shudders at this.
"No. I've heard… horrible… no one goes farther south. The rumors alone...," he trails off, looking troubled.
"What have you heard?" Xander asks, his voice more intense than he intends.
Karl looks at him warily. "I don't know. That that's where it all started. That around L.A. there's evil you've never imagined. That… they say it's the mouth of hell."
I didn't know how else to describe Sunnydale's fictitious location than by saying that it's near L.A. I hope that wasn't misleading - the apocalypse started in Sunnydale, not L.A.
"Ah," Xander says, and sits back, thoughtful. "Yeah." He looks at Karl steadily. "Have you heard anything else? Or seen anyone? Like a red-haired woman, traveling south? She's small and pretty and looking for books and old texts."
Yeah, Xander's actually looking for Dana Scully.
Karl thinks, then shakes his head slowly.
"Nothing at all?"
"No," Karl says. "Nothing. I'm sorry."
Xander sighs, letting his shoulders slump. "It's okay."
Karl looks down at the table, rubbing it absently with his thumb. He looks very tired.
"Why were you traveling?" Xander asks. "The roads are dangerous. But I guess, uh, you know that."
"They're less dangerous than staying in San Francisco would have been. We heard that there were people up north, fighting off the demons. People who know what they're doing and how to fight. We decided it'd be better to die trying to get there than die where we sat."
"There are people fighting up north?" Xander asks. Karl looks at him like he's crazy.
"Uh… yeah. You."
I almost didn't put this in, because I didn't want Xander to seem stupid. But I'm glad I did - I think I got a comment to the effect that this made it seem like Xander didn't realize he's the resistance, which is exactly what it was intended to do. Phew.
Xander is taken aback. "Oh. Right." He looks away for a second, then turns to Marshall. "Have we gotten Doc Hopkins to look at Karl here yet? That vampire bite can't be good."
Looking back, maybe they should've just called him Dr. Hopkins. Was I watching Westerns while I was writing this or something?
"He's on his way over," Marshall said.
"Good. Get your arm looked at while you're at it. The rest of you, get some rest. You earned it. John, can you help me get together a patrol to go after that nest? Get however many people we can spare - not you, you need a day off, but whoever else has experience and nothing pressing to do." John nods. "Thanks," Xander says, getting up from the table, disappointment sharp in his muscles. "I'll head it up myself this time. Could use some action today."
***
December 9, 2003
Xander cuts behind the chapel on his way to the barns, passing the memorial wall with its carved rows of names, the dead and missing. He stops, as he always does, to trace three particular names. Buffy Summers. Dawn Summers. Rupert Giles. A splinter catches his finger on the 'L' of Giles, and he automatically winces and sticks the finger in his mouth, tastes blood. They never found Giles's body.
Ah, exposition, how long we've waited for you. I liked the idea of them having a Vietnam Memorial kind of wall, and that in this world, most of the people would have no idea of whether their family members were dead or just missing or whatever.
Turned out that not even Buffy could defeat a god. It had been a beaten and broken remnant of the Scooby gang that had made it out - him and Anya, Willow and Tara, such as she was. Spike. Not enough to really be a gang, anymore. Just the battered leftovers, holed up in a walled monastery compound in Oregon, waiting to take their last stand. That they've made it through two and a half years still seems like dumb luck to Xander.
So this is obviously post-"The Gift", in a scenario where Glory wins. I figure she bled Dawn, causing dimensions to bleed together and bringing a lot of demonic elements into our world, making it a hell on earth. Buffy died defending Dawn, Dawn died on the tower, and Giles went down fighting. I think he was hurt pretty badly at the time, possibly grabbed by that dragon that flew out, actually, and transported a long way away. But I'm not actually completely positive about what happened, and it doesn't really matter for the story, thankfully.
He runs his hand along the shapes of the names one more time before walking on. Outside the closest barn, a couple of boys are pushing wheelbarrows full of hay and bellowing out "Jingle Bells" at the top of their lungs.
Sixteen days till Christmas and no sign of Willow. The nights are long and it is remarkably cold. He doesn't want to carve another name on the wall.
Pacing the story was a little tricky - I hope I didn't put in too much of the countdown, but I wanted the consciousness of time to be there throughout, for the reader to be very aware of the days ticking down.
***
December 15, 2003
Almost everyone goes along to cut down the big Christmas tree for the hall. Xander has the axe and walks up front, Anya on one side of him and John on the other. Kids run alongside, throwing snowballs and pushing each other into drifts. Someone in the back starts up singing "Joy to the World" and it catches on, jolly and festive. Anya squeezes his hand and he looks back at the group, slogging through the snow, old and young, men and women, everyone looking reasonably happy. But those he designated guards are carrying crossbows and swords, walking alongside and looking warily into the forest around them. And in the back is Tara, vacantly following along with some of the women. Xander quickly turns back to face forward.
Tara's still mind-wiped from Glory, since in this world Willow never got to reverse it. Depressing, innit? Cry, reader, cry!
They find a good tree, a big one, twelve feet. Xander does the symbolic first chop, but after that he lets a couple of the guys usually on firewood duty finish it off. Everyone stands around watching, singing and chatting while they wait. A few people find holly berries for wreathes and the red and green stand out against the snow. When the tree topples everyone cheers, and there is a scramble for who gets to help pull it back.
I actually think in some ways this would be a nice kind of community to live in - good people, with little traditions and respect for each other. Friendly and festive, people looking out for each other. Where everyone knows your name, you know? Yeah, I have some slight Mary-Sueish fantasies about apocalyptic worlds, but I never write them down. :-)
Spike is in the dim hall when they get back, languidly I tried a bunch of different words there, and I'm still not happy with that one. Indolently? Languorously? Indifferently? I don't know. leaning against the wall near the big fireplace. The whole tree-cutting party spills in, red-cheeked and alert, shouting cheerfully as they wrestle the massive tree through the door and stand it up.
Someone has made tea from their meager stores, a rare treat, but Xander doesn't get a cup. Just the smell of the tea reminds him too strongly of Giles, of researching at the library or at his apartment, and he misses him with a renewed pang. Giles, with his stable, sturdy adulthood, always knowing what to do.
I think this was originally hot chocolate, before I decided that Willow was going to bring Giles back with her. But when I changed the end so that Giles isn't actually dead, I decided there needed to be more longing for him earlier, so tea it was. I think they'd be more likely to have tea left after two years than hot chocolate anyway. And also, economy of words, meaning in the details, blah blah blah.
He goes over to lean beside Spike, wall cold at his back.
"Have fun?" Spike asks, tone a little bitter.
"Yeah," Xander says quietly. "We did. Sorry you were stuck here, but we can't really take everyone out into the forest at night."
Xander and Spike's relationship was one of my favorite things to write in this fic. How they're not friends, exactly, but they kind of are. I feel like Spike sort of always secretly liked the Scoobs a little bit, maybe particularly in season 5 - he likes having them around to annoy, likes pushing their buttons, and would sort of miss them if they weren't around. But he would never, ever, admit this.
Spike shrugs dismissively. "Not much for celebrating the birth of our Lord and savior anyway."
"Right, because you're evil," Xander says, watching the kids start to string tinsel on the tree.
"Very," says Spike dryly. "Behold my evil works."
Xander waits for a minute, but Spike doesn't say anything else. "Isn't this the part where you say, 'If it weren't for this chip in my head, I'd eviscerate you all and use your guts as mistletoe'?"
"Hmm? Oh yeah. Right," Spike says. Wreaths and holly branches are being put over the windows and around the walls. The tree is already covered with homemade ornaments, and someone has found a way to attach candles to the branches so that it is covered in light. Spike shifts. "We always used to have oranges at Christmas. Down in the very toe of our stockings. So bright and they'd fit in your palm like so and the smell of them…. Haven't seen an orange in years, now."
I also really like Spike when he talks big about being evil, but then is secretly kind of sweet. Complicated character, that one - particularly in season 5, which was the height of my love for him.
"Yeah, I worry that we're all going to get scurvy," Xander says. Occasionally I worry about this too, I'm not sure why. For some reason scurvy from not getting enough vitamin C and Eli Whitney as the inventor of the cotton gin seem to be elementary school facts that stick with people. Spike glances at him, amused. Xander shrugs sheepishly. "Well, it's low down on the list of worries."
Tara walks by them, flapping her hands and grinning childishly. Xander sighs.
"You think Red's ever going to find a spell to cure her?" Spike asks.
"No. But I'm not going to tell her to give up," Xander says.
Hope in the middle of despair, I'm realizing, is maybe the most important theme in all of my stories. I'm not sure why that is - it always works its way in without me meaning for it to.
"Someone should," says Spike. "'Fore she gets herself killed. If she hasn't already."
"Well, it won't be me," Xander says, glaring at him. "But if you want to be the one to, you know, crush her spirit, I'm sure she'll be back by Christmas."
"Yeah? Only ten days left."
"I know."
"And isn't she Jewish?"
"If I knew what day Hanukkah was this year, I'd be counting down to that, too."
***
December 18, 2003
Xander spends the afternoon watching Anya bargain with a party of Grebna demons for odds and ends they've managed to acquire. The Grebna, it seems, are natural traders and have taken it upon themselves to caravan along the coast, trading between demons and humans. They're good at what they do, but Anya's better and she's clearly taking them to the cleaners. It's a beautiful thing to watch.
Anya laughs derisively. "Don't be ridiculous - that's not worth a sick sheep that died yesterday. I'll give you half a bushel of wheat if you throw in that tub of salt."
Thank goodness for Anya, who knew how to plow and how to grind grain into flour, how to take care of livestock. Without her they'd never have become self-sustaining - when they'd looted the last grocery store between here and the state line they'd have just had to move on or starve. Instead they have a reasonably prosperous farming community, with the orchards and vegetable gardens of the old monastery and the fields around the complex.
I also loved making Anya useful. And if you were going to have to recreate civilization from scratch, you'd really want someone around who'd grown up in the 10th century, wouldn't you?
She shakes hands with the chief Grebna and ushers him out to the courtyard, where they've left their… well, they're not horses. Big green, fuzzy, horse-like creatures. With teeth. Xander's not a fan.
When Anya comes back in, she walks over to where he sits against the wall. "Don't you have big, important, ruler-of-the-community-type things you should be doing?"
"Yup," Xander says, and half-smiles up at her. She is beautiful in the dim light, even with her hair pulled severely back and the permanent worry lines etched on her forehead. "Couldn't keep away, though. Love to watch you work."
"It is stunning, isn't it?" Anya grins, pleased. "I acquired many useful items for very little cost."
"I count on you," he says. She is holding her left hand behind her back and suddenly looks shy.
"I got you something," she says.
"Yeah?" he asks.
"I'd save it for Christmas, but I think it'd be better now." He reaches up and threads his hand through her free hand, smiling. "You don't mind if you get your Christmas present now, do you?"
"Nope," he says, squeezing her hand. "What'd you get me?"
Looking a little nervous, she quickly holds out what's in her left hand. A Jell-o Pudding Cup Snak-Pak. Chocolate, the kind Xander always made his mom put in his lunches from first grade until sixth, when he suddenly decided all the cool kids bought their lunch. He hasn't had anything chocolate since… well, a long time. Whenever they ran out of supermarkets to loot.
A smile slowly creeps over his face and he takes it out of her hand wonderingly. "How did you find this?"
Anya looks pleased at his obvious delight and grins, plopping down beside him. "I don't know! They just had it, they wouldn't say where they found it. And it's still good, I think."
He leans over and kisses her. "You are amazing."
She smiles. "I know."
He holds it, looking at the miracle of it for a long minute before pulling the foil off the top. The scent of the chocolate is immediate and strong, and he is cast back to elementary school lunch period, sitting at the long tables in the cafeteria under fluorescent lights. The cheap red plastic trays and the lunch monitors yelling at everyone to shut up and sit down, and the taste of juice boxes and fruit rollups. Jesse next to him and his He-Man lunchbox.
He and Anya share it, and it tastes even better than he remembers.
I have very little to add to this section. Uh, pudding is good? Happy Birthday, swmbo? I wish that I'd had a He-Man lunchbox in elementary school? The nice thing about being roughly the same age as the Scoobs is that for childhood details all I have to do is remember the pop-culture of my own childhood.
***
December 20, 2003
He dreams of waking up to blood on the sheets, between Anya's legs. She is pale and weak, won't wake up, and she is miscarrying. He yells and yells and no one comes, and there is blood everywhere, on his hands and face, staining his clothes and the blankets. Finally Doc Hopkins shows up, but shakes his head wearily. "There's nothing I can do." The baby is dead and Anya is dead and everyone is dead and it is his fault. He didn't know what to do, how to do it, how to keep everyone safe.
So yeah, the miscarriage was changed into just a dream, to emphasize the pressure of responsibility on Xander and all that. Poor guy.
He wakes abruptly, his heart pounding, and cannot get back to sleep. His mind keeps running over all the things he needs to do the next day, to check: make sure the vegetables are safely canned and stored, send a team to check their northern border, make up the lists for the next week of sentry duty, walk the wall to make sure there are no breaches. Back in Sunnydale he had never realized how much being in charge sucks.
After tossing and turning for far too long, he gives up on sleep, dresses quickly and goes up to the wall to make sure everything's all right. Dave and Stephanie are stationed on the west side, and he talks to them briefly before turning to the south wall. Spike is there at his familiar post, a vampire keeping guard over this lone enclave of humanity.
"You again," he says when Xander comes up beside him.
"Couldn't sleep," Xander says. Spike nods, face dim in the deep, moonless darkness. "Five days until Christmas," Xander says softly. "Or four, technically. It's after midnight."
"Hanukkah's already started," Spike says, unexpectedly.
The date of Hanukkah starting is also accurate for 2003 - started at sunset on Dec. 19.
"What?" Xander asks.
"Started at sunset yesterday. I found a calendar in the library that had Jewish holidays marked."
"Oh," Xander says. He feels hollow inside at that. "Geez." He looks out over the fields, but there's no movement.
The Hanukkah thing wasn't meant to imply that Hanukkah was a holiday roughly equivalent to Christmas for Jewish people, in terms of home-for-the-holidays kinds of feelings - since this is all in Xander's POV, he's artificially made Christmas the deadline for Willow's return. Her being Jewish means that Hanukkah is another deadline that's passed, making it less likely that she's come back. But this is all to Xander, not to Willow.
"So after Christmas you send out a search party?"
Xander breathes in, rubs his forehead. There is a slight wind, and the air is bitterly cold against his fingers. "After Christmas I give up hoping."
Spike glances at him sharply. It has begun to snow, and the flakes are a sharp white against the black of his coat. He is a colorless study in contrasts, the pale of his skin and hair, the dark of his coat and his eyes black in this light, nearly all pupil. "That'd make you the last of the Scoobies."
I've just noticed, this means that Spike doesn't count himself, Anya or Tara as one of the Scoobies. Interesting. I must've thought that through at some point, but I don't remember my thought process - I think it's accurate to season 5, though.
Xander brushes snow out of his hair. "It would. But I'm not a Scooby anymore."
To Xander, the Scoobies died with Buffy. This world doesn't really have a place for cute little nicknames.
***
December 22, 2003
It's the shortest day of the year and he begins to understand why every religion feels the need to have some kind of festival for it - a festival of lights preferred. The days are ridiculously short, and the few hours of daylight are pale and indirect, weak and shaky. The dark worries him, presses inward through the windows with its menace and threat of evil things outside.
Spike is cheery as they walk through the muddy cold of the courtyard. "Favorite night of the year, this. Me and Dru used to go out all night long and dance and have such a time of it…. One year we ran into this group of the tenderest…," he suddenly notices Xander glaring at him and stops short. Then shrugs. "Vampires have their feast days same as you."
It occurred to me as I was writing that the longest night of the year must be a vampire holiday, best night of the year. I kind of liked that idea.
"That's very disturbing," Xander says.
Spike rolls his eyes. "So what'd you ask Santa for this year, Harris? Been a good little boy, made it onto the Nice list?"
"You better believe it," Xander says, opening the door to one of their storage sheds. He begins rummaging around for extra candles and handing the boxes to Spike.
"So, you asked for… let's see. I know, a Red Rider BB-gun. Very all-American of you."
That's of course from the classic Christmas movie, A Christmas Story. Has Spike seen this movie? Why yes, yes, he has. Do not question me.
"A time machine," Xander says shortly. "To fix this stupid world. But I'd settle for Willow coming home."
Spike doesn't say anything as Xander piles another box on top of those already in his hands, putting it on the stack with a little more force than strictly necessary.
"Didn't know we could even have Christmas without the entire capitalist system behind it," Spike says lightly after a moment.
"Must be a true meaning of Christmas after all," Xander says distractedly, straightening up with the last box of candles in his hands.
"Yeah? What is it?" Spike asks as they turn to walk out of the storeroom.
"I dunno. According to every Christmas special ever, it seems to involve everyone joining hands and singing."
That's true, right? I think what evolved in this story is that for Xander, Christmas came mostly through TV shows and movies. Poor neglected kid.
"Very profound, Harris."
"Thank you."
A couple of little boys run across their path, shooting imaginary guns at each other and shrieking happily.
"Kids today," Xander says dryly. "I always want to stop them and tell them that in my day, we would sometimes spend the entire day inside watching cartoons. And then tell them to run along inside and play Gameboy for awhile like normal kids."
"Guess you should give them batteries for Christmas, then."
***
December 24, 2003
Christmas Eve and their lone surviving priest is holding a midnight mass in the chapel. Xander doesn't feel like going, though Anya does. Instead he goes up on the wall, to watch Willow not show up on the southern horizon one last time. It is very dark - no moon - and extremely cold. His breath fans out in front of him and he wraps his jacket around himself more securely before sitting in one of the nooks of the wall, back secure against the stones. He commands a view of the entire landscape from his position - the road winding up to the complex and the fields, now empty and stubbled after the harvest. Stars hang bright and clear in the sky.
He can hear faint singing coming from the chapel - Christmas carols. Spike is stalking around somewhere on the west wall, keeping watch, so Xander this time has the south to himself. Nothing moves on the horizon.
Despite the cold, his eyes occasionally drift shut and it is only with effort that he keeps awake, keeps watch over the silent landscape. It wouldn't be Christmas Eve if he weren't outside looking at the stars, alone and vaguely miserable.
They strike up "O Holy Night" in the chapel and the lyrics drift softly out to him. Long lay the world in sin and error pining, he hears, and it reminds him of made-for-TV movies and countless Christmas specials, of wishing his family had Norman Rockwell Christmases.
He thinks about A Charlie Brown Christmas and Willow and the Snoopy dance and feels worse and worse, missing her. He scans the horizon again, where she is not, then leans his head back against the wall, lets his eyes close. It is getting very late. Fragments of Christmas TV shows and movies drift through his head dreamily. You'll shoot your eye out… The Grinch's heart grew three sizes that day… Here's to my brother George: the richest man in town! … Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown… God bless us, every one! … Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings… Scrooge was better than his word…. And Linus's lisping child-voice, serious, …shepherds watching over their flocks by night. And behold, the angel of the Lord appeared to them and the glory of the Lord shone around them…
Those bits of dialogue are from A Christmas Story, The Grinch that Stole Christmas, It's a Wonderful Life, A Charlie Brown Christmas, and A Christmas Carol.
The next bit of the Bible verse that Linus quotes is "And they were terrified." Willow's reappearance is very much this heavenly host appearing - they appear to someone keeping watch by night, initially terrifying them, but bringing them exactly what they've wanted. I didn't intend to do this when I started this section, but I saw the parallels and worked it around to (hopefully subtly) bring that out.
"You hear that?" Spike's voice suddenly interrupts as he comes around the corner, face perturbed. Xander starts up, shaking off his half-stupor, suddenly wide awake.
"Hear what?"
"Listen," Spike says, intent, looking out into the distance as if he expects to see something. Ah, vamp hearing.
Xander listens, and after a moment he hears it. The faint sound of a motor in the distance. The last time they heard the sound of motors it was a gang of some kind of red, scaly things on Harleys, and they lost nine people fighting them off.
"Shit," Xander mutters and watches for whatever it is to come in sight. A pair of headlights suddenly appears at the farthest point of the road he can see, driving towards them rapidly. No others follow.
"Just one," Spike says.
"Okay, we won't disrupt the service for just one car." Because we'll need the service to still be singing to finish up the story later, of course. Xander leans around the corner and calls to the guards on the east wall. "Justin! Mark! We've got a situation." The two come hurrying over. "One carload of unknowns. Go find the best archers - Tom, Dave, Erin, Jess and Lou - and get them up here right now. I want everyone with an arrow on the string and ready. And tell John what's going on and have him make sure the gates are bolted and everything else is prepared. Then get back here."
"Yessir," they say, and take off running.
Xander and Spike watch the car get closer. "What can you see?" Xander asks tersely.
"Looks like a Jeep. Can't tell what's inside."
Both of the men are tense, muscles tight and coiled for action, their weapons ready. Xander taps his fingers against his side rapidly, on edge. Within two minutes time, the archers he asked for are mobilizing on the wall - everyone has been trained for these scenarios and they take their places automatically, eyes fixed on the threat.
The Jeep gets closer and closer, until Xander can see a shadowy figure in the driver's seat and a slumped figure in the back. They look human, so far, but that doesn't guarantee anything.
They shout at it to hold, but the vehicle keeps coming towards them, though without presenting a threat. Xander is about to give the command to shoot when it suddenly stops thirty yards from the walls.
"Identify yourselves!" Xander calls. "Don't come any closer!"
The Jeep's top is open, and the figure in the driver's seat stands up, head sticking above the vehicle. It is female, Xander realizes, as it moves to take off its knit cap. As the cap sweeps off, it reveals a shock of bright red hair, visible even in the dim starlight, and something inside Xander gives a leap, a sudden wrench of feeling so strong it nearly knocks him down.
"Xander!" she calls out, in the voice he has been longing to hear for months. Joy hits him like a freight train, explodes in his chest like a firecracker.
He automatically bolts for the stairs, heading for the gate, when Spike grabs him by the back of the shirt.
"Could be a trick," Spike says coolly. Xander freezes, the fear of it immediately overtaking him, of a thing that looks and sounds like Willow but is not. He moves back to the edge of the wall in trepidation, the horror a chemical burn lodging in his muscles. The maybe-Willow is grinning a huge grin at him, her eyes full of love.
"The password is 'Lemon drop'," she says. "Which we made in case of shape-shifters or wizards or enchantment. It's from Harry Potter and I insisted on it even though you said it was lame and Spike made fun of Harry Potter for, like, an hour. And you're Xander and I'm Willow and it's Christmas Day now so you owe me a Snoopy dance and you'll never believe what I've brought you!"
But halfway through this speech Xander is down the stairs and at the gate, throwing the doors open (to John's bewilderment) and running full-speed at Willow until they are in a hug to end all hugs.
Someone pointed out to me that Xander should really be worried that Willow's been vamped here. Which is an excellent point and now bothers me a lot about the story. So just imagine that Willow's holding up a crucifix, or that Spike can hear that she has a heartbeat, or something like that. Sigh. Maybe I should just add something like that to the story so it doesn't niggle at me anymore.
She is solid and warm and human in his arms and somehow a little smaller than he remembers. But alive and real and she smells like Willow and hugs like Willow and gives a little choky laugh like Willow.
Then another voice speaks raggedly from the back of the Jeep. "Xander," it says, hoarse but very familiar, and polished, and English. Xander looks up from Willow's shoulder, blinking his eyes rapidly to clear them, and stares.
"Turns out he wasn't dead after all," Willow says, letting go and turning so her arm is still around him and they are both facing the Jeep. And there is Giles, looking pale and weak and a lot older than he did two and a half years ago. But he is alive, living and breathing and smiling faintly.
I wish someone would bring me a Giles for Christmas.
Xander opens his mouth but finds he can't speak. Willow holds tight to his waist.
"Merry Christmas, Xander," she says. "Told you I'd be back."
And from the chapel drift the distant strains of continued song, of joy to the world and glad tidings and long-hoped for arrival.
Boy, this ending was tricky to write. I really didn't want to send it over the top into sentiment, but it's leaning that way so hard that I really worked at this for a long time. I had several different mental versions of it - some of them involved Willow coming back like Santa Claus, dressed in red with the Jeep piled over with presents for all the children. I'm very glad I scrapped that. But I'm glad that I decided to have her bring Giles - in the end, those relationships are enough of a gift - almost too much, more than they would ever have hoped for.
This story… well, my goal in writing is always to tell the truth. And I think sometimes it's true that, against all your expectations and worries and dread, you get exactly what you want and need. Get more than you want, get things back that you've lost and thought were unrecoverable. I have had a few of those moments in my life. But they're hard to write. Very, very hard to write. So I really hope the ending works here.
***
END
And here ends my director's cut DVD commentary on this fic. Thanks for reading, if you managed to get this far, and I hope it didn't ruin the story for you in any way. But I had fun writing it, anyway, and isn't that all that matters?
Love to you all.
Ahem. Okay, um, one of my New Year's resolutions was to be more aloof and mysterious about my writing, to let the work speak for itself and let everyone just marvel quietly at how I did it (heh). Yeah, so that one really lasted. Aloof and mysterious apparently is not my strong point. So I had a lot of fun adding commentary to this fic, but obviously if you don't care or if you feel the story stands better on its own, etc, just pass on by. I don't want to wreck it by exposing all the bells and whistles and weak spots and stuff, or by over-explaining things that were nice and subtle. But if you're interested in the process of writing it, the back story, and other kinds of things that would go on a DVD commentary, this is the place for you, I guess. So sit back, relax and enjoy. My commentary will be in bold italics.
The Weary World Rejoicing
I think this is probably my favorite of all the fics I've written - I'm just really pleased with it.
So this was the second of two Christmas fics I wrote in December of 2003, with the other of the two "Christmas, Iowa Style", about Riley Finn. It's interesting for me looking back (heh - looking back. It's been, what, a month?) on these two, because I think the two of them managed to encapsulate the two major… themes, I guess, of Christmas for me. (Theme isn't the right word, but I can't think of a better one. Anyway, you get the gist.) "Christmas, Iowa Style" is very much the homey, friends and family, traditional sort of Midwestern Christmas that my own family does, so all the warm fuzziness of that home-for-the-holidays feel is there. But the other side of Christmas to me, the more meaningful side, is the sort of mystical, apocalyptic feel of this story. As a Christian, the church season of Advent leading up to Christmas is a very important religious time which anticipates and celebrates the birth of Christ, as well as looking forward to his second coming. So this theme of waiting and looking for the coming of the Messiah is a huge part of Christmas to me, all wrapped up in images of dark services and candle-lighting and winter and hoping for light to come in the darkness. This story encapsulates all those emotions for me, though the facts of it are quite different - Willow isn't in any way supposed to be a Christ figure, apart from her position in the story. But she's what Xander is waiting and hoping for.
What else contributed to this story is that I play the harp and so people tend to give me harp Christmas CDs as presents. So Christmas, to me, has this medieval, sad, lonely, cold harp music feel to it, which is where the feel of the story comes from. I think I also tended to read books about King Arthur around Christmas time, so the sort of, warriors in the hall, fighting off the darkness, wintry, fifth century Britain kind of society Xander has set up here probably owes a lot to Gillian Bradshaw's trilogy of King Arthur books.
***
December 1, 2003
I think originally I was going to start the story after Thanksgiving, but as it took shape I realized it was an Advent story, and so starts with the first day of December. Also, the dates which mark off the days here were a late addition - originally I was just going to have sections marked off, with internal markers as to the days (e.g. "It's the first day of December" - some of those internal markers got left in), but after a bit I added the date section headers to make the story a bit clearer and better structured.
Xander stands on the wall, looking out over the landscape below, trying to see. Still hasn't quite gotten used to how dark it is without civilization, how bright the stars are. The moon's a quarter full - waxing, he knows without having to think about it. He's more aware of the cycles of the moon and the position of the stars than he's ever been, even when they had Oz around to remind them.
I took an astronomy class in college and so can now always tell by the angle of the sun and moon whether the moon is waxing or waning, rising or setting, etc. I'm inordinately proud of this skill. Also, the remarks on the cycle of the moon throughout the story are accurate for the dates in 2003 - I actually looked it up, because I'm an accuracy nerd like that. Anyway, also, the fact that Xander is so aware of astronomical phenomena is a nod to how much more familiar people in the ancient world were with the movements of the moon and stars - when you live in a world without light pollution and all that, it happens. Also, hopefully it shows that Xander spends a lot of time outside at night. The whole story aims to create this AU in a very few words, so I tried to be very economical about what I said and how much information was in each sentence.
It's the first day of December and she's not back yet. He knows that worrying doesn't do any good but he still spends way too much time on top of this wall watching for her, time he can't afford.
He sees movement out of the corner of his eye, but when he looks it's just Spike, turning the corner as he walks the wall. In the old days, he'd be lighting up a cigarette at this moment, but, well, they don't have cigarettes anymore. How Spike manages to keep his hair peroxided is a mystery no one has solved, but even he can't keep himself supplied with the cancer-sticks indefinitely.
How Spike keeps his hair peroxided is also a mystery the author has not solved, but a Spike without bleached hair would be like having no Spike at all. So either Spike has some mysterious demon supplier of bleach, or a secret lab underground where he makes the bleach, or something like that. Fanwank to your heart's content.
Also, I felt that the world demanded that Spike not have cigarettes anymore, but it pisses me off. I kept wanting to write him lighting up, and I couldn't. It's like he has nothing to do with his hands anymore and I'd keep picturing him searching through his pockets and kind of flapping his hands around aimlessly. Very aggravating.
"No sign of her," Spike asks, but it's not exactly a question.
"No," Xander says.
"How long's it been now?" Spike asks, sounding bored. "Three weeks longer than it should've been?"
I enjoyed the slow reveal of who it is they're waiting for, but I guess since Spike's bored about it you can tell that it's not Buffy. I actually kind of waffled on what emotion Spike would have towards Willow being missing - did he grow to like her over the two years? How have his relationships with the Scoobs changed? But I figured for something this dramatically AU, I should keep as much the same as I could. And Spike's always good as a sort of foil, saying what people don't want to hear and being bored and casual about things they really care about.
Xander glances down at him, wanting to glare but not able to summon up the energy. "More or less."
"Getting cold, these nights," Spike comments. He leans against the rampart beside Xander and looks out across the trees. "Haven't seen anything moving out there since before All Hallow's." Spike usually takes the night watch, walking the walls of their compound. "Good time to get yourself home."
"She'll be all right," Xander says. "Willow can take care of herself."
"If you say so," Spike says.
Xander's ears are pink from cold, and he worries. They cannot afford to lose Willow. They have lost so much already.
I'd be sort of interested to hear what the reader's experience is going through this - the world already existed as a construct in my head, and I knew who was missing and what the story was all along, so no surprises for me, but I'm curious as to what reader's figured out when and how the world took shape. So if anyone wants to comment on that, feel free.
***
December 4, 2003
He is awoken by pounding on the door of his and Anya's tiny room. That's the thing about living in an old monastery - small rooms, few furnishings, the simple life. Anya groans and tries to bury her head in his shoulder at the knocking. But he is awake and alert immediately, half sitting up and calling for whoever it is to come in.
There's actually a monastery in the town of Mt. Angel in the Willamette Valley in Oregon that I found online, so that's where this is located. I thought the name Mt. Angel was kind of ironic and was clearly meant to be as their location, but I didn't put it in the fic because it's a little over the top. And I put them in a monastery because they need a place that's easily defensible, with a wall around it, and monastic complex is the kind of place that fits the bill. And it all fits into the medieval overall feel I was going for.
It's John, looking like he's been back from the hunting expedition for no more than five minutes. He's got blood smeared on his shirt but doesn't look frantic, just tired.
I like John a lot, Xander's second-in-command. I should write a John-centric story sometime.
"Sir? We've found someone. You should probably come hear this," he says and Xander is already out of bed and reaching for his jeans. Xander is wearing boxers, by the way, in case you were wondering whether he just flashed John. "I'll wait outside," John finishes, ducking his head and shutting the door behind him.
I think this is the point where you probably realize that Xander is a pretty important person in the community, what with the calling him Sir and all. I wanted to have little clues to that without a lot of exposition - also, Xander doesn't think of himself that way, so it needs to be external to his thoughts, in what other people say and do when they see him, but not registering with him too much. He has the kind of authority that's very organic - he knows what to do, and so people listen to him and he takes that for granted by this point, while not really thinking of himself as too important. Because our beloved Xander has a good dash of humility in his character. Or else maybe just self-esteem issues. Whatever.
"It's too early," Anya complains sleepily.
"Sun's up," Xander says. There is pale wintry light coming through their one small window, high up on the white-washed wall.
"Barely," Anya replies. Then her face drains of color. "Oof, hand me the bucket." He passes it over quickly and she holds it, looking like she might be sick at any moment and breathing raggedly. He strokes her hair. "I hate morning sickness," she says, after the surge of nausea seems to have died down. "I should be sleeping with Spike. He wouldn't have impregnated me."
The pregnancy thing I went back and forth on, whether I really wanted to do it or not. But if you're living in a world with no birth control for two years, it's fairly likely to happen - also, it adds to the risk factor of Xander's whole life and gives him something else to worry about. For awhile I think I was going to actually have her miscarry during the fic, but ended up deciding that was extraneous to the plot and didn't really have a point. So I just went with pregnancy - actually, I think the deciding factor might've been that I just liked that line of Anya's about sleeping with Spike, which is kind of sad. Heh. Oh well.
"Sorry," Xander says, looking around for his shirt. "And please don't."
"It's okay," Anya concedes. "I know you didn't mean to."
Xander finds his shirt and holds it in one hand as he leans over to kiss her stomach, his own chest bare and pale, leaner now than he's been in years. He rubs his hand softly over the slight bulge of her tummy. "Love you, Ahn," he says, kissing her lightly before turning. He pulls the shirt on as he goes out the door, and John falls into step beside him, heading towards the hall.
I always wished on the show that Xander had been a little nicer to Anya in general, so I made him nicer in the fic. But I think also it reflects her importance to the community, which makes him much less embarrassed about being with her. Also, he has way bigger things to worry about than Anya saying embarrassing things, and I think the last two years have been so hard that they've had to lean heavily on each other, and have a deep affection and trust built from that.
"What happened?" Xander asks as they cross the courtyard between the living quarters and the other buildings. A few grubby children are playing near the chapel as the rest of the complex is beginning to awaken. Xander nods at one of the older women, carrying buckets of water from the well to the kitchen. She smiles at him tiredly.
By the way, as a leader, Xander knows the name, stories and talents of everyone in the community, including this lady. Because he's that kind of guy. But I didn't put in her name because a description was more important for atmosphere, and you get Xander spouting off names and stuff later on, anyway.
"We were camped about a day north-east of here when we heard screaming. Found a gang of vamps attacking some people."
Now I notice that the people were traveling from California and the south, but I have them running into vamps north-east of the settlement. Whoops. I guess they must've gotten a little lost or something.
"Travelers?" Xander asks, already knowing. There are no other living humans within 50 miles of their compound.
"Yeah. We only managed to save one, a middle-aged guy. His wife and son and friends were all already dead. But he said they were traveling from California, so I figured you'd want to talk to him as soon as we got here."
A surge of adrenaline hits Xander's bloodstream and he starts walking even faster. "Thanks, John. How many vamps?" John quickens his pace to match Xander's.
"Looked like around five. We dusted two, but the others took off running and we couldn't keep up. In the morning we tracked them to Woodburn and we're pretty sure they've nested in one of the warehouses on the east side of town."
Woodburn is a real Oregon town, near Mt. Angel. I got that out of an encyclopedia, I know nothing else about the town, which may or may not have warehouses on its east side.
"Woodburn? That close, huh? You'd think they'd know better by now."
"Dangerous but not that bright, I guess."
"We'll send out a patrol this afternoon."
They reach the door to the hall, the large room used for meals and assemblies and decisions. It's furnished with rough wooden tables and backless benches, all in the dark, somber wood that characterizes the old monastery. Sprawled in the middle of it is the rest of the hunting party, sitting wearily on the benches and edges of the tables, though they stand when Xander enters. He strides towards them, sizing them up. Everyone who left has come back; Marshall has a bloody bandage on one arm, but otherwise seems sturdy enough, so it must be a minor injury. Other than the nasty-looking bruise on Beth's cheekbone, the rest of them look all right. A successful outing, then. Xander waves at them to sit down, and they do.
I got a big kick out of them standing up when Xander walks in. It's the little things. Oh, and they were hunting for food, not for vampires, by the way, I don't think that's really clear. But either interpretation works fine.
His eyes rest on the stranger, who is ragged, skinny and malnourished, with a cut above one eye and a bandage on his neck.
"Hi," Xander says gently. "Xander Harris. Welcome." He reaches out his hand to shake and the man stares at it for a moment before taking it, clearing his throat awkwardly, looking nervous and shaken.
"Um… Karl. Karl Lundin." His voice is hoarse.
"You were traveling from California?" Xander says, sitting down across from him. He is keeping very steady, but his heart is pounding. Willow, Willow, Willow.
"Yes," Karl says. "From San Francisco."
Oh.
"Ever go farther south?" Xander asks. Karl actually shudders at this.
"No. I've heard… horrible… no one goes farther south. The rumors alone...," he trails off, looking troubled.
"What have you heard?" Xander asks, his voice more intense than he intends.
Karl looks at him warily. "I don't know. That that's where it all started. That around L.A. there's evil you've never imagined. That… they say it's the mouth of hell."
I didn't know how else to describe Sunnydale's fictitious location than by saying that it's near L.A. I hope that wasn't misleading - the apocalypse started in Sunnydale, not L.A.
"Ah," Xander says, and sits back, thoughtful. "Yeah." He looks at Karl steadily. "Have you heard anything else? Or seen anyone? Like a red-haired woman, traveling south? She's small and pretty and looking for books and old texts."
Yeah, Xander's actually looking for Dana Scully.
Karl thinks, then shakes his head slowly.
"Nothing at all?"
"No," Karl says. "Nothing. I'm sorry."
Xander sighs, letting his shoulders slump. "It's okay."
Karl looks down at the table, rubbing it absently with his thumb. He looks very tired.
"Why were you traveling?" Xander asks. "The roads are dangerous. But I guess, uh, you know that."
"They're less dangerous than staying in San Francisco would have been. We heard that there were people up north, fighting off the demons. People who know what they're doing and how to fight. We decided it'd be better to die trying to get there than die where we sat."
"There are people fighting up north?" Xander asks. Karl looks at him like he's crazy.
"Uh… yeah. You."
I almost didn't put this in, because I didn't want Xander to seem stupid. But I'm glad I did - I think I got a comment to the effect that this made it seem like Xander didn't realize he's the resistance, which is exactly what it was intended to do. Phew.
Xander is taken aback. "Oh. Right." He looks away for a second, then turns to Marshall. "Have we gotten Doc Hopkins to look at Karl here yet? That vampire bite can't be good."
Looking back, maybe they should've just called him Dr. Hopkins. Was I watching Westerns while I was writing this or something?
"He's on his way over," Marshall said.
"Good. Get your arm looked at while you're at it. The rest of you, get some rest. You earned it. John, can you help me get together a patrol to go after that nest? Get however many people we can spare - not you, you need a day off, but whoever else has experience and nothing pressing to do." John nods. "Thanks," Xander says, getting up from the table, disappointment sharp in his muscles. "I'll head it up myself this time. Could use some action today."
***
December 9, 2003
Xander cuts behind the chapel on his way to the barns, passing the memorial wall with its carved rows of names, the dead and missing. He stops, as he always does, to trace three particular names. Buffy Summers. Dawn Summers. Rupert Giles. A splinter catches his finger on the 'L' of Giles, and he automatically winces and sticks the finger in his mouth, tastes blood. They never found Giles's body.
Ah, exposition, how long we've waited for you. I liked the idea of them having a Vietnam Memorial kind of wall, and that in this world, most of the people would have no idea of whether their family members were dead or just missing or whatever.
Turned out that not even Buffy could defeat a god. It had been a beaten and broken remnant of the Scooby gang that had made it out - him and Anya, Willow and Tara, such as she was. Spike. Not enough to really be a gang, anymore. Just the battered leftovers, holed up in a walled monastery compound in Oregon, waiting to take their last stand. That they've made it through two and a half years still seems like dumb luck to Xander.
So this is obviously post-"The Gift", in a scenario where Glory wins. I figure she bled Dawn, causing dimensions to bleed together and bringing a lot of demonic elements into our world, making it a hell on earth. Buffy died defending Dawn, Dawn died on the tower, and Giles went down fighting. I think he was hurt pretty badly at the time, possibly grabbed by that dragon that flew out, actually, and transported a long way away. But I'm not actually completely positive about what happened, and it doesn't really matter for the story, thankfully.
He runs his hand along the shapes of the names one more time before walking on. Outside the closest barn, a couple of boys are pushing wheelbarrows full of hay and bellowing out "Jingle Bells" at the top of their lungs.
Sixteen days till Christmas and no sign of Willow. The nights are long and it is remarkably cold. He doesn't want to carve another name on the wall.
Pacing the story was a little tricky - I hope I didn't put in too much of the countdown, but I wanted the consciousness of time to be there throughout, for the reader to be very aware of the days ticking down.
***
December 15, 2003
Almost everyone goes along to cut down the big Christmas tree for the hall. Xander has the axe and walks up front, Anya on one side of him and John on the other. Kids run alongside, throwing snowballs and pushing each other into drifts. Someone in the back starts up singing "Joy to the World" and it catches on, jolly and festive. Anya squeezes his hand and he looks back at the group, slogging through the snow, old and young, men and women, everyone looking reasonably happy. But those he designated guards are carrying crossbows and swords, walking alongside and looking warily into the forest around them. And in the back is Tara, vacantly following along with some of the women. Xander quickly turns back to face forward.
Tara's still mind-wiped from Glory, since in this world Willow never got to reverse it. Depressing, innit? Cry, reader, cry!
They find a good tree, a big one, twelve feet. Xander does the symbolic first chop, but after that he lets a couple of the guys usually on firewood duty finish it off. Everyone stands around watching, singing and chatting while they wait. A few people find holly berries for wreathes and the red and green stand out against the snow. When the tree topples everyone cheers, and there is a scramble for who gets to help pull it back.
I actually think in some ways this would be a nice kind of community to live in - good people, with little traditions and respect for each other. Friendly and festive, people looking out for each other. Where everyone knows your name, you know? Yeah, I have some slight Mary-Sueish fantasies about apocalyptic worlds, but I never write them down. :-)
Spike is in the dim hall when they get back, languidly I tried a bunch of different words there, and I'm still not happy with that one. Indolently? Languorously? Indifferently? I don't know. leaning against the wall near the big fireplace. The whole tree-cutting party spills in, red-cheeked and alert, shouting cheerfully as they wrestle the massive tree through the door and stand it up.
Someone has made tea from their meager stores, a rare treat, but Xander doesn't get a cup. Just the smell of the tea reminds him too strongly of Giles, of researching at the library or at his apartment, and he misses him with a renewed pang. Giles, with his stable, sturdy adulthood, always knowing what to do.
I think this was originally hot chocolate, before I decided that Willow was going to bring Giles back with her. But when I changed the end so that Giles isn't actually dead, I decided there needed to be more longing for him earlier, so tea it was. I think they'd be more likely to have tea left after two years than hot chocolate anyway. And also, economy of words, meaning in the details, blah blah blah.
He goes over to lean beside Spike, wall cold at his back.
"Have fun?" Spike asks, tone a little bitter.
"Yeah," Xander says quietly. "We did. Sorry you were stuck here, but we can't really take everyone out into the forest at night."
Xander and Spike's relationship was one of my favorite things to write in this fic. How they're not friends, exactly, but they kind of are. I feel like Spike sort of always secretly liked the Scoobs a little bit, maybe particularly in season 5 - he likes having them around to annoy, likes pushing their buttons, and would sort of miss them if they weren't around. But he would never, ever, admit this.
Spike shrugs dismissively. "Not much for celebrating the birth of our Lord and savior anyway."
"Right, because you're evil," Xander says, watching the kids start to string tinsel on the tree.
"Very," says Spike dryly. "Behold my evil works."
Xander waits for a minute, but Spike doesn't say anything else. "Isn't this the part where you say, 'If it weren't for this chip in my head, I'd eviscerate you all and use your guts as mistletoe'?"
"Hmm? Oh yeah. Right," Spike says. Wreaths and holly branches are being put over the windows and around the walls. The tree is already covered with homemade ornaments, and someone has found a way to attach candles to the branches so that it is covered in light. Spike shifts. "We always used to have oranges at Christmas. Down in the very toe of our stockings. So bright and they'd fit in your palm like so and the smell of them…. Haven't seen an orange in years, now."
I also really like Spike when he talks big about being evil, but then is secretly kind of sweet. Complicated character, that one - particularly in season 5, which was the height of my love for him.
"Yeah, I worry that we're all going to get scurvy," Xander says. Occasionally I worry about this too, I'm not sure why. For some reason scurvy from not getting enough vitamin C and Eli Whitney as the inventor of the cotton gin seem to be elementary school facts that stick with people. Spike glances at him, amused. Xander shrugs sheepishly. "Well, it's low down on the list of worries."
Tara walks by them, flapping her hands and grinning childishly. Xander sighs.
"You think Red's ever going to find a spell to cure her?" Spike asks.
"No. But I'm not going to tell her to give up," Xander says.
Hope in the middle of despair, I'm realizing, is maybe the most important theme in all of my stories. I'm not sure why that is - it always works its way in without me meaning for it to.
"Someone should," says Spike. "'Fore she gets herself killed. If she hasn't already."
"Well, it won't be me," Xander says, glaring at him. "But if you want to be the one to, you know, crush her spirit, I'm sure she'll be back by Christmas."
"Yeah? Only ten days left."
"I know."
"And isn't she Jewish?"
"If I knew what day Hanukkah was this year, I'd be counting down to that, too."
***
December 18, 2003
Xander spends the afternoon watching Anya bargain with a party of Grebna demons for odds and ends they've managed to acquire. The Grebna, it seems, are natural traders and have taken it upon themselves to caravan along the coast, trading between demons and humans. They're good at what they do, but Anya's better and she's clearly taking them to the cleaners. It's a beautiful thing to watch.
Anya laughs derisively. "Don't be ridiculous - that's not worth a sick sheep that died yesterday. I'll give you half a bushel of wheat if you throw in that tub of salt."
Thank goodness for Anya, who knew how to plow and how to grind grain into flour, how to take care of livestock. Without her they'd never have become self-sustaining - when they'd looted the last grocery store between here and the state line they'd have just had to move on or starve. Instead they have a reasonably prosperous farming community, with the orchards and vegetable gardens of the old monastery and the fields around the complex.
I also loved making Anya useful. And if you were going to have to recreate civilization from scratch, you'd really want someone around who'd grown up in the 10th century, wouldn't you?
She shakes hands with the chief Grebna and ushers him out to the courtyard, where they've left their… well, they're not horses. Big green, fuzzy, horse-like creatures. With teeth. Xander's not a fan.
When Anya comes back in, she walks over to where he sits against the wall. "Don't you have big, important, ruler-of-the-community-type things you should be doing?"
"Yup," Xander says, and half-smiles up at her. She is beautiful in the dim light, even with her hair pulled severely back and the permanent worry lines etched on her forehead. "Couldn't keep away, though. Love to watch you work."
"It is stunning, isn't it?" Anya grins, pleased. "I acquired many useful items for very little cost."
"I count on you," he says. She is holding her left hand behind her back and suddenly looks shy.
"I got you something," she says.
"Yeah?" he asks.
"I'd save it for Christmas, but I think it'd be better now." He reaches up and threads his hand through her free hand, smiling. "You don't mind if you get your Christmas present now, do you?"
"Nope," he says, squeezing her hand. "What'd you get me?"
Looking a little nervous, she quickly holds out what's in her left hand. A Jell-o Pudding Cup Snak-Pak. Chocolate, the kind Xander always made his mom put in his lunches from first grade until sixth, when he suddenly decided all the cool kids bought their lunch. He hasn't had anything chocolate since… well, a long time. Whenever they ran out of supermarkets to loot.
A smile slowly creeps over his face and he takes it out of her hand wonderingly. "How did you find this?"
Anya looks pleased at his obvious delight and grins, plopping down beside him. "I don't know! They just had it, they wouldn't say where they found it. And it's still good, I think."
He leans over and kisses her. "You are amazing."
She smiles. "I know."
He holds it, looking at the miracle of it for a long minute before pulling the foil off the top. The scent of the chocolate is immediate and strong, and he is cast back to elementary school lunch period, sitting at the long tables in the cafeteria under fluorescent lights. The cheap red plastic trays and the lunch monitors yelling at everyone to shut up and sit down, and the taste of juice boxes and fruit rollups. Jesse next to him and his He-Man lunchbox.
He and Anya share it, and it tastes even better than he remembers.
I have very little to add to this section. Uh, pudding is good? Happy Birthday, swmbo? I wish that I'd had a He-Man lunchbox in elementary school? The nice thing about being roughly the same age as the Scoobs is that for childhood details all I have to do is remember the pop-culture of my own childhood.
***
December 20, 2003
He dreams of waking up to blood on the sheets, between Anya's legs. She is pale and weak, won't wake up, and she is miscarrying. He yells and yells and no one comes, and there is blood everywhere, on his hands and face, staining his clothes and the blankets. Finally Doc Hopkins shows up, but shakes his head wearily. "There's nothing I can do." The baby is dead and Anya is dead and everyone is dead and it is his fault. He didn't know what to do, how to do it, how to keep everyone safe.
So yeah, the miscarriage was changed into just a dream, to emphasize the pressure of responsibility on Xander and all that. Poor guy.
He wakes abruptly, his heart pounding, and cannot get back to sleep. His mind keeps running over all the things he needs to do the next day, to check: make sure the vegetables are safely canned and stored, send a team to check their northern border, make up the lists for the next week of sentry duty, walk the wall to make sure there are no breaches. Back in Sunnydale he had never realized how much being in charge sucks.
After tossing and turning for far too long, he gives up on sleep, dresses quickly and goes up to the wall to make sure everything's all right. Dave and Stephanie are stationed on the west side, and he talks to them briefly before turning to the south wall. Spike is there at his familiar post, a vampire keeping guard over this lone enclave of humanity.
"You again," he says when Xander comes up beside him.
"Couldn't sleep," Xander says. Spike nods, face dim in the deep, moonless darkness. "Five days until Christmas," Xander says softly. "Or four, technically. It's after midnight."
"Hanukkah's already started," Spike says, unexpectedly.
The date of Hanukkah starting is also accurate for 2003 - started at sunset on Dec. 19.
"What?" Xander asks.
"Started at sunset yesterday. I found a calendar in the library that had Jewish holidays marked."
"Oh," Xander says. He feels hollow inside at that. "Geez." He looks out over the fields, but there's no movement.
The Hanukkah thing wasn't meant to imply that Hanukkah was a holiday roughly equivalent to Christmas for Jewish people, in terms of home-for-the-holidays kinds of feelings - since this is all in Xander's POV, he's artificially made Christmas the deadline for Willow's return. Her being Jewish means that Hanukkah is another deadline that's passed, making it less likely that she's come back. But this is all to Xander, not to Willow.
"So after Christmas you send out a search party?"
Xander breathes in, rubs his forehead. There is a slight wind, and the air is bitterly cold against his fingers. "After Christmas I give up hoping."
Spike glances at him sharply. It has begun to snow, and the flakes are a sharp white against the black of his coat. He is a colorless study in contrasts, the pale of his skin and hair, the dark of his coat and his eyes black in this light, nearly all pupil. "That'd make you the last of the Scoobies."
I've just noticed, this means that Spike doesn't count himself, Anya or Tara as one of the Scoobies. Interesting. I must've thought that through at some point, but I don't remember my thought process - I think it's accurate to season 5, though.
Xander brushes snow out of his hair. "It would. But I'm not a Scooby anymore."
To Xander, the Scoobies died with Buffy. This world doesn't really have a place for cute little nicknames.
***
December 22, 2003
It's the shortest day of the year and he begins to understand why every religion feels the need to have some kind of festival for it - a festival of lights preferred. The days are ridiculously short, and the few hours of daylight are pale and indirect, weak and shaky. The dark worries him, presses inward through the windows with its menace and threat of evil things outside.
Spike is cheery as they walk through the muddy cold of the courtyard. "Favorite night of the year, this. Me and Dru used to go out all night long and dance and have such a time of it…. One year we ran into this group of the tenderest…," he suddenly notices Xander glaring at him and stops short. Then shrugs. "Vampires have their feast days same as you."
It occurred to me as I was writing that the longest night of the year must be a vampire holiday, best night of the year. I kind of liked that idea.
"That's very disturbing," Xander says.
Spike rolls his eyes. "So what'd you ask Santa for this year, Harris? Been a good little boy, made it onto the Nice list?"
"You better believe it," Xander says, opening the door to one of their storage sheds. He begins rummaging around for extra candles and handing the boxes to Spike.
"So, you asked for… let's see. I know, a Red Rider BB-gun. Very all-American of you."
That's of course from the classic Christmas movie, A Christmas Story. Has Spike seen this movie? Why yes, yes, he has. Do not question me.
"A time machine," Xander says shortly. "To fix this stupid world. But I'd settle for Willow coming home."
Spike doesn't say anything as Xander piles another box on top of those already in his hands, putting it on the stack with a little more force than strictly necessary.
"Didn't know we could even have Christmas without the entire capitalist system behind it," Spike says lightly after a moment.
"Must be a true meaning of Christmas after all," Xander says distractedly, straightening up with the last box of candles in his hands.
"Yeah? What is it?" Spike asks as they turn to walk out of the storeroom.
"I dunno. According to every Christmas special ever, it seems to involve everyone joining hands and singing."
That's true, right? I think what evolved in this story is that for Xander, Christmas came mostly through TV shows and movies. Poor neglected kid.
"Very profound, Harris."
"Thank you."
A couple of little boys run across their path, shooting imaginary guns at each other and shrieking happily.
"Kids today," Xander says dryly. "I always want to stop them and tell them that in my day, we would sometimes spend the entire day inside watching cartoons. And then tell them to run along inside and play Gameboy for awhile like normal kids."
"Guess you should give them batteries for Christmas, then."
***
December 24, 2003
Christmas Eve and their lone surviving priest is holding a midnight mass in the chapel. Xander doesn't feel like going, though Anya does. Instead he goes up on the wall, to watch Willow not show up on the southern horizon one last time. It is very dark - no moon - and extremely cold. His breath fans out in front of him and he wraps his jacket around himself more securely before sitting in one of the nooks of the wall, back secure against the stones. He commands a view of the entire landscape from his position - the road winding up to the complex and the fields, now empty and stubbled after the harvest. Stars hang bright and clear in the sky.
He can hear faint singing coming from the chapel - Christmas carols. Spike is stalking around somewhere on the west wall, keeping watch, so Xander this time has the south to himself. Nothing moves on the horizon.
Despite the cold, his eyes occasionally drift shut and it is only with effort that he keeps awake, keeps watch over the silent landscape. It wouldn't be Christmas Eve if he weren't outside looking at the stars, alone and vaguely miserable.
They strike up "O Holy Night" in the chapel and the lyrics drift softly out to him. Long lay the world in sin and error pining, he hears, and it reminds him of made-for-TV movies and countless Christmas specials, of wishing his family had Norman Rockwell Christmases.
He thinks about A Charlie Brown Christmas and Willow and the Snoopy dance and feels worse and worse, missing her. He scans the horizon again, where she is not, then leans his head back against the wall, lets his eyes close. It is getting very late. Fragments of Christmas TV shows and movies drift through his head dreamily. You'll shoot your eye out… The Grinch's heart grew three sizes that day… Here's to my brother George: the richest man in town! … Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown… God bless us, every one! … Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings… Scrooge was better than his word…. And Linus's lisping child-voice, serious, …shepherds watching over their flocks by night. And behold, the angel of the Lord appeared to them and the glory of the Lord shone around them…
Those bits of dialogue are from A Christmas Story, The Grinch that Stole Christmas, It's a Wonderful Life, A Charlie Brown Christmas, and A Christmas Carol.
The next bit of the Bible verse that Linus quotes is "And they were terrified." Willow's reappearance is very much this heavenly host appearing - they appear to someone keeping watch by night, initially terrifying them, but bringing them exactly what they've wanted. I didn't intend to do this when I started this section, but I saw the parallels and worked it around to (hopefully subtly) bring that out.
"You hear that?" Spike's voice suddenly interrupts as he comes around the corner, face perturbed. Xander starts up, shaking off his half-stupor, suddenly wide awake.
"Hear what?"
"Listen," Spike says, intent, looking out into the distance as if he expects to see something. Ah, vamp hearing.
Xander listens, and after a moment he hears it. The faint sound of a motor in the distance. The last time they heard the sound of motors it was a gang of some kind of red, scaly things on Harleys, and they lost nine people fighting them off.
"Shit," Xander mutters and watches for whatever it is to come in sight. A pair of headlights suddenly appears at the farthest point of the road he can see, driving towards them rapidly. No others follow.
"Just one," Spike says.
"Okay, we won't disrupt the service for just one car." Because we'll need the service to still be singing to finish up the story later, of course. Xander leans around the corner and calls to the guards on the east wall. "Justin! Mark! We've got a situation." The two come hurrying over. "One carload of unknowns. Go find the best archers - Tom, Dave, Erin, Jess and Lou - and get them up here right now. I want everyone with an arrow on the string and ready. And tell John what's going on and have him make sure the gates are bolted and everything else is prepared. Then get back here."
"Yessir," they say, and take off running.
Xander and Spike watch the car get closer. "What can you see?" Xander asks tersely.
"Looks like a Jeep. Can't tell what's inside."
Both of the men are tense, muscles tight and coiled for action, their weapons ready. Xander taps his fingers against his side rapidly, on edge. Within two minutes time, the archers he asked for are mobilizing on the wall - everyone has been trained for these scenarios and they take their places automatically, eyes fixed on the threat.
The Jeep gets closer and closer, until Xander can see a shadowy figure in the driver's seat and a slumped figure in the back. They look human, so far, but that doesn't guarantee anything.
They shout at it to hold, but the vehicle keeps coming towards them, though without presenting a threat. Xander is about to give the command to shoot when it suddenly stops thirty yards from the walls.
"Identify yourselves!" Xander calls. "Don't come any closer!"
The Jeep's top is open, and the figure in the driver's seat stands up, head sticking above the vehicle. It is female, Xander realizes, as it moves to take off its knit cap. As the cap sweeps off, it reveals a shock of bright red hair, visible even in the dim starlight, and something inside Xander gives a leap, a sudden wrench of feeling so strong it nearly knocks him down.
"Xander!" she calls out, in the voice he has been longing to hear for months. Joy hits him like a freight train, explodes in his chest like a firecracker.
He automatically bolts for the stairs, heading for the gate, when Spike grabs him by the back of the shirt.
"Could be a trick," Spike says coolly. Xander freezes, the fear of it immediately overtaking him, of a thing that looks and sounds like Willow but is not. He moves back to the edge of the wall in trepidation, the horror a chemical burn lodging in his muscles. The maybe-Willow is grinning a huge grin at him, her eyes full of love.
"The password is 'Lemon drop'," she says. "Which we made in case of shape-shifters or wizards or enchantment. It's from Harry Potter and I insisted on it even though you said it was lame and Spike made fun of Harry Potter for, like, an hour. And you're Xander and I'm Willow and it's Christmas Day now so you owe me a Snoopy dance and you'll never believe what I've brought you!"
But halfway through this speech Xander is down the stairs and at the gate, throwing the doors open (to John's bewilderment) and running full-speed at Willow until they are in a hug to end all hugs.
Someone pointed out to me that Xander should really be worried that Willow's been vamped here. Which is an excellent point and now bothers me a lot about the story. So just imagine that Willow's holding up a crucifix, or that Spike can hear that she has a heartbeat, or something like that. Sigh. Maybe I should just add something like that to the story so it doesn't niggle at me anymore.
She is solid and warm and human in his arms and somehow a little smaller than he remembers. But alive and real and she smells like Willow and hugs like Willow and gives a little choky laugh like Willow.
Then another voice speaks raggedly from the back of the Jeep. "Xander," it says, hoarse but very familiar, and polished, and English. Xander looks up from Willow's shoulder, blinking his eyes rapidly to clear them, and stares.
"Turns out he wasn't dead after all," Willow says, letting go and turning so her arm is still around him and they are both facing the Jeep. And there is Giles, looking pale and weak and a lot older than he did two and a half years ago. But he is alive, living and breathing and smiling faintly.
I wish someone would bring me a Giles for Christmas.
Xander opens his mouth but finds he can't speak. Willow holds tight to his waist.
"Merry Christmas, Xander," she says. "Told you I'd be back."
And from the chapel drift the distant strains of continued song, of joy to the world and glad tidings and long-hoped for arrival.
Boy, this ending was tricky to write. I really didn't want to send it over the top into sentiment, but it's leaning that way so hard that I really worked at this for a long time. I had several different mental versions of it - some of them involved Willow coming back like Santa Claus, dressed in red with the Jeep piled over with presents for all the children. I'm very glad I scrapped that. But I'm glad that I decided to have her bring Giles - in the end, those relationships are enough of a gift - almost too much, more than they would ever have hoped for.
This story… well, my goal in writing is always to tell the truth. And I think sometimes it's true that, against all your expectations and worries and dread, you get exactly what you want and need. Get more than you want, get things back that you've lost and thought were unrecoverable. I have had a few of those moments in my life. But they're hard to write. Very, very hard to write. So I really hope the ending works here.
***
END
And here ends my director's cut DVD commentary on this fic. Thanks for reading, if you managed to get this far, and I hope it didn't ruin the story for you in any way. But I had fun writing it, anyway, and isn't that all that matters?
Love to you all.