Fic: Memo to Self (Xander/Illyria)
Title Memo to Self
Author Brutti ma buoni
Rating PG13
Pairing Xander/Illyria
Words c1100
Summary Post-NFA. Being the survivor isn’t always the best deal.
A/N Now, with fabulous movie poster by katekat1010!
Memo to self: Apocalypses look worst from above
Swooping in with a heroic helo-drop? Very cool. And yet... You get to see the flames from afar. You can see the gap where the city isn’t, any more.
You know what you’re getting into. The urge to not-jump is very strong. Which is prudent, not cowardly. Besides, you’re not jumping yet, not till there’s something down on the ground you could usefully do. Which, in this irradiated desert, there isn’t.
What you can’t see from the air are the people surviving in the midst of it all. The ones who are hiding in fear, waiting for you to come help. The wounded, radiation-suffering, terrified people for whom you are the last hope. And even more than that, the ones that are trying, and dying, to fight because they don’t know there’s someone coming for them at all.
On the other hand, approaching a still-active demon-based Apocalypse from above is exactly when a fleet of ‘copter-mounted RPGs is the right thing to have. Go Team Xander!
(Okay. Team Slayer Council, technically. But who’s leading this mission?)
Whoa! Also memo to self: try not to hit the good guys. That’s Team Angel down there.
Except, as it turned out, it was just the leftovers.
Memo to self: do not surprise bereaved Old Ones
Illyria got three good punches in before the rescue team managed to explain that they were, in fact, the rescue team. Fortunately, she was attacking one of the copters, and there were no human casualties. It was cool. Everyone had spare million-dollar flying machines for gods to pulverise. Right?
They confirmed no further survivors. They loaded the near-murderous God King into one of the surviving helos and got her away for treatment.
Xander caught up with her at the rescue assembly station. She looked flat, affect-less. But rumour went she’d been that way well before the Apocalypse.
He wasn’t sure how to talk to gods. His previous experiences in this area had not been good. Even the troll god hadn’t exactly taken to him.
If in doubt, follow your instincts. “Hey there, your Godliness. What’s cooking?”
Apparently Illyria wasn’t super-duper in the hearing department. Or else she hadn’t been focusing on the here-and-now. Either way, Xander had to dodge a flying fist yet again (which: pretty cool reflexes for the partially-blinded, no?).
“I do not know you.” Flat still, but verging on making it into ‘hostile’.
“I’m from the Slayer Council. Xander Harris. Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” Okay, little bit intimidated by the stare now. He was pretty sure she hadn’t blinked since he entered the room.
“You are late.”
“It’s been a really, really busy day. We put out the fire and killed the dragons and-“
“You should have come yesterday.”
And yes. There wasn’t much that Xander could say to that. Yesterday, there was no fire, and only one dragon plus minor demon army, and sixteen square miles of Los Angeles weren’t auditioning for Hiroshima: The Return. Too late.
“I came as soon as I could.” Which was almost true. But not quite.
Illyria turned her back and said no more.
Memo to self: after denial comes anger, then bargaining
Not that denial lasted long. There was a day or two when Illyria came close to suggesting they go back to the Hyperion site and search for survivors. Or at least something to bury. But her ambitions in that direction fell in the face of continued reports from the battle front. No survivors within three miles of the impact zone. The only living expected to last the month were from seven miles out or further. And the Hyperion had been ground zero.
Anger was not slow in coming. They had to lock her up at Slayer HQ. Which felt dangerous and all kinds of wrong, but they couldn’t risk any further broken limbs. After a couple of days, Xander started talking to her through the (say it) cell door. Two more days and he risked opening it.
Illyria looked up from her blank contemplation of the cracked wall.
She said, “I have been attempting to convince myself that killing you could return my comrades to life. But this would be a lie.”
Okay. Bargaining phase for this entity? Brief, yet also scary. Xander aimed for a facial expression blending ‘sympathy’ with ‘respect’ and ‘considerable personal caution’. He had a feeling it came out as ‘constipated’.
No response. Illyria simply sat, looking. Not watching, which would imply some kind of interaction. Just looking. After bargaining was depression, right? Way to progress through the stages.
Xander found himself sitting beside Illyria, contemplating the wall in his turn. It wasn’t worth the sustained attention.
He considered patting her on the shoulder, but figured he might lose an arm if she took it wrong. So he sat, quietly, till she began to speak.
She picked up the only non-institutional item in the room. It was a small leather-bound book, battered and unattractive.
“This book was the property of Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. He was my last Qwa Ha Xahn. He was wise and sad. He had friends, and he betrayed them, and he loved them still. He died.”
There was much, much more. Xander listened.
Memo to self: let sleeping deities lie
Xander had had no intention of making the sex with a God King. Even this particular super-leather-fetish-Smurf God-King in the body of a pretty girl Xander once met during that grief-stricken summer of living without Buffy.
Xander had associated her face with loss ever since. And the present owner of that face had lost every single thing in the world. God Kings/Xander Harris: bad combination.
He knew that this was a mistake. But it gave her some comfort. Plus: very hot blue god-women, very hard to turn down when the only reason is ‘it’s a mistake’. And, honestly, he wasn’t sorry. Not yet.
The first time though, Xander woke her to say goodbye. She woke as Fred, and cried when he recoiled from that familiar yet wrong face.
After that, he learned stealthily to cover up the blue-tinged pallor of her nakedness, and let himself out before dawn. They didn’t speak of it between times, and never in the light.
Memo to self: God Kings are people too
Remember Glory? She just wanted to go home.
Xander suspected that was what Illyria wanted too. Maybe it’s what everyone wants, deep down, when things get bad.
What home was, though, was up for debate. Maybe she wanted to go back to the time of the Old Ones and be worshiped. Maybe. But she was still carrying that old book of Wesley’s around. He thought she missed them all, Team Angel, though she had them for such a short time. He suspected that home for Illyria was among them, however grudgingly they tolerated her presence. She wanted what she couldn’t go back to, either way.
Of course, Glory had wanted to go home so she could kill her fellow hellgods and rule her dimension, so... not necessarily fluffy, this home-going ambition. Xander wondered sometimes exactly what Illyria had wanted to do with Angel’s gang, long term.
Probably better not to ask.
Memo to self: being the last survivor sucks ass
Xander didn’t want to die young. Didn’t want to die violently. Would very much have liked to live to get old, retire, see fat grandchildren, or even pretty slimline versions graduating with honours from good schools and making the world a better place. (No pressure, theoretical grandkids.)
But what Xander feared more than anything else - why he spent these months doing what he could for the broken God-King - was being the last man standing.
***
Author Brutti ma buoni
Rating PG13
Pairing Xander/Illyria
Words c1100
Summary Post-NFA. Being the survivor isn’t always the best deal.
A/N Now, with fabulous movie poster by katekat1010!
Memo to self: Apocalypses look worst from above
Swooping in with a heroic helo-drop? Very cool. And yet... You get to see the flames from afar. You can see the gap where the city isn’t, any more.
You know what you’re getting into. The urge to not-jump is very strong. Which is prudent, not cowardly. Besides, you’re not jumping yet, not till there’s something down on the ground you could usefully do. Which, in this irradiated desert, there isn’t.
What you can’t see from the air are the people surviving in the midst of it all. The ones who are hiding in fear, waiting for you to come help. The wounded, radiation-suffering, terrified people for whom you are the last hope. And even more than that, the ones that are trying, and dying, to fight because they don’t know there’s someone coming for them at all.
On the other hand, approaching a still-active demon-based Apocalypse from above is exactly when a fleet of ‘copter-mounted RPGs is the right thing to have. Go Team Xander!
(Okay. Team Slayer Council, technically. But who’s leading this mission?)
Whoa! Also memo to self: try not to hit the good guys. That’s Team Angel down there.
Except, as it turned out, it was just the leftovers.
Memo to self: do not surprise bereaved Old Ones
Illyria got three good punches in before the rescue team managed to explain that they were, in fact, the rescue team. Fortunately, she was attacking one of the copters, and there were no human casualties. It was cool. Everyone had spare million-dollar flying machines for gods to pulverise. Right?
They confirmed no further survivors. They loaded the near-murderous God King into one of the surviving helos and got her away for treatment.
Xander caught up with her at the rescue assembly station. She looked flat, affect-less. But rumour went she’d been that way well before the Apocalypse.
He wasn’t sure how to talk to gods. His previous experiences in this area had not been good. Even the troll god hadn’t exactly taken to him.
If in doubt, follow your instincts. “Hey there, your Godliness. What’s cooking?”
Apparently Illyria wasn’t super-duper in the hearing department. Or else she hadn’t been focusing on the here-and-now. Either way, Xander had to dodge a flying fist yet again (which: pretty cool reflexes for the partially-blinded, no?).
“I do not know you.” Flat still, but verging on making it into ‘hostile’.
“I’m from the Slayer Council. Xander Harris. Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” Okay, little bit intimidated by the stare now. He was pretty sure she hadn’t blinked since he entered the room.
“You are late.”
“It’s been a really, really busy day. We put out the fire and killed the dragons and-“
“You should have come yesterday.”
And yes. There wasn’t much that Xander could say to that. Yesterday, there was no fire, and only one dragon plus minor demon army, and sixteen square miles of Los Angeles weren’t auditioning for Hiroshima: The Return. Too late.
“I came as soon as I could.” Which was almost true. But not quite.
Illyria turned her back and said no more.
Memo to self: after denial comes anger, then bargaining
Not that denial lasted long. There was a day or two when Illyria came close to suggesting they go back to the Hyperion site and search for survivors. Or at least something to bury. But her ambitions in that direction fell in the face of continued reports from the battle front. No survivors within three miles of the impact zone. The only living expected to last the month were from seven miles out or further. And the Hyperion had been ground zero.
Anger was not slow in coming. They had to lock her up at Slayer HQ. Which felt dangerous and all kinds of wrong, but they couldn’t risk any further broken limbs. After a couple of days, Xander started talking to her through the (say it) cell door. Two more days and he risked opening it.
Illyria looked up from her blank contemplation of the cracked wall.
She said, “I have been attempting to convince myself that killing you could return my comrades to life. But this would be a lie.”
Okay. Bargaining phase for this entity? Brief, yet also scary. Xander aimed for a facial expression blending ‘sympathy’ with ‘respect’ and ‘considerable personal caution’. He had a feeling it came out as ‘constipated’.
No response. Illyria simply sat, looking. Not watching, which would imply some kind of interaction. Just looking. After bargaining was depression, right? Way to progress through the stages.
Xander found himself sitting beside Illyria, contemplating the wall in his turn. It wasn’t worth the sustained attention.
He considered patting her on the shoulder, but figured he might lose an arm if she took it wrong. So he sat, quietly, till she began to speak.
She picked up the only non-institutional item in the room. It was a small leather-bound book, battered and unattractive.
“This book was the property of Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. He was my last Qwa Ha Xahn. He was wise and sad. He had friends, and he betrayed them, and he loved them still. He died.”
There was much, much more. Xander listened.
Memo to self: let sleeping deities lie
Xander had had no intention of making the sex with a God King. Even this particular super-leather-fetish-Smurf God-King in the body of a pretty girl Xander once met during that grief-stricken summer of living without Buffy.
Xander had associated her face with loss ever since. And the present owner of that face had lost every single thing in the world. God Kings/Xander Harris: bad combination.
He knew that this was a mistake. But it gave her some comfort. Plus: very hot blue god-women, very hard to turn down when the only reason is ‘it’s a mistake’. And, honestly, he wasn’t sorry. Not yet.
The first time though, Xander woke her to say goodbye. She woke as Fred, and cried when he recoiled from that familiar yet wrong face.
After that, he learned stealthily to cover up the blue-tinged pallor of her nakedness, and let himself out before dawn. They didn’t speak of it between times, and never in the light.
Memo to self: God Kings are people too
Remember Glory? She just wanted to go home.
Xander suspected that was what Illyria wanted too. Maybe it’s what everyone wants, deep down, when things get bad.
What home was, though, was up for debate. Maybe she wanted to go back to the time of the Old Ones and be worshiped. Maybe. But she was still carrying that old book of Wesley’s around. He thought she missed them all, Team Angel, though she had them for such a short time. He suspected that home for Illyria was among them, however grudgingly they tolerated her presence. She wanted what she couldn’t go back to, either way.
Of course, Glory had wanted to go home so she could kill her fellow hellgods and rule her dimension, so... not necessarily fluffy, this home-going ambition. Xander wondered sometimes exactly what Illyria had wanted to do with Angel’s gang, long term.
Probably better not to ask.
Memo to self: being the last survivor sucks ass
Xander didn’t want to die young. Didn’t want to die violently. Would very much have liked to live to get old, retire, see fat grandchildren, or even pretty slimline versions graduating with honours from good schools and making the world a better place. (No pressure, theoretical grandkids.)
But what Xander feared more than anything else - why he spent these months doing what he could for the broken God-King - was being the last man standing.
***