TITLE: Iconoclast

AUTHOR: Scorpio

ARCHIVE: Want. Take. Have.

FANDOM: Buffy the Vampire Slayer

PAIRING: None

CONTINUITY: Roughly ten-twelve years after S6. Although I have chosen to ignore the last half of that season. ::grins:: I was so squicked at them showing Buffy and Spike have sex that I literally stopped watching the show.

CATEGORY: Future-fic. Stream of consciousness. POV. Angst.

RATING: R

WARNINGS: Mention of character death. Nothing graphic.

DISCLAIMER: Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy own all things Buffy. I am not making any money from this and I intend no copyright infringements.

SUMMARY: Xander muses on the ironies of his life after receiving a disturbing phone call from Giles in England.

ICONOCLAST
by Scorpio

Iconoclast: n. one who attacks cherished beliefs and/or traditional institutions.


Sometimes I feel so goddamned old. It's not really a physical thing, because let's face it, thirty-two isn't that old. Especially for someone who works to keep their body in top fighting form religiously. No, my sense of being tired is more of the mental variety. After all of the years and all of the pain, I'm simply tired of fighting and worn around the edges.

It shows. I actually frighten little children. The neighborhood kids scare each other with whispered stories about me. 'Better be careful or crazy Harris'll get you. He'll chop you up into pieces and barbecue you on his backyard grill.' To be honest, they tell those kind of tales about Willow too. The Wicked Witch and the Psycho Axe Murderer. Ironically enough, it's true. Willow's still practicing witchcraft and my weapon of choice is still an axe. And I *am* a murderer. I've killed hundreds of intelligent and feeling creatures. It's just that none of them have been human.

I can't tell the kids that though. They've got enough to deal with in this world. Soon they'll be facing the dangers of drugs, alcohol and teen pregnancy. There's no need to let them in on the true face of evil. Let them believe in fairy tales and Prince Charming and Santa Claus while they can. I still remember how much it tore me up inside to learn that the monster under the bed was real and that it honestly *did* want to eat me up for dinner. They don't need to know that fact, nor do they have to face the beast. That's my job. Mine and Willow's.

I guess it's like that old saying: be careful what you wish for. When I was still a young kid getting picked on at school by the bigger bullies, I often wished that I were a dangerous man instilling fear and respect in all those who saw me. Well, I got my wish all right, but I had never stopped to consider just what I would have to give up in order to have my wish come true. Like that other old saying: nothing is for free. Or even possibly: you have to pay the devil his due.

So, what did I have to pay in order to become one of the most dangerous and feared humans on the Hellmouth?

A little blood, sweat and tears: collected by my parents and assorted demons. My innocence: to a crazed homicidal slayer. My lust and desire for women and family: to a scorned Vengeance Demon that I still refer to in moments of stress as my wife. Literally thousands of hours spent with my nose buried in an ancient book written in the illegible script of some demonic language learning all about the things in the dark that can, and will, kill me instead of hanging out at the mall or the movie theater. I suffered a multitude of broken bones, contusions, cuts, burns and bruises: all curtesy of the Hellmouth. I've lost friends and family to: death, undeath and insanity. I've lost my trust in the government, my faith in God and the pinkie finger on my left hand.

And now? What am I sacrificing to the Hellmouth this time?

Hope?

Peace of mind?

Loyalty?

I don't know. I'm not sure how I feel, not yet. Well, beyond being old. Old and tired with the heavy weight of three decades of living and fighting on the Hellmouth pressing down on me.

Buffy is dead.

Somehow, I almost feel relieved. And guilty. I will *never* lose or forget my guilt. My precious golden Buffy, she never did recover from being violently ripped out of Heaven and away from her eternal reward. Oh, at first she was pretty good at hiding it. Faking her contentment. As time passed, it became clearer and clearer that she could still remember the exquisite glory of paradise and that every single second of her life on Earth was an eternity of horrifying torment. Torment which eventually drove her mad. In that light, her death is a mercy really.

Despite my personal feelings on the subject, I am far too cynical to ever be trusting again and I was almost tempted to ask Giles if the Watcher's Council had killed her in order to continue the slayer line, but I didn't. Faith is still in prison; Lin Su, the slayer called after the fight with Glory, is embroiled in the midst of a demon clan war in lovely Southeast Asia; and Willow and I guard the Hellmouth. That being the case, it isn't hard to picture the ruthless and unfeeling Watcher's Council callously deciding to murder Buffy in order to send a new slayer to the Hellmouth.

Her name is Victoria Stanford. She calls herself Vickie and she is fifteen years old.

Fifteen!

Goddamn, I feel old.

She'll be living with me in the guise of my young cousin. She'll go to Sunnydale High and work part-time after school as Willow's shop assistant at The Magic Box. What's more disturbing is that Giles contracted William the Bloody to be her official escort from London England to here.

At that point, it's going to be my job to see that Vickie survives the Hellmouth. I mean, I realize that as a slayer she has super-strength, super-reflexes and a built in demon detector. However, hunting vamps on the back streets of London does *not* prepare one to hunt demons on the Hellmouth. It's like comparing a three month old puppy with a werewolf under a full moon.

For now, though, all I can do is sit and wait and worry. I wonder, did Giles ever feel this old?


*fini*