The Tao of Not Murdering All Your Friends (Part 3 of ?)
Xander's eye peers between the doors of the wardrobe like a bubble working its way to the surface of one of Mom's carbs-are-good-for-you potato latkes, which, until I was eight and learned about black holes, I confidently believed to be the densest substance in the universe. I feel a small glow of satisfaction at the thought of being able to kill her again, but suppress it. I have more important concerns on my mind at the moment, preeminent among them being Xander's eye.
“I'm not here,” I whine at it, burrowing my shoulders into his den of sartorial elegance (Hawaiian shirt, Hawaiian shirt, Hawaiian shirt, Hawaiian shirt, Hawaiian shirt, jeans).
“If you're going to try to convince me again that my wardrobe is actually a secret entrance to Narnia, I've been on to you since you locked me in there in second grade,” says the eye.
“That was after our parents left us at the daycare center and you said that it would be all right because we would be together but you went off and spent all day playing with Jesse and I couldn't find you anywhere and thought you had died and got the owner to get a microphone and do one of those Would Alexander Harris Please Report To Reception thingies and it turned out all that had happened was that you and Jesse had gotten into a fight over who got to be He-Man and I had never been so embarrassed in my entire life,” I point out. “Not that that in any way excuses anything and I was obviously in the wrong and would never do it again. Please don't kill me,” I add as an afterthought.
“It wasn't all day, it was only, like, an hour. And I'm not going to kill you. Not until I know what you are, anyway,” he adds under his breath. Super hearing really sucks sometimes.
“Hey, I heard that, mister,” I complain. “And it was eight hours at least. Also-” I take advantage of his spluttering over my blatant fabrication to open the wardrobe doors, duck under his arm and race up his cupboard to the ceiling, digging my fingers into the crumbling plaster to support myself. It's lucky I weigh so little these days.
He stands up, bewildered, and looks around the apartment in confusion before looking upwards. I sigh. His little vampire-slaughtering buddies have evidently trained him well. Most people never look up, and it can be a lot of fun to cling to a wall or overhang and weight for somebody to pass underneath. They're just walking along and maybe texting their buddies or something, and then the Queen of the Night swoops down and, boom, Nora No-Neck. Although sometimes it's even more fun when they see you coming and you just stand there and smile at them and wait for the scream.
I push the thought to the back of my mind, and promise myself a long and satisfying hunt at some point in the near future. Right at the moment, as I said, more pressing concerns.
“You can't get at me up here,” I say to the pressing concern, in the face of the evidence.
“Yes, I can,” he says. “You're only, like, two feet above my head. And what are you trying to do, anyway? I don't know what your deal is, but clearly you need me or you wouldn't have come here.”
He has a point, but I'm not about to admit it. I swing my feet up, scrabbling for a purchase in the uneven ceiling, and prepare to move quickly if I see him heading in the direction of anything wooden.
“I know you're from the future,” he says, crossing his arms.
“I'm not from the future,” I say, bewildered. “Am I from the future?”
“It's 2000.”
“In that case, no.”
“The past? Please tell me you're at least from another dimension.”
“I'm from another dimension.”
“I knew it! Wait until I tell Giles about this. That'll teach him to be all 'Star Trek isn't useful for slaying' when Buffy wants to take a night off from training.”
So Giles exists in this dimension, and other-Xander knows him. I have the worst luck of anyone ever. Wait. Buffy? That has to be the other girl I saw him hanging out with when I was trying to make up my mind about asking for help. Unless Xander knows more than two girls, which really doesn't sound like him.
“Please don't,” I say.
“Don't what?”
“Tell them. About me,” I clarify.
“Other-Will, they're my friends. Friends tell each other stuff.” I detect a note of bitterness in his voice. Maybe Buffy isn't quite as forthcoming with him as he is with her. Or even the other Willow, although I find that hard to believe.
I extend my arms and bend backwards at the waist, lowering my head so that I can look directly into his face. He looks a little different from my Xander. Much more tanned, obviously, but also sadder.
“But they'll kill me,” I wail, in my best inoffensive-high-school-girl voice.
He straightens his shoulders and steps forward, looking me in the eyes.
“Maybe they should,” he says. “I've seen what happens when people try to make friends with vampires. It never ends well. For anyone.”
Wow. That really doesn't sound like my Xander. He's gotten a lot older in the past few years.
He takes another step forward, his upside-down face inches away from mine. I suddenly realize I've been unconsciously licking my lips. It's just as well I don't breathe, or there would definitely be panting going on.
No! Bad Willow! Need to focus.
“I can't hurt people,” I tell him. This is my last card. If he doesn't relent after this, I'll have to try to find someplace in the house to hide for long enough for night to fall, and then - I don't know. Maybe I can steal that bowl of blood from his fridge and live on it long enough to reach Los Angeles. It's a big city; it has to have more rats than Sunnydale.
“Huh?”
“There's this underground military group here,” I explain. His brow furrows; I get the impression he already knows something about them. “They do ... There are experiments.” Really painful ones, I don't say. Although they were amateurs after Luke, in any case. “They put a chip in me, right here.” I point to the small scar right above my left breast, and am pleased to note his eyes glazing over a bit.
“And it weakens you?”
“It gives me headaches when I try to hurt someone human.”
He gives me a look of disbelief. “Headaches? Look, Will, on a scale of one to ten, ten being a horrifying aspect of horror and one being not a horrifying aspect of horror, headaches rate about a Trolls 2.”
“Really bad ones. Look, I know it doesn't sound like much, especially after what I told you about with Luke, but it's like my whole head is on fire from the inside and I can't see or hear or even think.”
This isn't my Xander. This isn't my world. I can't read his face.
I try to pretend I don't know that his dropping the “other” in front of the “Will” is a very bad sign. He's trying to let me down gently.
I don't bother trying to put on a little-girl voice for the final appeal. If it hasn't worked yet, it won't.
“Please, Xander, you have to-”
Someone knocks on the door, and, as it begins to open, I catch a glimpse of Xander's visitor and the world seems to slow to a halt.
This can't be happening. This can't be happening. Please, God, don't let this be happening. I won't kill anyone ever again, ever. I'll go back to developing software and give everything I earn to charity. I'll-
The most terrifying voice in the world booms through the tiny apartment.
“Good lord, Xander, is it too much to ask that you clean in here every once in a while?”
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