To Err is Human

Xander contemplated the bottle in his hand. On one hand, he wanted another. On the other hand, he'd already had four, and it simply wouldn't do to finish an entire six pack in one sitting. But there was virtually nothing on television, and he was watching something vaguely horrible on MTV involving some woman with tequila in her name. Was it a pseudonym? He hoped so. He'd never met anyone with an alcoholic beverage for a last name. Unless you counted the De Beers diamond people, but he wasn't exactly sure how that was spelt or whatever. Anyhow, it was trashy, and not in a good way. It was safe to say that Xander usually liked trashy television, but this was too much. It was just unwatchable. Hence the enormous amounts of beer he'd been consuming. He couldn't find the remote. It had probably fallen between the cracks in the sofa. He groaned, rolling over slightly and groped beneath himself in the hopes of finding the elusive remote. No such luck.

After a few moments of inane banter from the television, he rose and ambled over to the set before turning it off emphatically. The flat was deadly silent, but for the comforting humming of the refrigerator. He sighed, just to fill the silence. The answering machine had a blinking light. It was probably from Buffy or something. He knew that he should listen to the message, but he couldn't bring himself to hear from her now. She would probably attempt to slyly guilt trip him into returning to Scotland and helming command-central with her. Yeah right. Xander Harris had had enough of that.

For some reason his eye socket was itching something fierce. Part of him wanted to take off the eye patch and let the scar breath for a bit, but he was also afraid he might accidentally wander in front of a mirror and not recognise himself. Or worse, scare himself. When he'd first been wounded he'd done that a few times. He would get out of bed and then catch a glimpse of himself in the reflection of his water glass, and scream bloody murder. In some ways he was grateful for the patch- it kept him from being the object of too much speculation. But on the other hand, he'd never gotten used to what was beneath it.

He sighed again, running a hand over his face, exhausted. He hadn't slept well lately. He hadn't slept well since leaving Sunnydale, he had to admit. He hadn't slept well since Anya died. There were some things that he couldn't let go, and they plagued his dreams. Even now he found himself slipping various weapons into discrete pockets in his clothing. There was a stake close by him at all times. It was amusing, but also disheartening. No matter how far he ran, he couldn't escape the paranoia that had infiltrated him during his lengthy work with the Slayers. Even now, when he hadn't had a vampire run-in in years, he found himself expecting darkness in the shadows. He was expecting something to come out and try to eat him.

He saw vampires all the time- but he left them alone. And they left him alone. Any demon with half a brain knew to keep away from the dude with the eye patch- they knew that Xander would not hesitate to fuck them up, absolutely guiltlessly. But he hadn't dusted anything in a long time, and he intended to keep it that way. Dusting was Buffy's and Faith's job, they could keep at it. Although, at times he missed the thrill of fighting, he didn't miss being the weakest link, the only one who couldn't really do much of anything to help.

He did miss Scotland though. And Giles, and Willow, and sometimes Buffy. Most of the time he was still mad at her, though. Her tactical methods were lacking, but it wasn't like he could go back and help her out. Not without staying, and he'd gotten out and had no intention of ever going back. That was a job best left to other people. Besides, Giles could sort of direct Buffy from England, or wherever he was now. He hadn't heard from Giles in a few months, and the Watcher was always moving anyway. He was in Italy for a long time, but Xander didn't know anymore.

He was going to graze thirty in two years, and he hadn't done anything with his life. And although he didn't blame Buffy, he couldn't help but sometimes think that if he'd never met her, he'd probably be unhappily married to some girl, working at the construction company still, foreman still, with a house and a dog, and maybe a bunch of mewling kids. There was something appealing about that all-American normal thing. Well, not that his childhood had been particularly normal. But part of him wanted a family. With Anya at least that had been a possibility, even when they'd broken up there was always a good chance they'd get back together. But she was dead, most decidely so. Although Buffy had died a few times, it didn't seem likely that Anya was coming back at all.

He turned off the living room light and sat in the darkness for a few moments before getting up and slowly walking to his bedroom. He'd left the window open, and a warm breeze was coming through the room. He hated summer. He hated the heat, most of all. He'd moved to Minnesota in hopes of snow, but nobody had told him how humid and hot the summers were. He'd basically stripped all the blankets off the bed, and slept in the nude with just a sheet. He'd always wake up sweating at exactly three a.m., half-forgotten ecstatic dreams already fading from memory. Sometimes he caught glimpses of Anya's flaxen hair, her wistful smile. And sometimes it was someone else, someone he didn't quite know, but he loved anyway. He was never sure.

Sometimes the dreams were not erotic, but bitter. Willow, holding him while he cried. The Scoobies before so many of them had disappeared, died, left. Dawn, who was like a sister to him. Angel, and Spike, as much as he hated to admit it, he missed them as well. Fuck, he missed California. He wondered if he should go back. It wasn't like there wasn't plenty of work on the west coast. He didn't even have to go back to Southern California, he could go to the Bay Area, try and live in San Francisco like so many did. Make it there.

He knew he could. He'd saved a lot of money, making expensive artsy furniture for the Minneapolis social scene. Hell, he'd even gotten a few shows in local art galleries. For some reason his work had suddenly become a precious commodity in the last few years. If he relocated out to the west coast he'd probably get more work. Not only that, but he'd be closer to well... the remnants of Sunnydale. And he'd be even farther away from Scotland than he already was. And he would be close enough to L.A. that he could help Angel out in an emergency. Not that Angel hadn't proved that he could take care of himself. But Xander was paranoid, and was pretty much constantly anxious.

He sat down on the edge of the bed in a pool of moonlight. The sky was clear, and he could feel the heat rising off the earth still. Even his sheets felt too warm. He shucked his clothing and climbed on top of the bed, eagle spread. He didn't want to touch anything, lest the sweat stick his skin together. He needed to leave.

---------------------------------

Several months later.

---------------------------------

Xander felt a bit like a vagrant who'd just wandered into an empty warehouse. The loft he was renting was spacious enough, but since the past owners had left it seemed even larger. The smell of fresh paint and wax made him smile. He loved moving into new places, before they adopted that shabby lived-in smell. This place was relatively new, having only been rented a few times before him. The owners wanted to sell now, they were moving to Tokyo and needed the extra cash from selling the house to hopefully rent in the downtown district. Apparently Tokyo was one of the most expensive places to live in the entire world. Xander thought that it was probably because of the population per square mile.

It was in an okay area of town. Not exactly central, but he didn't mind driving or walking. The store was within blocks. He'd even been able to find studio space close by as well. He was going to have to share it with another furniture maker, but their work was different enough that Xander wasn't worried about it. He'd found a few gallery owners who were already looking forward to showing his pieces, and he'd gotten ahold of a few people he'd made friends with last time he'd been in California, outside the Scoobies, at least. He wasn't sure he wanted anyone else to know that he was back in his home state. Not even Buffy. He'd told Willow, but made her promise to keep it a secret. He'd see how well that went. Sometimes Willow let things slip, and of course she would never intentionally...

Well. The loft was pretty, in a modernist way. It felt like a bachelor pad, which made him a tad grumpy, but he was willing to deal with it. After all, it was just a place to sleep. It was more than that, he supposed, but he wasn't ready to admit that he was probably going to be single for a very long time. He'd put the bedroom upstairs, as far away from the front door as possible. He had to admit that he liked the layout of lofts: it was easier to hear if someone had gotten in and was skulking about. Not that he was expecting anything like that, at all. No, San Francisco was probably not cohabited by billions of vampires, or anything. He hoped. Well, now that he thought about it, he'd heard some interesting things about Castro Street.

He looked at his watch. He was supposed to meet an art dealer at the cafe down the street. He sighed, and grabbed his wallet and mobile before slamming the door behind him.


The cafe was quiet, despite the plethora of patrons. He liked the bookish atmosphere. It seemed that everyone there was an intellectual though, and as a handy man of sorts, he did feel slightly out of place. Well, he figured if he just brought Kafka along the next time he'd fit in just fine. And it wasn't like he wasn't an artist himself, albeit a working class one without many pretensions of grandeur. He folded his hands on the table, ignoring the sticky mess someone had left behind on the glass, and looked out the window. There was a plethora of characters on the street, something he wouldn't have seen in Minneapolis.

"Xander?"

His heart froze. That voice made his stomach clench and relax repeatedly, and he wasn't sure if it was with pleasure or fear. He turned slowly, and it seemed that the world had paused, stopped just for that moment, so that he could take in the sight of the man beside him.

"Spike?" He choked out.