Buffy The Vampire Slayer Fan Fiction ❯ Fear Becomes You ❯ The Quest For Knowledge ( Chapter 4 )

Disclaimer: see earlier pages

 

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Chapter # 4: The Quest for Knowledge

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Xander and the others, not Spike, had been in the library almost every day since that Friday night, searching through books and the internet for anything even remotely related to the situation.

The Eye of T'rambilk, cursed jewel amulets, Egyptian/Ethiopian/Ecrustian/European/African curses, gender-switching, dramatic dead-back-to-life healing, weakening curses and spells, sight based curses, necromancy, demon legends, demon exorcism, demonic objects, how jewels can affect auras and individuals . . .

The Watcher's Council had been called, but refused to help on the grounds that Xander was in no way supernatural and so not in their field of interest, Spike having not been mentioned for the general good of everyone involved.

The Wrenix traders had been searched for but not found.

And the day before, Giles had begun to call his own contacts but, so far, hadn't found anything.

By that next Friday, they were out of ideas of where to look and had started to get a little desperate.

Well, Xander, Spike, and Giles had started to get a little desperate. Besides their general concern for Xander and desire to be rid of Spike, Buffy and Willow didn't really seem to understand just what was so bad about the situation. Buffy had even wanted to drag Xander to the mall and play dress-up.

And he was so bored that he almost let her, if only to get out of the library and away from all books in general.

Not being able to go to school, and not wanting to spend his days watching TV on the couch with Spike, Xander had been basically living in the library, where he spent most of his time staring blankly into space, doing the make-up work Willow would pick up for him, or researching.

He was bored out of his mind, his ass was numb, every single one of his joints ached, and his headache might as well have taken up residence because it was not going away.

He was also starting to smell bad.

Xander had been successfully ignoring the entire concepts of showering and changing clothes. He hadn't been able to ignore the other functions of the bathroom for very long, unfortunately, but with a lot of carefully placed denial, he had been surviving.

Willow and Buffy thought he was being disgusting and, more than once, they had actually almost gotten him to shower and change. But luckily, once he was in the bathroom, away from their pouting and puppy-dog eyes, he would always come back to his senses.

Xander was a guy. Maybe not the most masculine guy, and maybe not currently of the normal guy-shape, but, in the end, still a guy.

And, as a guy, he could live happily in the same outfit, without a shower, for days.

Besides, it wasn't like there was some dire need. He hadn't been doing much, so he never got very dirty or sweaty.

But it had now been a week. Buffy and Willow had taken to pointedly sitting at different tables than him, Giles was threatening to not let him in the house, Xander had never felt so greasy, and there still wasn't a cure in sight.

So Xander took a shower.

A very quick shower, with his eyes shut and as little soaping and touching as possible while still feeling cleaned, but a shower.

Then, getting out of the shower, he'd had to dry himself off with a towel. With all the horrible rubbing, and touching, and feeling that came with that. Closing his eyes during it, and desperately not thinking about what he was feeling, afterwards he tried to blank the whole experience from his mind. He had pulled on the clothes Giles had provided him and went to watch some TV. That always made him feel better.

And that led him up to now, with Xander sitting in the library the next day, smelling and feeling relatively clean, still wearing clothes that were far too big, and feeling traumatized, but trying to ignore it.

“Giles?”

“Yes, Willow?”

“I, uh . . . I might have found something . . .”

“Really?” Giles asked, walking to her side.

Buffy and Xander looked up from their books, interested but not with much hope. This wasn't the first time one of them had thought they had found something, and the jumping up excitedly was tiring.

“Um . . .” Willow paused as she quickly reread, “Well . . . it mentions the Eye of T'rambilk . . .”

“Nothing else?”

She shook her head, “Nothing that we didn't know already,” shot Xander an apologetic look from her seat across the table, “Sorry.”

Xander smiled slightly, slouching at the table and head resting in a hand. “It's okay, Wills.”

“Except for this one thing,” she continued, trying to stay positive, “which isn't really a cure, but could possibly, maybe, lead to one. I think.”

That was new.

He sat up a bit. “Really?”

Giles looked interested too and motioned towards the book. “May I?” Nodding, Willow pushed the book over, allowing Giles to pick it up and quickly scan the page.

And he started to nod with a contemplative, “Hmmmm . . .”

“And for the rest of the class?” Buffy asked when it looked like he wasn't going to say anything more, “What's it say?”

“Hmm?” Giles looked up from the book to notice Buffy and Xander's curious expressions. “Oh, oh, yes, quite.” He cleared his throat. “Well, basically it-it tells us exactly what Spike has already mentioned and what we have already deduced ourselves—the curse is triggered by looking into the Eye and the effects are random. But it also mentions a, ah . . .”—squint—“Dr. Nicholas Russell, who has apparently studied the Eye of T'rambilk extensively. Most likely, he has also written down his discoveries somewhere.”

“So we find his books and we find the cure?” Willow asked.

“Well . . .” Giles hesitated, “. . . yes,” Giles turned back to the book and away from the faces of the three teenagers, “I suppose.”

“Alright!” Xander grinned and slapped the table, ignoring the last bit of Giles' answer. “Then let's get that book down here and start with the curin'.”

At this Giles looked back up, obviously uncomfortable. “Xander . . . I . . . well, I . . . I'm afraid that I don't have anything by that, ah, particular author.”

“You don't? I mean, I know we've already been through most of the library, but . . .”

Giles shook his head.

“You sure?”

Giles nodded.

“Really, really, sure?

Another head nod.

“You couldn't have . . . just, maybe, forgotten about it?”

Giles shook his head.

“It couldn't just, maybe, be really small, and . . . and hidden behind some other books? Way in the back? Maybe with some of those non-Hellmouthy-type books that we don't look at?”

Another head shake

“You sure? That corner in the way-back is lookin' pretty dusty.”

Giles placed the book back on the table. “Xander . . . I'm sorry, but I do not have that book. I've never even heard of a Dr. Russell.”

And he really did look sorry.

Xander sighed, slumping down in his chair in disappointment. “No . . . it's . . . it's fine. . .”

“I'll have to continue calling some of my-my contacts and see if . . . if they've ever heard of him . . .” Giles said.

“Oh . . .” Xander stared at the table. “. . . And how long do you think this is gonna take?”

“It's . . . well . . .” Giles looked hesitant to answer, “to-to find it . . . and, well, there may be mailing, and . . . and we're not even positive, that thi-this book will even, ah, have the . . . the cure.” He paused. “We should probably see about telling your . . . your parents . . . maybe see if you can somehow continue going to, er, school in the duration.”

His parents?

“Giles,” Xander looked up from the table to focus on Giles' downward facing face. “How long is this gonna take? A month? A year? I'm not . . . I'm not gonna be going to the Senior Prom in a dress, am I?”

“Well, I don't quite know at the moment, but-but I'm quite sure that you will not be, as you say, going to the Senior Prom in a dress.”

“Yeah,” Buffy nodded from her seat to his right, adding, in an attempt to be helpful, “And you don't really have to wear dresses if you don't want to. Girls wear pants all the time.”

Xander shook his head. “Buff—

“I'm actually wearing some right now.” She continued then turned in her seat and stuck out her left leg in his direction, so as to, apparently, model her pants. “See?”

“And their very nice, but—

“Aren't they? I got them on sale too. 30 percent off.”

“Buff, that's really not the point.” His voice a little sharper than he had intended.

“Well, I'm just saying that . . . that, you know, it won't be that bad. And I'm sure it won't take that long . . .”

Buffy looked a little hurt, and Xander immediately felt like scum. “I know, and I appreciate it, really, I just . . .” He looked sadly down at the table again, “I just want my dick back, okay?”

“Well, yeah, but . . .” She trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

“But,” Willow broke in hesitantly, “well . . . is being a girl really that bad?”

“What?” He looked up at his friend in shock, “Of course it is! In case you haven't noticed I'm not normally a girl!

“Oh, no, no, I noticed. I just mean, I'm a girl and I'm fine. And, well, I know that's not quite the same thing, because, you know, this is a change, but it, it could've been a lot worse, you know? You could've gotten sick or started looking really icky, or, or, you know, go all evil. And being evil is definitely bad.”

“Yes, Xander,” Giles said, “You really were quite fortunate in that aspect. This situation could have become much, much worse.”

“But . . .” Xander tried to protest, trailing off when he realized he had nothing to say.

Damn them and their right-ness

“So it's a for sure thing that all this curse did was make him a girl?” Buffy asked, glancing at Xander in concern, but addressing Giles. “That's it? It's done? No waking up tomorrow as a fish, or something?”

Xander looked at her with wide eyes then quickly turned to Giles, hoping desperately for an answer that would make him happy. That hadn't even occurred to him.

“I . . .” Giles looked stumped. “I don't know.”

Shit

 

Almost a half hour later, mostly spent grilling Xander on his general state of well-being, Giles and Xander stood on the front steps to Xander's house. Buffy and Willow had both gone home, either to prepare for patrol or do homework, leaving Giles and Xander with the duty of informing Xander's parents about his condition.

Giles had never been to Xander's house.

Truthfully, after seeing Buffy and Giles' nice and comfortable upper-middle class homes, Xander found his house kind of embarrassing. It wasn't that he was dirt poor, living in a trailer park on the edge of town; his house was just kinda run-down and dirty.

The green paint was cracked and old in places, the front lawn half-dead and uncut. Off to the side, a long line of full-to-the-brim trash cans stood next to numerous recycling bins overflowing with empty bottles of booze.

Obviously nobody had remembered to take either the trash or recycling out to be collected that week. That was normally his job.

Then again, most things were normally his job.

“So, you have this all planned out, right? Cuz I gotta say, I've got a big, fat, nothin',” Xander looked up at Giles, attempting to stall and carefully ignoring the wiggy feeling of actually having to look up. He really didn't want to go inside.

Thankfully, he knew his dad wouldn't be home until midnight, it being Wednesday and thus bar night. But his mom was probably home, and he wasn't so excited to explain to her the wonderful secret life of her son.

“And somehow I don't think the `rents are gonna take this without some hardcore proof. Which, as you may have noticed, we don't really have.”

“Well, I must say,” Giles, in his nice tweed and extreme British-ness, looked extremely awkward and out of place standing there before a backdrop of dead grass and flies. “I'm not quite sure what to say either.”

“So we're gonna wing it.” Xander nodded, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck as though pumping himself up for a hard fight. “Good plan.”

Then he opened the door.

The living room was a pigsty, empty bottles of booze and cans of beer littering every available horizontal service. His parents' coats lay abandoned on the old carpet, which was decorated with stains coming in a variety of sizes and colors. Old Cosmopolitan, Home Improvement, and Good Parenting* magazines were carefully stacked below the side tables and on the floor next to his mom's discarded shoes, while a rug, baring a large stain from Dad's last time hosting a guy's-only poker night, lay behind the couch, put down in a vain attempt to make the place look just a little bit nicer.

And in middle of it all was his mom, lying asleep on the couch, still dressed in her nurses' uniform. Her latest beer lay on floor, most likely having fallen from her grasp after she had fallen asleep drinking it.

His mom worked crazy, long, hours at the Sunnydale Hospital. And, as this was Sunnydale, this meant she worked hard and saw some pretty bad things.

He couldn't remember a time when she wasn't tired or stressed, especially since Dad expected her to do all the housework, errands, and child-raising on top of her already hellish schedule.

So when she started drinking, sometime around the middle of 5th grade, Xander couldn't really blame her.

“Mom?” He called, absently waving Giles in as he walked over to the couch to lightly shake her shoulder. “Mom?”

Slowly, his mom's eyes fluttered open, and, upon seeing Xander, a slightly drunken smile crossed her face. “Alex?” She raised a heavy hand to clumsily pet his hair. “Did you have fun at your little friend's house?”

Xander smiled, head bobbing a little with the weight of her hand. “Yeah, Mom.”

“That's good, honey,” she blinked heavy eye-lids, “Are you hungry? I think I have some money in my purse . . . You could call for pizza.”

“Actually, Mom, I have someone I want you to meet.”

“Oh . . ?” She raised her head a little and gave him a somewhat dazed, questioning look.

“He's from school. Do you think you could sit up?”

“Of course, honey . . .” She said and began to slowly move into a sitting position. Xander sat down next to her, allowing her to lean against him as he called out for Giles, still standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“Hey G-man! C'mon in, already. You can sit in Dad's chair.” He waved a hand in the direction of the faded blue armchair to the left of the couch.

“Ah . . . right.” Giles said, closing the front door and walking forward. Xander noticed that he was very careful to avoid staring rudely around the room.

Meanwhile, his mom was staring, confused, at Xander's chest, which, in her new position, she had become much closer to. Clumsily, she reached out to give Xander's left breast a hard poke.

Xander flinched back. “Ow, Mom. Don't do that.”

Sitting up a bit straighter as she began to wake up a little more, she looked at Xander with confused eyes. “Alex?”

Slightly clearer eyes catching the differences in her son's face, she reached out again to feel. “Honey? What . . . what's going on? Are you . . .” Her eyes ran up and down her son's body and face again. “You are Alexander, right?”

And ouch. That hurt bad.

“Yeah Mom, I—

“What happened to your voice?”

“I . . . I . . . Look Mom, that's what Giles is here to talk to you about. You remember Giles, don't you? The school librarian?” He directed her attention over to where Giles was carefully sitting on the edge of his dad's old armchair.

“What's going on?”

“Now, Mrs. Harris, I . . . I'm afraid that wh-what I am about to tell you may come as a bit, a bit of a, er, shock.”

“My little boy isn't dead, is he?”

Mom had a bit of a habit of jumping to the absolute worst conclusions. Especially when a bit tipsy.

“Wh-what? Oh no, no, of course not. I simply . . . well that is . . . It's a bit of a long story, I'm afraid.”

“Tell me.” By now she was sitting up completely under her own power, much more awake.

“W-well, okay. There's—

Leaning a bit forward and waving a hand, she interrupted Giles before he could say another word to say, “Wait, wait. If this is gonna be as long or shocking as you say it is then we're gonna need some drinks.” Pushing herself to her feet, only slightly unsteady, she continued, “What'd you like? I'll get some.”

Standing himself, Xander gently pushed his mom back into her seat. “Why don't you just stay here and listen to Giles. I'll go get the drinks, okay?”

“I don't know . . .” And now she was looking at him suspiciously, but he ignored this and made his way into the kitchen.

Xander came back a few minutes later, a Corona in hand, to catch the tail end of Giles' self-introduction and Watcher-explanation. As he sat down and handed his mom her drink, Giles moved on to an explanation of Slayers.

And so the explanation, broken only by random questions from Mom or helpful story-additions from himself, continued through the existence of the Hellmouth, on to a short summary of just what Xander had been doing for the past year, and coming to a close with a detailed rundown of recent events.

By the time Giles finished speaking; Mrs. Harris had stopped reacting, and was, instead, just kind of staring at him.

There was a moment of silence as both Giles and Xander awaited her reaction.

Then, slowly, she shook her head, looking at them in disbelief. “You . . . you actually expect me to believe this?”

“Well . . .” Xander shifted in his seat, avoiding his mother's eyes, “. . . yes?”

“Mrs. Harris,” Giles leaned a bit forward, face full of understanding, “I understand that this may seem a bit, well, far-fetched, but—”

“Far-fetched? This is . . . this is. . .” she shook her head, clumsily getting to her feet, “It's unbelievable . . .”

“Well, yes, but—

“And for someone your age to play this kind of trick is just . . .” Glaring at Giles.

“Ma'am, I assure you that this is no trick.”

Her face hardened. “Get out.”

“What?” Xander looked up, “But, Mom—

“I said get out.”

Giles stood. “If we were to show you proof—

“I'm calling the cops.” Immediately heading for the phone.

“Wait!” Xander jumped up from the couch, holding up both hands to ward off further movement for the phone, “We're going, we're going, okay?” quickly backing away, “Don't worry.” Once past Giles, Xander turned around, grabbed his arm, and headed for the door.

“But Xa—

“Let's just go, okay?”

 

“No”

Giles sighed and put down his fork. “Spike . . .”

Having absolutely refused to let either Spike or Xander eat in his living room, the Watcher had come up with the absolutely ridiculous idea of “family” meal-time. Each morning and night he would cook, and each morning and night Spike, Xander, and Giles would gather around the Watcher's small table for breakfast and supper, Spike only behaving under the threat of being re-tied without any food.

Usually these meals would be almost silent, and vaguely awkward, except for the quickly silenced intermittent bouts of snark between Spike and Xander. That night though, Spike was to be informed of the events of the day.

Of the discovery of a possible book containing a cure.

And of the unknown amount of time it would take to find said book.

He was, understandably, not taking the news very well.

“I'm not sleepin' in that bloody chair waitin' fer yer lot t' get yer bloody fat heads outta yer bloody fat arses an' find that fuckin' book.”

Sitting to his left, the Watcher clenched his teeth. “There is really nothing that I can do.”

Spike ignored him, gesturing angrily with his own fork. “An' there is no bleedin' way in bloody hell that I'm gonna be fuckin' tied up fer another goddamned week of yer lot pansy-footin' around.”

“Pansy-footing?” To his right, the bint looked up from her own meal, asking in an innocently curious voice, just to annoy him, “And just how would someone pansy-foot?”

He ignored her, loudly announcing, “This is crap. You lot are useless.” Slamming his fork on the table, Spike got to his feet, and started for the door.

“And just where do you think you're going?” the Watcher asked mildly.

“T' find my own cure,” Spike sneered back at him, “I don' need you.”

“Oh really?” That wanker actually sounded almost amused.

“Yeah,” Spike nodded, glaring, “Don' know wot I was thinkin' comin' t' you lot.”

“Well, actually, you didn't really come to us,” the bint said, “Buffy sort of—

“Shut up” Spike snapped, turning his glare on her.

“And just where are you thinking of sleeping tonight?” the Watcher continued, ignoring the interruption. “Surely not your old lair.”

Well, actually . . .

“An' why not?” Spike asked, instantly suspicious.

“Well, who knows what type of creature could stumble in while you were asleep.”

He snorted. “Nobody would come in.”

“Are you so sure of that?” The Watcher inclined his head in gentle question. “How do you even know that your lair hasn't already become home to another group of vampires?”

The factory as he had last seen it flashed in his mind, Dru's things missing and minion trash scattered throughout the building. The whole place empty and unguarded . . .

Oh bugger

He hadn't even thought . . .

And he had left all his stuff there, too. Now everything was probably destroyed or being used by some dirty minion.

And what was he going to do about clothes?

Great

Spike shook this thought away and scowled at Giles. “Then I'll find some place else.”

“You would walk around the Hellmouth, purposely venturing into demon infested areas, at night?”

“Yeah . . . ?” He did it all the time. What was the Watcher getting at?

“As a human?”

Spike opened his mouth to reply . . . then paused as his brain sputtered to a stop, the full meaning of that question, and his situation, momentarily hitting him hard.

Right. He'd almost forgotten about that. He wasn't a vampire at the moment. He was human.

And therefore he was a . . . a food source?

“Well . . .” Spike struggled for a come-back as the Watcher just smirked at him smugly.

He was food?

His . . . his own food?

Finally Spike just snarled, “Fine, you bloody bastard,” and stomped back over to the table, throwing himself into his seat. “But, tomorrow,” he said, “I'm leavin' fer sure,” and glared at the bastard, just daring him to say otherwise.

“You probably shouldn't be telling us that,” the bint commented from the side, probably purposely sounding as irritatingly helpful and cheerful as she could, “you know, what with us being your captors and all.”

“No, no . . .” the Watcher said mildly, turning back to his food. “We should let him do as he wishes.”

Spike gave him an angry nod of approval. “Right”

Things finally going his way, he turned back to his barely touched meal of corn, mashed potatoes, and a—recent realizations ran screaming through his head and he barely refrained from letting a pained grimace cross his face—breast of chicken.

He was that chicken.

He was his own food.

“And if he wishes to die a horrible death as a starving, cold, and dirty, homeless man on the streets, then, we should respect that.”

What? Spike tore his attention away from his plate to give the Watcher another suspicious look, “An' I would be dyin' a horrible death, starvin', dirty, an' homeless, because, wot? You found sumthin' else on that curse that yer not tellin' me, didn' ya?”

“No,” the man shook his head, voice mild and unconcerned, “The only way in which the curse relates to your inevitable death on the streets, is simply to supply the chance. Humans, as a whole, tend to need things to stay alive and happy, such as warmth, a safe place to live and sleep, food, water . . .” he trailed off meaningfully and gave Spike a look. “You have none of these things. Even worse, you have no ability to obtain them.”

“'No ability to obtain them'?” Spike mocked, “You don' actually think I'm gonna work, do ya?”

“Of course not,” the Watcher said, voice dry, “But, think, if you can. Do you honestly believe that you will even be able to steal with your new limitations?”

“Uh huh,” the bint agreed, nodding seriously, “Plus, there's the fact that I bet you don't even really know how to be human anymore.”

“I don' know how t' be human?” Spike gave a derisive snort, inwardly grateful for the distraction. “Wot? You lot are comin' with instruction manuals these days?”

That bloody bastard

What did he mean limitations?

“And really,” Xander only continued as though he hadn't spoken, “Where are you gonna find a shower, anyways? And, hey,” she looked up at him, “now that we're talkin' `bout showers, I've gotta say, you really need one. You stink.”

And this from the same moron who had forced Spike to deal with, and sleep next to, his constant stench, for a week, because he didn't want to feel his own breasts. At least Spike had an excuse. They wouldn't untie him for anything other than meals and lightening quick bathroom breaks.

Spike was unimpressed. “I know.”

“Then why don't you just go take one? I mean, you're not leavin' til tomorrow, and you might as well start off your homelessness smelling good, right? It won't last long, but, hey,” she shrugged, “it's a good start.” Then, looking between each of her dinner companions, “And there's really no need for all this talking, right now, is there? Why don't we all just finish dinner, let Spike get unstinky, and go to sleep. Okay?” She nodded decisively before anyone could answer, “Good.”

Bitch

Spike grit his teeth and looked down at his meal. Reluctantly, he grabbed his spoon and started in on the corn, barely refraining himself from grabbing his fork instead and shoving it in that bastards thigh.

Who did he think he was to speak like that to Master Vampire?

I mean really, limitations?

He was human not crippled.

That disgusting piece of chicken was in his way, and he pushed it to the other side of the plate, far away from all his other food.

He wasn't limited.

 

It's a sucky ending, but whatever.