Call Me...

Author: Paradox761 <Paradox761[at]mail.com>

Web: http://members.tripod.com/~Paradox761/

Disclaimer: Joss and co. own all things Buffy, no copyright infringement is intended. So please don't sue, I don't have any money anyway.

Summary: Post-"Chosen", Xander contemplates the world and his place in it. He can't be Xander Harris anymore, so he becomes someone else.

Dedication: To Jordan and Jessica, my angels. May you rest in peace.

(BtVS/?, Xander, PG13)


Xander pulled his coat tighter around him as he walked down the empty street. Summer was over now, and there was no greater reminder to him that he was no longer in California than an icy cold autumn wind. Cleveland, of all places. Why couldn't the Hellmouth be in Honolulu, or Miami Beach? Because despite what Drew Carey said, Cleveland did not rock. And all the little chicks with the crimson lips could kiss his pale white ass.

To be fair, it was probably no different than most major metropolitan areas. There was downtown, full of tall office buildings where the rich people worked, and then there was the slums, full of run down tenement buildings where the poor people lived. And right now, Xander was walking through one of those not-so-nice neighborhoods. The kind of place where even if vampires didn't exist, you still wouldn't find very many people out after dark. Sure enough, Xander had the street to himself. To any casual observer, he looked like the kind of person that when you spot them on the sidewalk outside your house, you double bolt the door. And you keep the phone handy just in case you have to call 911. He still wore an eye-patch over his missing left eye, and he now had a long black coat that billowed behind him in the wind. He had forsaken most of his brightly colored clothes, and stuck mostly to black these days. The fact that his wardrobe now resembled that of a couple of vampires whom the young man didn't particularly like didn't elude him, he just preferred not to think about it. His hair was unkempt, and there was a week's worth of beard growth on his face.

'What the hell am I doing here,' he thought to himself, and not for the first time. 'Wasn't the whole point of leaving to get out of this lifestyle? To try and have a normal life?' No, that wasn't the point at all and he knew it. He could no more leave this fight behind than Buffy could, destiny or no. He left because he realized that he wasn't Xander Harris anymore. He wasn't the man that he thought he was, that his friends thought he was. The last seven years of his life had changed him. Maybe no more so than the average teenager who realized that they were becoming an adult, but the average teenager had an advantage that Xander didn't. The average teenager didn't grow up on top of a Hellmouth. But he couldn't blame the Hellmouth for everything. And frankly, he didn't care what was to blame. All he knew was that somewhere along the way, he grew up and became a man. And the man he became, was no longer the person that he thought he was. He didn't really know much about this man. He had been so worried about his friends, and about averting the next apocalypse, that he didn't even know who he was anymore. He was so accustomed to fitting into the roles that everyone else had created for him. He was Willow's best friend, Buffy's back up, Giles research assistant, Anya's fiancé. Tony and Jessica's no good, deadbeat son. Comic relief to the Scoobies, moral support. But what about when he was alone? Who was he then?

He had rage inside him. So much repressed anger, that came out at the weirdest moments. He could stare down a vampire, a creature who wanted to kill him, and not lose his cool. And then someone would cut him off in traffic and he'd lose his mind. He'd practically run them off the road, red faced and screaming the whole time. He'd stub his toe in his apartment, and he's trash the whole room. Always when he was alone, never in front of anyone else. It scared him sometimes.

He had lost so much in the last few months. His eye, the woman he loved, the town he grew up in. Maybe that's what pushed him over the edge. Maybe that's why he suddenly realized that the person he was pretending he still was, was long gone, and that the person he really was, was a complete mystery to him.

Xander found the place he was looking for. A dirty looking tattoo parlor on the corner, with a blinking neon sign out front. The sign simply read, 'Vinny's Tattoo Parlor'. That fact that this business stayed open this late, in this neighborhood meant either one of two things. The owner didn't know any better, or he did and he just didn't care. It was the second possibility that Xander was hoping for. He needed someone who knew about this town, someone he could get information from. The Cleveland version of Willy the snitch. Not to mention the fact that he wanted a tattoo.

He opened the door of the place, ringing a small bell. There was only one other person in the establishment, sitting in a chair reading a newspaper. He lowered the paper and looked at the door when he heard the bell. The guy looked to be in his fifties, with a scraggly gray beard and tattoos covering both arms. He was wearing a black wife-beater, an old pair of ripped jeans, and black combat boots. He had his feet up on another chair in front of him, and Xander could see a chain going from a belt loop on his jeans to the wallet in his back pocket.

"How ya doing?" the guy said. He had a voice that sounded like he'd been gargling with hot asphalt. More likely it was from a lifetime of smoking. Xander spotted an ashtray with a stogie burning in it sitting nearby.

"Not bad," Xander said, noncommittally. He took off his coat and hung it on the coat rack by the door, revealing the simple black tee shirt and jeans that he wore underneath. "You Vinny?"

"That's what the sign says."

"I've heard good things about you," Xander continued, looking at all the art on the walls. "I've been thinking about getting something for a while now, everyone I talk to says that you're the man to see."

Vinny eyed him cautiously. "Don't get many customers this late at night," he said.

Xander was sure that wasn't true. It was two-thirty in the morning. Why stay open if you don't get customers at this hour. Xander answered the unasked question by reaching under his collar and pulling out a chain. On the end of the chain was a rather large cross, which he let rest on the outside of his shirt.

Vinny smiled. "You looking for anything in particular?"

"Actually, yes." Xander reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it as he walked closer to the tattoo artist. "Something like this."

Vinny took the paper and looked at it. "I can do that. Where do you want it?"

Xander responded by taking his shirt off. "Right here," he said, slapping his stomach. "Like it's coming up out of my pants."

Vinny laughed. "Clever," he said. "Take a seat, I'll be with you in a minute."

Xander hopped up on the table and put his balled up tee shirt behind his head. A minute or so later Vinny came back with a tray of supplies. He sat down on a stool and rolled over to Xander before swabbing his abdomen with alcohol.

Xander couldn't help but think about his friends again, what they would think if they saw him now. The Xander they knew would never be in a place like this, getting a tattoo. Then again, the Xander they knew never would have left them in the first place. He was stalwart and true, always there with a joke to lighten the mood when things got scary. If he had to pick a single moment, when all of this self- analysis had began, it would have to be right after Sunnydale was destroyed. They were all standing there, looking down at the smoking crater that had been their home. He had just been told that Anya was dead, and he was making stupid jokes. And no one had batted an eye. It was expected of him, even in the wake of such tragedy. And that's when it hit him. He was a clown, and it sickened him.

They traveled around together for weeks after that. Making arrangements for the once potential and now active slayers to return home, deciding what their next move should be. Giles was concerned about the Council, about whether or not it would ever be rebuilt. He wanted to go back to England. Buffy and Willow were worried about all the new slayers out there. They wanted to find them, to tell them what they were. Dawn wanted a somewhat normal life again, she wanted to settle down somewhere, go back to school, and be a normal teenager. And Faith was just happy that the world hadn't ended and that she wasn't in prison anymore.

Xander was letting himself have a mourning period. For Anya, and for everyone else in his life that he loved who had died. For Tara, and Joyce, and Miss Calendar, and Jesse. He tried to mourn them properly, something he never seemed to have time for in Sunnydale when the Evil-o-the-week was always breathing down their necks. And he mourned that young man who was introduced to the Evils of the world at the tender age of fifteen, and never looked back. He mourned his own lost innocence.

And when he decided that it was time to stop mourning, and get on with his life, he found that he wasn't quite sure how to do that. For the last seven years, his life had been defined by this fight, by these people, his surrogate family. But the world was a different place now, and he was becoming less and less sure about his role in it. He knew that he wasn't the same person anymore, the person that everyone thought he was. But he didn't know who he had become, and he was fairly sure that he couldn't find out by walking the same path he had been walking for the last seven years. So he decided that it was finally time to go it alone, to discover what he could about himself.

"How's that?" Vinny asked, his voice breaking Xander out of his introspection.

He looked down to see what the artist has drawn on his skin. Vinny held up a hand mirror so he could get a better look. "Looks good," Xander said.

Vinny picked up his tattoo gun and smiled. "You ready?" Xander just nodded. "Now this might tickle a little bit," he joked as he started inking the tattoo.

Xander winced at the pain, but he held his tongue. It wouldn't do any good to have this guy think he was a wuss.

He remembered his friends' reactions to the news that he was leaving, like it happened yesterday. Buffy had gotten angry, like she always did when something happened that she didn't like. She accused Xander of abandoning them. Xander reminded her that she didn't seem to mind the idea when she sent him and Dawn away before the big fight. She insisted that that was different, though she couldn't say why. 'You don't get to decide whether I stay or go, Buffy,' he told her. 'That's my choice.' She just couldn't stand to not be in control. Of her life, her friends' lives, of everything. She said some awful things in the heat of anger, hurtful things. But Xander refused to be baited, he wasn't going to let her last memory of him be him yelling at her. He told her that he loved her, that he loved them all, but that he had to find his own way now. Willow and Dawn both cried, and hugged him, and begged him not to go. Giles seemed to be the only one who understood the decision. He just smiled, shook his hand, and wished him luck.

Buffy refused to speak to him, or to be there to see him off. He regretted that they parted ways on such a sour note, but that had been her decision, and he respected that. Maybe she regretted it now, maybe she didn't, Xander couldn't really bring himself to care.

He was learning who he was now, bit by bit, every moment he was on his own. He didn't necessarily like it, but it was who he was. Bitter, angry, even humorless at times. Vicious when he had to be. Before he realized what he was doing, he found himself here in Cleveland. Fighting was something that he couldn't give up. It was something that the old Xander and the new Xander had in common. Maybe the only thing. He had only been here a few weeks, and already he had earned quite a little reputation among the vamps and lesser demons. They didn't know his name, but they knew his face. But he was tired of staking newbies in the park, he wanted something bigger. He wanted to know what was really going on in this town, so he needed to be more than just a scary face. He needed to be a presence, in more than just demon circled. He wanted his name to be whispered with fear, and awe, and admiration, depending on who was doing the whispering. Which meant that he needed a name. Something new, something strong. But not too fake tough sounding, like Chip IronChest. That was just silly, he didn't want people to think he was a porn star or something. It needed to sound real.

"Ah, I'm going to need you to undo your belt here, pal. Don't worry, I'm not getting fresh." Xander complied so Vinny could extend the tattoo to his waistline.

His mother's maiden name maybe, his father had always hated it. That was reason enough as far as he was concerned. As for a first name, he already had an idea. It was why he had chosen this particular tattoo. He said the two names together in his head. Tough, but real. It definitely sounded like the name of a guy you wouldn't want to fuck with.

"Okay kid, you're all done."

Xander stood up and looked at his new tattoo in the full-length mirror on the other side of the room. It was a cobra, coiled at the bottom and ready to strike. Between the eye-patch, the tattoo, and the bad attitude, he definitely looked the part of somebody you didn't want to mess with. Now he just had to make a name for himself.

"What do I owe you?"

"Fifty bucks."

Xander reached into his wallet and handed the man his money. He grabbed his shirt off the table and put it on.

"Pleasure doing business with you, kid," Vinny said.

"My name's not kid," Xander said. "It's Plissken. But you can call me…Snake."

˜fin˜