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Beacon Calling Me Home

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Summary: Post-Chosen, Xander is looking for a new purpose in life. But when he meets a man claiming to work for his real father, Xander discovers his destiny is bigger than he could have imagined. NOW COMPLETE.

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
DC Universe > Batman > Andrew-Centered
Television > Roswell > Andrew-Centered
BigDestinyFR181029,82243440,3804 Dec 0421 Jun 05Yes

Beacon Calling Me Home

A year after "Chosen", Xander is getting tired of the continual search for Slayers. Following a particularly boring recovery, Xander takes some time off, and finds that he has a home where he never expected it.

Happy, happy slash fiction. Andrew will be hooking up from a guy that guested on my Roswell Unauthorized site. Xander... well, he's hooking up with a guy from BTVS, but I'm going to have to keep it a secret for now. It's plot sensitive.

I don't own any of these characters, except for Mal. Yeah, I know, I was just as shocked as you were. They actually belong to their respective owners. Buffy is owned by Mutant Enemy, although I really don't know who actually does own Roswell (if it's for sale, you know Christmas is coming...). Xander's real parents are owned by DC comics.



Beacon Calling Me Home (1/10) Xander/?, Andrew/OMC

Part One - Baby Boy



Malcolm Adams really hated his job.

After he'd gotten his psychology degree, he'd bid adieu to his warehouse job, and never thought he'd ever say that again. Gone were the long, discouraging days. The back breaking labor. The supervisors that never seemed to notice what advice they were offering, given that Mal often got reamed out for doing as he was told. Not to mention all the homophobic assholes he'd had to work with. He was expecting his new career to be a nirvana.

Of course, when you've got a bold mission to save the world, it's a little discouraging to be working in an asylum, where all the people he wasn't able to help hung out.

Take Wayne for example. Orphaned at an early age, he had enough money and brains that if he'd gotten help any earlier, he might be capable

of living a normal life. But here he was, early fifties (and still pretty hot, the unprofessional voice in Mal's head said), practically catatonic, with no friends, and few visitors outside of the old guy that took care of him when he was a child.

No. Some days Malcolm really hated his job. Saving the world was a

lot harder than it looked.

"Good morning." Malcolm walked into Wayne's private room (crazy as

he might be, the guy at least had the dollars to pony up some privacy),

and put on a happy face. "How are--"

The word 'you' wouldn't come out of Mal's mouth. Wayne was pacing

the room, his smile vivid and deranged. The man was moving more per

second, than he had been in the five years Mal had read up on, on Wayne's chart.

"Wow. You're certainly in a better mood today," Mal noted, with the

overly pleasant voice he'd picked up when he needed to speak to one

of his patients. He noticed that Wayne had a bundle of newspapers in

his arms. "I see you read the newspaper today. Did you find something

you liked?"

He knew it was the wrong conclusion almost as soon as he said it. Wayne was holding the paper in an odd fashion, and Mal knew why when Wayne confirmed his second diagnosis, with: "This is my baby. Isn't he pretty?"

Mal frowned. He hated it when patients were delusional. You weren't

allowed to agree with them, but just flat out telling them there was no baby just made them worse. It was a tricky business luring them out of these states.

Not to mention that if you were in the asylum, you generally weren't coherent enough to respond to psychology. Still, Mal was a man on a

mission. "Why don't you tell me about your baby?"

Wayne was more than willing to do that. "He's so pretty. Gets it from his mommy." Wayne looked at Mal, with an oddly sane looking relief. "I guess it's a good thing he didn't get her whiskers."

Mal didn't know what to say about that. "Can I see your baby?" Wayne nodded.

Malcolm leaned in, suspecting that there was some sort of picture of a baby on the newspaper that had set Wayne off. But all there was, was an article on some town in California that'd been swallowed by an earthquake.

Curiouser and curiouser. As far as Mal knew, Wayne didn't have any children. But if there wasn't a child in the paper, the only logical conclusion was that the man really did have a son out there, somewhere.

"He's very pretty," Mal agreed, knowing he'd catch hell for it. But he had some calls to make, and needed to make a quick exit. "I'll be back to see you again in a little bit."

XXX BC XXX

Xander Harris really hated his job.

Or to be precise, he hated his new job. Back in the old Hellmouth days, fighting evil was a pretty cool job. It was important. He didn't have to answer to 'the man' (because the man in question was a gorgeous blonde girl). It wasn't until he was half-blinded by an insane preacher that the glamour of saving the world wore off.

Even then, it beat his new job all to hell. He, like so many other former Scoobies, was now responsible for finding and training new vampire slayers before they had the chance to run amok. And it sucked. It was bad enough in Africa, but the people there at least had a general belief in themystical. Now back in the States, Xander was finding his Ed McMahon Slayer Sweepstakes routine wasn't beingwell received. Surprise, surprise. Most parents took a dim view of a rugged one-eyed man coming to take away their nubile daughters.

Andrew said they needed owls, like at Hogwarts.

Andrew was right.

"Andrew was right?" Buffy's voice was quiet, coming from the other side of the Atlantic as it was, but the phone was transmitting her worry. "Okay, I think you're right about this needing time off thing. Cause right now you're just speaking gibberish."

"Thanks. But I really don't think I'm cut out for this kind of thing," Xander admitted. "There are more than enough slayers to do this now. I think the girls would respond to it better from someone their own age. And gender."

"Well, I totally agree with that," Buffy told him. "I'll talk to Giles again, he's really being too Watchery about this. What do you want to do in the mean time?"

"Well, Gotham's got a really good vibe," Xander replied. "I think I'll hang here, and if nothing pans out in a couple of months, maybe I'll join you guys in Rome."

"I'd like that."

"Give my love to Dawnie."

"I will. And remember, you're not allowed to date anyone until she's been cleared by the council first."

Xander was still laughing about this when he flipped shut his cell phone. It actually felt good hearing that. The last couple of months since Anya died had been rough (he realized with a start that the couple of months was suddenly over a year). The pain was starting to lessen, and it seemed like he was finally ready to be alive again.

Xander decided to change and hit one of the clubs. But before he could even find something appropriate, someone knocked on the door of his motel room (and if he was going to be staying, he was going to have to find a better place to stay).

Thinking it was the slayer he'd found a few days earlier, he opened the door. It was a shock to find a rather elderly man on his doorstep.

"Uh, hey?" Xander greeted, puzzled. "You aren't Ashley's grandfather or anything, are you?"

The old man shook his head. He seemed shaken, for reasons that Xander

couldn't then understand. "No. No, I don't know anyone by that name." British, then. Did Giles know this guy? "Are you Alexander Lavelle?"

"Alexander Lavelle HARRIS," Xander clarified. His blood ran cold, and

he did a mental tally of how far away the weapons in the room were.

The door, obviously. And there was a newspaper two steps behind that.

Thank you, God.

The man, however, didn't seem ready to attack. In fact, he was more shaken than before. "He said it was you, but given the circumstances,

I couldn't be sure." The man seemed to realize he was talking to himself and shook his head. "My apologies, sir. I am Alfred Pennyworth. I know this might sound a little strange, but I work for your father.

"Your real father. His name is Bruce Wayne"
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