Fic: And Shepherds We Shall Be
Sep. 2nd, 2012 04:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wyndewalkerTitle: And Shepherds We Shall Be
Author: Wyndewalker
Xover Fandom: Boondock Saints
Series: Five Relatives Xander Never Met
Summary : Xander adds another title to his list, Saint
Challenge: twistedshorts August-Fic-A-Day - Day 15
Authors note: I know Xander's eyes are brown but I made them blue for this fic. Eh, didn't quite go how I wanted but here it is. I may eventually rewrite it.
Rating: R for violence
Word Count: 1,609 according to Word
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Boondock Saints or Buffy the Vampire Slayer. All rights belong to their owners and I merely borrow the characters for your amusement.
Alexander Harris, better known as Xander to his friends, had lived all of his life feeling like something was missing. Like a piece of his soul had been misplaced when he was born. He'd been able to somewhat fill that hole with Willow and Jesse and then Buffy when Jesse was killed, but it was never a true fit.
As he got older a voice started whispering in the back of his mind that what he was missing was out there, that he just need to go looking for it. The voice kept whispering east. So after the Graduation from Hell and the Mayor's Ascension he'd headed out on his roadtrip. Only he hadn't gotten very far before his car had died and left him stranded in Oxnard. The voice was still there but it quieted down some, as if it was biding it's time.
Now here it was roughly a year and half after the destruction of Sunnydale, most of that time had been spent in Africa tracking down baby slayers and finally training himself to be the fighter who didn't routinely get his ass kicked. Now he was striding through Logan International Airport in Boston and the voice was screaming in his head that what he was searching for was close.
He barely noticed the people who scrambled to get out of his way as he walked. Wouldn't have occurred to him that he looked like the warrior he had become. He'd always been tall, just hitting 6 ft, but the baby fat he'd never seemed to be able get rid of had completely melted away leaving behind long lean muscles wrapped in faded and worn blue jeans, black steel-toed worker's boots, a tight black t-shirt, and a thigh-length brown leather jacket that looked like it had seen more miles than the earth was round. Tousled black hair brushed the back of his collar while tending to fall over his eyes though it did little to hide the worn black eye-patch that covered one eye. The chocolate brown eye scanned his surroundings constantly, cataloging everything he saw automatocally as predator or prey and dismissing all of them as not worth further attention. Which those with any sense were grateful for.
Reaching the taxi line, he waited patiently for his turn before sliding into the back of a yellow cab, his army duffel never leaving his hand.
"Where to?" The cabbie asked carefully avoiding eye contact. He knew something dangerous had just gotten into his cab.
The voice in Xander's head whispered an address. "McGinty's Bar. Southside."
"You sure you want to go there? It's not exactly a nice area." The cabbie gulped at the look Xander fixed on him in the rearview mirror.
"McGinty's Bar. Southside."
"Right. McGinty's. Be there in 20 minutes."
Xander turned to look out the window. He watched as the historical buildings gave way to more modern well-kept ones that slowly gave way to less well-kept ones until they were in an area that was barely a step above a slum. They pulled to a stop in front of a fairly well kept Irish bar. Stepping out of the cab, Xander felt that driving sensation inside him begin to ease up. Slinging his duffel over his shoulder, he tossed a $100 at the driver who took it and peeled away. Xander shook his head. At least he hadn't planned on asking for change.
With a shrug he walked into the bar. It was only late afternoon so the place was fairly empty. Bar counter with stools along one wall, booths along the opposite. In the back there were six tables on the same side as the bar and 3 pool tables on the side of the booths.
He stepped up to the counter, waiting for the bartender to acknowledge him. The older man eyed him warily but came over. "What can I get you?"
"Pint of Guiness, please."
"Coming right up." He moved down to the tap, grabbing a glass as he went. He glanced back at Xander. "Don't recall seeing you around here before."
"First time in Boston."
"Ah. What brings you here then?" He placed the now full glass on the counter in front of Xander.
"Looking for something, someone."
"Anyone I'd know?"
Xander shrugged. "Could be, but I'm not sure who it is I'm looking for so I couldn't say for sure. I'll know them when I see them."
That got him a funny look. "How will you know if you don't know who you're looking for?"
"Intuition," Xander replied with a wry grin. He placed a $10 on the counter. The man's eyes widened slightly at the sight of the word tattooed on Xander's right hand. He tilted his head slightly so that he could see Xander's neck and the saint tattoo there. The tattoos were one of the only things he blamed entirely on the voice in his head. Six months ago he'd been in Jo'burg, barely even buzzed, when he'd passed by a tattoo place and without a second thought walked in. When he'd left 4 hours later he had three tattoos. There was a Celtic cross on his left bicep.
The bartender looked him in the eye. "Your last name wouldn't happen to be McManus, would it?"
Xander shook his head. "Last time I checked it was Harris. Thanks for the beer."
He moved to the table in the back that had the best view of the entire place, including both exits. His duffel bag was placed between his chair and the wall behind him. From out of an inside pocket of his duster Xander pulled his leather bound journal and his favorite pen. He'd picked it up at a bazaar in the Serengeti. A small village that was a stopping point for tourists on their way to Mt. Kilimanjaro. He'd had the pen for almost 9 months now, a hollowed out tube of wood that had a ball point pen tube of ink had been slipped into it with a piece of piece of red tiger-eye capping the other end. It was nothing remarkable beyond being one of those kitschy touristy items, however in the 9 months he'd had it it had yet to run out of ink. Not even the least bit of fading. Since it hadn't tried to kill him yet or started writing Die! Die! he figured he was safe and had a great pen.
~~~~~~~~~
Sometime later Xander looked up from his journal. The voice was whispering to him again and whatever he was looking for had just walked in the door. Looking around the now half-full bar, he spotted two men the same age as him talking to the bartender. They looked toward him, movements eerily in sync, and though they weren't quite close enough to get a good look something about them was familiar. More words were exchanged with the bartender and then they were headed in his direction, the darker-haired one carrying a single pint of Guiness while the sandy-blonde carried one in each hand.
Xander slid his journal back into his duster as they sat down across from him. The third pint of Guiness was placed in front of him and he took it with a nod. The feeling of familiarity sharpened into half-remembered certainty as their eyes met. He knew the two men sitting before him. He didn't know how or why but he did. The space that had been empty for so long finally began to fill. The three men sat in silence, two and half sets of blue eyes regarding each other calmly. They all moved at the same time, hands pulling out packs of cigarettes, tapping one out and placing it to lips. Zippo lighters flicked at the same time, cigarettes lit, take a drag in followed by an exhale of smoke.
"Connor," the blonde finally spoke.
"Murphy," the brunette said.
"Alexander," he replied.
"Think we need to talk to Il Duce," Murphy said.
"Aye," Connor agreed. Xander remained silent.
Nothing more was said as they drank their Guiness and smoked their cigarettes. When both were finished they rose to their feet in sync, Xander stooped to grab his duffel, slinging it over his shoulder as he fell into step with them. They'd only gone a little more than half a block when a heavily accented voice called out from behind them.
"Hey, Saints! Karovsky sends his regards!" The sound of several guns being cocked filled the air.
Connor, Murphy, and Xander moved in perfect harmony, spinning to face the men behind them. Each of them dropped to one knee as they slid Magnum .45's from beneath their coats. Shots rang out across the street followed by grunts and sharp cries of pain. When their guns clicked empty the three men rose to their feet, ejecting the magazines and sliding in new ones. Measured steps brought them to where their would-be killers had fallen on the street. Four men lay dead, riddled with bullets.
Connor and Murphy easily recognized them as enforcers for the Russian mob. Xander didn't recognize them but he did recognize the evil in them. Kneeling down, they pulled pennies from their pockets and covered the four men's eyes, carefully arranging their hands.
"And Shepherds we shall be
As he got older a voice started whispering in the back of his mind that what he was missing was out there, that he just need to go looking for it. The voice kept whispering east. So after the Graduation from Hell and the Mayor's Ascension he'd headed out on his roadtrip. Only he hadn't gotten very far before his car had died and left him stranded in Oxnard. The voice was still there but it quieted down some, as if it was biding it's time.
Now here it was roughly a year and half after the destruction of Sunnydale, most of that time had been spent in Africa tracking down baby slayers and finally training himself to be the fighter who didn't routinely get his ass kicked. Now he was striding through Logan International Airport in Boston and the voice was screaming in his head that what he was searching for was close.
He barely noticed the people who scrambled to get out of his way as he walked. Wouldn't have occurred to him that he looked like the warrior he had become. He'd always been tall, just hitting 6 ft, but the baby fat he'd never seemed to be able get rid of had completely melted away leaving behind long lean muscles wrapped in faded and worn blue jeans, black steel-toed worker's boots, a tight black t-shirt, and a thigh-length brown leather jacket that looked like it had seen more miles than the earth was round. Tousled black hair brushed the back of his collar while tending to fall over his eyes though it did little to hide the worn black eye-patch that covered one eye. The chocolate brown eye scanned his surroundings constantly, cataloging everything he saw automatocally as predator or prey and dismissing all of them as not worth further attention. Which those with any sense were grateful for.
Reaching the taxi line, he waited patiently for his turn before sliding into the back of a yellow cab, his army duffel never leaving his hand.
"Where to?" The cabbie asked carefully avoiding eye contact. He knew something dangerous had just gotten into his cab.
The voice in Xander's head whispered an address. "McGinty's Bar. Southside."
"You sure you want to go there? It's not exactly a nice area." The cabbie gulped at the look Xander fixed on him in the rearview mirror.
"McGinty's Bar. Southside."
"Right. McGinty's. Be there in 20 minutes."
Xander turned to look out the window. He watched as the historical buildings gave way to more modern well-kept ones that slowly gave way to less well-kept ones until they were in an area that was barely a step above a slum. They pulled to a stop in front of a fairly well kept Irish bar. Stepping out of the cab, Xander felt that driving sensation inside him begin to ease up. Slinging his duffel over his shoulder, he tossed a $100 at the driver who took it and peeled away. Xander shook his head. At least he hadn't planned on asking for change.
With a shrug he walked into the bar. It was only late afternoon so the place was fairly empty. Bar counter with stools along one wall, booths along the opposite. In the back there were six tables on the same side as the bar and 3 pool tables on the side of the booths.
He stepped up to the counter, waiting for the bartender to acknowledge him. The older man eyed him warily but came over. "What can I get you?"
"Pint of Guiness, please."
"Coming right up." He moved down to the tap, grabbing a glass as he went. He glanced back at Xander. "Don't recall seeing you around here before."
"First time in Boston."
"Ah. What brings you here then?" He placed the now full glass on the counter in front of Xander.
"Looking for something, someone."
"Anyone I'd know?"
Xander shrugged. "Could be, but I'm not sure who it is I'm looking for so I couldn't say for sure. I'll know them when I see them."
That got him a funny look. "How will you know if you don't know who you're looking for?"
"Intuition," Xander replied with a wry grin. He placed a $10 on the counter. The man's eyes widened slightly at the sight of the word tattooed on Xander's right hand. He tilted his head slightly so that he could see Xander's neck and the saint tattoo there. The tattoos were one of the only things he blamed entirely on the voice in his head. Six months ago he'd been in Jo'burg, barely even buzzed, when he'd passed by a tattoo place and without a second thought walked in. When he'd left 4 hours later he had three tattoos. There was a Celtic cross on his left bicep.
The bartender looked him in the eye. "Your last name wouldn't happen to be McManus, would it?"
Xander shook his head. "Last time I checked it was Harris. Thanks for the beer."
He moved to the table in the back that had the best view of the entire place, including both exits. His duffel bag was placed between his chair and the wall behind him. From out of an inside pocket of his duster Xander pulled his leather bound journal and his favorite pen. He'd picked it up at a bazaar in the Serengeti. A small village that was a stopping point for tourists on their way to Mt. Kilimanjaro. He'd had the pen for almost 9 months now, a hollowed out tube of wood that had a ball point pen tube of ink had been slipped into it with a piece of piece of red tiger-eye capping the other end. It was nothing remarkable beyond being one of those kitschy touristy items, however in the 9 months he'd had it it had yet to run out of ink. Not even the least bit of fading. Since it hadn't tried to kill him yet or started writing Die! Die! he figured he was safe and had a great pen.
~~~~~~~~~
Sometime later Xander looked up from his journal. The voice was whispering to him again and whatever he was looking for had just walked in the door. Looking around the now half-full bar, he spotted two men the same age as him talking to the bartender. They looked toward him, movements eerily in sync, and though they weren't quite close enough to get a good look something about them was familiar. More words were exchanged with the bartender and then they were headed in his direction, the darker-haired one carrying a single pint of Guiness while the sandy-blonde carried one in each hand.
Xander slid his journal back into his duster as they sat down across from him. The third pint of Guiness was placed in front of him and he took it with a nod. The feeling of familiarity sharpened into half-remembered certainty as their eyes met. He knew the two men sitting before him. He didn't know how or why but he did. The space that had been empty for so long finally began to fill. The three men sat in silence, two and half sets of blue eyes regarding each other calmly. They all moved at the same time, hands pulling out packs of cigarettes, tapping one out and placing it to lips. Zippo lighters flicked at the same time, cigarettes lit, take a drag in followed by an exhale of smoke.
"Connor," the blonde finally spoke.
"Murphy," the brunette said.
"Alexander," he replied.
"Think we need to talk to Il Duce," Murphy said.
"Aye," Connor agreed. Xander remained silent.
Nothing more was said as they drank their Guiness and smoked their cigarettes. When both were finished they rose to their feet in sync, Xander stooped to grab his duffel, slinging it over his shoulder as he fell into step with them. They'd only gone a little more than half a block when a heavily accented voice called out from behind them.
"Hey, Saints! Karovsky sends his regards!" The sound of several guns being cocked filled the air.
Connor, Murphy, and Xander moved in perfect harmony, spinning to face the men behind them. Each of them dropped to one knee as they slid Magnum .45's from beneath their coats. Shots rang out across the street followed by grunts and sharp cries of pain. When their guns clicked empty the three men rose to their feet, ejecting the magazines and sliding in new ones. Measured steps brought them to where their would-be killers had fallen on the street. Four men lay dead, riddled with bullets.
Connor and Murphy easily recognized them as enforcers for the Russian mob. Xander didn't recognize them but he did recognize the evil in them. Kneeling down, they pulled pennies from their pockets and covered the four men's eyes, carefully arranging their hands.
"And Shepherds we shall be
For thee, my Lord, for thee.
Power hath descended forth from Thy hand
Our feet may swiftly carry out They commands.
So we shall flow a river forth to Thee
And teeming with souls shall it ever be.
In Nomeni Patri Et Fili Spiritus Sancti."
Making the sign of the cross, they rose to their feet once more and walked away.
Finis
Making the sign of the cross, they rose to their feet once more and walked away.
Finis
