Rule #7: Gibbs Moods 5-8 means run for your life. Become one with the furniture. Move slowly and carefully so as not to provoke the Gibbs while in any of these moods or regret will be instant.

Special Agent Alexander Harris of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service sets a personal record for creative and colourful swearing as soon as he recognizes the body.

And not even in English.

Xander had been woken rudely by his boss, one Special Agent Jethro Gibbs, with the gruff ex-Marine demanding that Xander 'get his ass to Washington Ave, just above Rockcreek Park, ten minutes ago!', only half an hour before. The call had jolted him out of his chaotic dreams and caused him to react purely on instinct. By the time he registered it was just his phone, he had had a wooden stake in one hand and the call had already gone to voice-mail. He had dropped the piece of wood back onto the bed and had hit redial; frantically hoping Gibbs wouldn't be too pissed. His boss had answered his cell, immediately snapping out the orders before Xander could even get a word in edgewise. Then the silver haired agent had hung up, leaving Xander apologizing to a dial tone.

So much for Gibbs not being too pissed.

One look at the clock on his nightstand confirmed Xander's fear and why Gibbs had called him so pissed off. He was well over forty minutes late for the start of shift, meaning he was over an hour and forty minutes late by Gibbs' standards and two hours late by his own standards. As he scrambles from bed, his head spins a long giddy reel that forces him to lean heavily against the doorway to his bedroom for several moments before he can stand up straight.

His bones, heavy with sleep and the lingering effects of the sleeping pills he'd taken in the middle of the night, protest with every movement.

Tucked away by the medication, the nightmares that prompted the self medication and subsequently his sleeping through his alarm, are easy to ignore. But they lurk, filled with blood and pain, just waiting for him to drop his guard again.

As he hops his way into pants and yanking on a clean shirt, he thinks back to the address Gibbs had said and stifle's an angry groan.

The location was uncomfortably familiar to Xander, and hearing it had been enough to cut through the lingering fog of sleep. It was close to a bar. A bar Xander knew too intimately to want any inkling of his team near it.

The case was a John Doe found in a back alleyway near the DC park. There had been no identification on the corpse, but there had been a navy issue weapon and ID beside the body. Xander had managed to gather that much from the LEO's on the permimeter, who all offered him looks of sympathy as he ducked under the tape. The local cops were vaguely familiar to Xander, as they had worked with the NCIS team a handful of times before, and they had all encountered the wrath of Gibbs.

And from the looks they sent Xander's way, the young agent could only assume that it meant Gibbs was in his 'grizzly poked awake with a hot and sharp stick' mood. Also known as Mood Number 5.

Xander was rightfully fearful of Mood Number 5. Mood Number 5 meant torturous amounts of work, glares and headslaps with double the force of normal ones.

In fact, one of his personal rules (not Gibbs' rules, though Xander could appreciate those), was to avoid Gibbs as much as possible when faced with moods 5 through 8.

Unfortunately, there was no saving Xander this time, not when he was running late and already in Gibbs' bad graces.

Given that it took Xander nearly twenty minutes to get to the crime scene (which would've been longer if Xander hadn't been forced to learn from the "Buffy School of Driving;" it made Ziva and Gibbs' styles of driving look like the poster children for road safety), Ziva and McGee also send pitying looks his way as he shuffled into the alleyway. Tony smirks from behind his camera while Gibbs attempts to murder him with a look.

"Harris, sketches. Now," the boss growls, before vanishing off to talk to the first on scene. Xander opens his mouth to say something, but quickly shuts it when he receives yet another daggered stare.

Instead, he wisely ducks his head, pulls out his sketch pad and pencil from his bag and moves around Tony to start working, even while the senior field agent snickers quietly and mouths, "was she worth it Harris?" clearly assuming Xander was late due to a woman.

If Xander's destroyed eye hadn't been covered by the glamour Willow had concocted for him in the form of a pendant all those years ago, he likely would've given Tony some nightmare fuel. But to Tony, the two eyes that stared at him from Xander's face weren't nearly enough to effect him, so the older agent just snickers once again.

However, as soon as Xander gets a good look at the body, Tony's antics are forgotten and the string of curses that emerged from his mouth aren't even English. They might be Slavic, but Xander is too flooded with a myriad of emotions to notice or care.

"My dear boy, what language is that?" Ducky asks from his position crouched next to the body that had already ruined Xander's day. Thankfully, Tony has already wandered out of earshot to get more close-up shots of the weapon laying halfway down the alleyway.

Blinking stupidly, Xander tears his gaze away from the bane of his existence and focuses on the kind-eyed medical examiner.

"Um, I'm not sure Duck," he lies, scrambling for any excuse he can muster. "Just something my former teacher used to say when they got angry. Guess it stuck," Xander says, almost smirking internally at the thought of Giles swearing at all, regardless of the language.

"Interesting Mr. Harris. You'll have to tell me more about this teacher at another time," Ducky announces cheerfully before turning back to his tasks, leaving Xander to close his eyes and pray that when he opened them, this would all be just a bad dream.

Unfortunately, luck is not on his side, because when his sight snaps back into being, the bleach blonde head and signature leather duster are still there. Still very much in the middle of a crime scene Xander's team are working on. Still very much alive… well, undead despite the outward appearance otherwise, because the only way Spike would truly be dead would be if there was a pile of dust in the middle of a Washington DC back alley and not a fully formed body that will doubtlessly come to eventually.

Although, Xander would give anything for the British bastard to suddenly be dust.

Spike was stretched out in the shade of the nearby building, inches away from the sunlight. He was badly beaten, and looked like he had taken a good whack to the back of his head. The whack was likely the reason the British vampire was currently playing possum. Part of Xander wished then and there for a Hellmouth to open up beneath his feet and swallow him whole, because there was no foreseeable way out of this situation that ended in anyway other than disastrous.

Of course, Spike even being in DC could mean that something disastrous was already on its way. Maybe it would spring up right now and start causing havoc. Maybe an apocalypse would start and he could avoid Spike for the rest of his life.

Giving himself a second to ponder that thought, Xander allowed himself the pleasure of imagining a situation where he could emerge from today without severe emotional turbulence. Or without having to face the wrath of Gibbs that was invariably coming, because Spike wasn't going to stay knocked out forever.

As he stood, staring down at the reminder of his past with a sketch pad clenched in one hand and a pencil in the other. Xander considered the possibility of shooting Spike simply to keep the vampire down for a bit longer. Or himself.

The next string of curses, this time carefully under his breath, might have been an ancient demon dialect from Australia.

So caught up in his thoughts of Hellmouths and shooting a certain annoying vampire, Xander nearly missed the moment everything went to hell.

Pulling a liver probe from his kit, Doctor Donald Mallard set about shifting the dusty clothing of the poor man dead before him out of the way and lined up the instrument. Just as he applied pressure, a shout from young Alexander Harris caused him to jump and press harder, probe slicing through flesh. Ducky blinked and stared at the distraught expression on Alexander's face, catching sight of Ziva, Timothy and Anthony all whirling to see what the shout had been about.

The sensation of the sharpened probe bursting through flesh was enough to pull Spike out of dreamland, or whatever the hell (haha) vampires experienced during unconsciousness.

With a growl befitting a lion, or in this case, a very pissed off creature of the night, Spike leaps to his feet, backs further into the shade of the building and crouches defensively, all in a matter of seconds.

Xander can't stop the breath of relief when he sees that Spike manages to keep his fangs in, but the human catches sight of the glinting yellow in the undead's eyes.

The entire NCIS team reacts instantly, drawing guns immediately and shouting a variety of orders of stop, freeze, hands up, and so on. Gibbs appears in a run from around the corner, gun already drawn. Palmer leaps forward to help Ducky to his feet and shuffle the two of them backwards, until they're safely tucked behind the quartet of guns.

All the while, Spike begins swearing a blue streak and Xander can't help but take notes of certain colourful phrases.

"For a dancing Christ's sake topped with fucking wheatabix! What in the bloody, buggering hell is going on?" the irritated vampire snarls, halting in his tirade as he slowly returns to his senses.

That's when Xander moves forward, against the part of him that wants nothing more than to turn tail and run in the opposite direction, until he's back in his warm bed. Stepping into the line of fire, he ignores the shocked shouts of the team as they frantically try to move so his back isn't in the sights of their guns. Spreading his arms wide, Xander tries to take up as much space as possible, limiting the potential shots before someone decides to take aim at the man they believed to be dead.

"Spike!" he snaps, a veritable bellow resounding from his chest.

The vampire instantly focuses on him, blinking like a deranged and demonic owl, and then the bastard has the guile to smile. Toothily. "Xander," he crows, happily. "Told the stuffy Brit I could find you! Of course, didn't 'xactly count on it being this way," Spike adds, shuffling his feet almost apologetically. Then he winces and rubs at the back of his head, frowning when he looks past Xander to see the four guns trained his direction and the expressions ranging from dumbfounded to incredibly pissed off.

Xander may have fallen into the former category.

"Spike. What the hell are you doing here?" Xander demands, sighing heavily as he does so and fighting the urge to reach forward and throttle the infuriating man. Not that it would do anything of course.

Before Spike could answer, Gibbs breaks in, having assessed the situation enough to determine that the dead man who was no longer as dead as he appeared was no immediate threat. Well, no visible threat, but the man had been confirmed dead by Ducky himself, so who the hell knew what the blonde could be hiding.

"Harris, how in the hell do you know who this man is? And why in the godforsaken hell is our dead John Doe up and talking?" he all but snarls, the confusion at the situation creating an irritated beast determined to find answers. And this walking and talking, Ducky-certified dead man was creating too many questions.

Wincing once again in a morning already filled with too many winces, Xander ducks his head and turns slowly to face his boss. By now, McGee and Tony have lowered their weapons, glancing back and forth between Gibbs, Xander and Spike like they're watching a Ping-Pong match. Ziva stands firm, eyes calculating as she takes in the scene but gun steady on Spike's chest. Gibbs has also lowered his weapon, less because he believes it's safe and more because his newest agent is directly between him and the John Doe.

"I'm sorry boss, I really am," Xander starts. "But that information is actually beyond classified. It's more classified than the aliens at Area 51. Classify-ered more than the Twinkie recipe. It's - " Xander finds himself channeling the Willow babble before behind harshly cut off.

"Harris!" Gibbs snaps, fury working its way onto his features.

But there was nothing Xander could tell his boss in order to appease the older man's need for answers. Bound as a founding member of the IWC, there was nothing that Xander could tell Gibbs without a go-ahead from any of the other Scoobies, especially when surrounded by so many other ears that could hear it. And this didn't exactly count as a life or death situation either.

Given his top-tier status in the IWC, Xander could hypothetically tell anyone he wanted about their organization and the things that went bump in the dark. But it wasn't something he did lightly. Nor did he ever want to tell the NCIS team, not after he had finally found himself a home that he felt he actually belonged in.

After working on settling everything with the IWC those first few years after defeating the first, Xander had decided it was time for a change. Taking it upon himself, he had set himself as an unofficial liaison between the IWC and the federal agency of his choosing, giving the Scoobies a foot hold into the American political world. And, after all, he'd always been the odd one out of the original quartet; the human that didn't belong with the Slayer, Witch and Watcher.

But NCIS. NCIS had given him a purpose he enjoyed. And it turned out that Xander was good at investigative work. A few forged documents and glamour for his eye later thanks to a very understanding Willow later, Xander found himself on Gibbs' MCRT team. The start had been rough, having to earn the trust of all members of team Gibbs while adjusting to his new life and learning the ins and outs of the DC's supernatural side. It took a few sparring sessions to earn Ziva's trust and respect, wherein he actually pinned the ex-Mossad agent (learning to fight against the forces of darkness and a certain blonde Slayer had its perks), Tony discovering that he and Xander shared a love of classic movies to get the ex-detective on his side and being the only one able to understand McGee's techno-babble after a particularly cyber-focused case (thanks Willow) to get the man still referred to as Probie on Xander's side.

Gibbs had been another case in particular.

But he had made it.

And it turned out that DC didn't have much a supernatural presence; too many human monsters (see: Congress), leaving a smattering of local beasties who were overall decent company. The only real gathering place for the supernatural folk was at, ironically, Willy's bar.

The very bar that happened to share a back door with the alley they were standing in.

Of fucking course.

"What the hell do you mean, 'classified information'? And would you care explain to me exactly how our dead John Doe is now up and talking?!" Gibbs growled, breaking Xander from his thoughts. The older man can't help but stare at his agent; for the first time in three years, Harris had defied a direct order and it shook Gibbs slightly. And since when did Harris know or have access to classified information?

"Put down your weapon Ziva, he's harmless," Xander says tiredly, ignoring Gibbs' questions and stare. Ziva ignores him.

"Hey! I resent that Xander-boy!" Spike mutters from where he stands behind Xander.

Xander just looks at the vampire and says dryly, "you have a liver probe stuck in your gut."

Spike glances down and mumbles with a small amount of awe, "well, would ya look at that. First time for everything."

He then proceeds to draw the metal instrument from his flesh, not reacting in the slightest at the meaty pop it makes when it comes free. Peering at the gore covered spike, Spike sniffs it once in curiosity, then tosses it to the ground.

McGee makes a choked noise that cuts off in a whine and, out of the corner of his eye, Xander can see the twitch of horror that rolls across Tony's face. Ziva remains expressionless and her aim never wavers, causing Xander's respect for the ninja to double. Focused as he is on Ziva, he misses the jolt that goes through Gibbs' body and the bolt of disgust that accompanies it.

Hooray for the nightmare fuel.

Breathing hard, Gibbs fights the urge to explode at his youngest agent. "Harris! Explain! Now!" he demands, getting increasingly worked up as more and more questions arise. The as of yet unidentified corpse his team had been sent to investigate had just gotten up, pulled a liver probe from its gut like it was nothing and was chatting with Harris like old friends and the frustration of not knowing what was going on was driving him mad.

"Boss, I can't tell you. Seriously," Harris says softly, eyes pleading even as the younger man stands firm between Gibbs' and the John Doe.

The MCRT team leader opens his mouth to spew what would undoubtedly be a torrent of rage, but is interrupted by a roar emanating from inside the nondescript building they are standing next to.

Spike and Xander hit the door together, just seconds later. They burst in just in time to see a very angry Fushna'k demon throwing a table at an unfortunate human that happened to be sitting nearby.

A Fushna'k demon is humanoid in shape, with almost impenetrable skin; it's thick like the amour of a rhino and looks just as appealing. They have two razor sharp horns sticking out from the side of their necks and a long, whip-like tail that they occasionally use to stand on, meaning it's incredibly strong. This one's eyes were glowing red with rage and its skin had turned into a rather unattractive puke brown colour, signalling its displeasure.

As soon as Gibbs and the rest of the team charge through the door behind the vampire and federal agent, the remaining demons vanish into the sewers. While the bar was relatively empty given the daylight outside, there were always the stragglers. But after living with Alexander Harris, the one who sees, in the same city for nearly three years now, they knew the rules. Any sign of police, outside of Xander himself, and they scatter. A bit of magic on the officers later and the beasties were free to come back.

It only took a few stakings, beheadings and one particularly memorable adventure with a war axe for DC to be accepted as Xander's territory. Anyone was free to come and go as they pleased, as long as no innocence was harmed or inkling of the supernatural leaked to the human world.

Xander had even made a few friends of the demon persuasion over the years.

This Fushna'k was not one of them; merely a demon passing through who was unaware of the rules and was about to pay the price for it.

The entire NCIS team freezes when they get an eyeful of the Fushna'k. Behind Xander, Tony whispers, horrified, "good god." The team remain motionless, too stunned to take action, even as the demon roars and bellows as it seeks its prey.

Spike and Xander move on instinct. They leap into the fray in an instant after judging the situation. All the years spent fighting side by side come rushing back and they move in synch.

Spike rushes forward with a whoop. He launches a flurry of punches at the Fushna'k's face before dancing out of its furious reach. The vampire crouches, then springs up, delivering a punishing blow to the Fushna'k's gut with his foot as he jumps over its head. As the demon turns to follow the attacking vampire with a furious howl, Xander dives in and kicks the monster's feet out from under it. It lands with a thunderous thump, making tables rattle and cups shake. Before it can regain its footing and go after Spike, who has taken to offering punishing stomps on the demons tail, Xander whips out a heavy silver blade from his boot. Jumping nimbly over a swiping hand, he lands on the demons just and stabs down forcefully, plunging the blade deep into its skull.

Death is instantaneous, blood nearly bursting free from the wound and rushing warmly over Xander's blade and hands. Grimacing, he drags his weapon free, fighting for balance when the Fushna'k's skull stays stubbornly stuck to his blade as it lifts. Shaking his arm, the skull pops free and thuds to the ground wetly, still spurting dark blue blood.

Grabbing Spike's proffered hand, Xander allows the vampire to haul him free of the body and then sets about trying to shake the demon blood off his hands.

"Well Xander boy, you've improved," Spike announces cheerfully, wiping the transferred blood off on his duster. "Wish you could've let me whale on the ponce a bit more though," he adds ruefully.

With a glance at Gibbs and the team, who still had their guns drawn and ready (although, at this point, they truly didn't know where to aim but Xander could see a knowing calm in Ziva's expression. He filed that away for future reference), Xander turns toward Willy as the weasel like man comes rushing from where he had been cowering behind the bar.

It startles the NCIS agents enough from their mostly stunned states and the males all swing their aims towards the bar owner. Ziva, remaining more collected than Xander could've predicted, holsters her weapon and nods at Xander.

"Common Xander, my man. He wasn't going to… oh. Um, …Spike… Never mind." Breaking off, the short man bolts. Spike, completely prepared for this reaction, reaches out and grabs Willy roughly by the collar, lifting him bodily off the ground. Willy makes a choked noise as he swings pathetically from the unbreakable grip.

"Hey there Willy. It's been awhile, hasn't it?" Spike grins when Willy turns white and begins sweating.

"Spike…" Xander murmurs. The vampire just turns his smile on Xander. Before either could continue, the front doors swing open with a blast of sunlight.

The golden light floods the dimly lit bar, forcing Spike to drop Willy and leap backwards with a hiss as the vampire starts smoking. Shuffling backwards until he's in a shades area of the bar, Spike's eyes flash yellow with annoyance.

Willy, taking full advantage of his sudden freedom, makes a break for it, only to be stopped by an arm to the chest as Ziva catches him on his way to the sewers. Xander smiles gratefully at his Israeli teammate but is met with an expressionless stare.

Xander almost contemplates wondering what else could possibly go wrong today.

Just then, a very distinct British voice floats into the bar, causing all heads to turn towards the two figures emerging from the sunlight.

As Giles and Buffy appear, Xander wonders idly exactly what he did to piss of the gods so monumentally for this day to have happened.

Updated 04/17/16

So. Don't really know what to say…

I am so incredibly sorry it's taken three years for me to touch this again. But life happened to me and it happened hard and cruel.

So I'm not going to make any promises that I might not be able to keep about updating this or anything else. But know that I haven't forgotten about this or any of my other incomplete fics, I promise, but I'm taking things one day at a time.

And right now, that means that I need to completely edit Demonic Complications, starting from the beginning, before I can even think about continuing with it.

I really hope you guys understand; it'll be slow, but I will finish this for all of you who have been following this for six years. If you don't understand, I still wish you a good day.

I love you guys. I wish I could hug everyone who's stuck around this long.

Hearts always, A.

PS: please check out the pole on my profile, xox