Authors Note:

So I pulled out an old computer from my closet today... and I found this. Went back, read the story that I had posted so far... and realized how much I had written and never posted. My god. x.x It's a sin, is what it is.

I can't guarentee that I'm going to continue the story beyond what I've already written- but I have found myself forced into rewatching a ton of Grimm through today due to the memories.

So, in honour of a story that I loved enough to write one heck of a lot of- and loved too much to post all in one go without being super careful about making sure it was 'just right'... here's another chapter. I have a few more to go that are already pre written, I'm going to be fidgiting with them today and post them as I can. Pleas remember that I wrote this a few years ago, really.

Chapter 5

Making it Personal

Xander frowned as yet another large tome placed in front of him. Leather bound and massive, it didn't look at all as old as the usual books that Giles tended to give him for reading. The book had no obscure titles, no author listed across the spine in theatrical writing...

"Okay... so this is?"

"It's for you," Giles smiled in that fatherly way that screamed Enjoy this thing that you probably wont enjoy! "I thought you might appreciate one of your own."

"My own... tome."

"Yes."

"...I can't just borrow yours anymore? I mean, are you sending it to somebody? Because I swear, if there were stains, I didn't mean to spill any of my cola on it the other day and-"

"No... wait, what?" Giles frowned with confusion, taking off his glasses for a moment to give them a quick cleaning. He'd have to check the books Xander had been reading later on. "No, Xander. Open the book."

So he did, but instead of the normal obscure languages he'd come to recognize from Giles books... there was nothing. Flipped a page and still nothing. Flipped to the half way point... "It's a journal?"

"Yes," the Watcher smiled again. "I know that what happened last week threw you for somewhat of a loop. It's unavoidable, in our line of work... you'll come across choices where you don't really have much of one, to be honest. It's a very dark line of work. But, this will make it better."

"Giles," the words were quite, his fingers running across the new pages of this gift with a kind of awe. "This is too expensive. I can write things in a binder, you know? I don't need this-"

"You might not, but the rest of the world would appreciate it," Giles continued smiling as he poured a cup of tea for himself. "Most Grimms keep a collection of books that had been passed on by their ancestors. You've been reading the ones I've managed to collect. And as I'm afraid that as we don't know who in your family is the lineage passer, you may never collect your own set. There may not even be one to pass along. But you may one day have children of your own, and being able to give them this... a source of knowledge when they're in the dark...

"Try to think, Xander. Imagine if you had never met Buffy or myself- but you started seeing these things. In the middle of the day. If you were just an average child walking through life, and that reaper had come after you. To not know, to not understand..."

"I might have thought I was crazy."

"Indeed. Exactly. But this... It's meant as a final copy, Xander. I expect you to know what you're writing here before you write it. No tearing out pages or leaving it under a plate of food. This is my gift for you- but also for your future compatriots. Anyone who ends up involved in this life of yours.

"You can copy out any of the information you like from the books we do have available also, of course. Take whatever information you need- I want you going out into that world with everything you could possibly need. Do you understand?"

Xander nodded, quietly. "I'll take care of it, Giles."

"And of yourself, of course," Giles sipped at his tea. "You understand I... don't know much about Wesen, really. I've never made it a matter of study. There were always other people to deal with that. Other interests I had. I don't like thinking that you might ever be out there fighting the good fight and I can't help you."

Xander took the book, carefully putting it in his bag. "I promise, Giles."

He left then, a faint memory of his attic- his mother had never let him play there. Stacks of books that he couldn't ever imagine his parents having an interest in. "The attic isn't for playing in, Xander," his mother had said, "This is where we keep precious things, and I won't have you cutting it all up trying to make paper planes!"

Packing his new journal into his backpack carefully, Xander left the library with a wave. He had some old boxes to explore.

* BTVS GRIMM BTVS GRIMM BTVS GRIMM *

"Discover anything else?"

"Yes, in fact," Giles didn't look up from his book, but did take a moment to push his glasses back up his nose. "It seems that most Grimms don't actually come into their powers until their closest living ancestor dies. Xander hasn't mentioned a death in the family as of late."

"Perhaps they were an unknown aunt or uncle. As I understand it the boys family aren't entirely the sorts that keep an open window to this sort of information."

"No... they're not. It's even entirely possible that Xander himself could have a half brother or sister out there... but that's besides the point. I believe that it could be the Hellmouth itself that has opened Xander up to his abilities. The dark power here is very strong- it gives witches greater magical powers. Werewolves a stronger anger. Eetcetera."

"And Grimms better sight."

"Perhaps."

Wesley tutted for a moment, wandering over to the teapot to pour himself a glass. "I still don't understand why you haven't informed the council-"

"I'll do that when I'm ready."

The younger watcher didn't turn back to the Giles. Instead he kept his back steadfastly straight, looking away as though this weren't such a precarious conversation. "Well if you're not to do it soon, then I might have to."

"You'll do no such thing!"

The book was slammed shut, and Giles was very suddenly in Wesley's face. "When, and that's if when even ever comes along, Xander wants to inform the council of his heritage- we will tell them."

"The council needs to know these things!"

"It is none of their business! And the council would take the boy away, besides!"

"For training!" Wesley was starting to go red in the fact, ignoring the concept that something might not be the councils business on any level. "Now that we know the Council can train him, I don't see how you could even conceive an argument! He could gain real skills- have better training than we could ever hope to give him! Training meant for a Grimm! Not a Slayer!"

"And his childhood life? His home town? His friends? Family? His life?"

"What of them? He has a responsibility-"

"He has no such thing!" Giles was angry now; angrier than he'd expect to me. "He has a birth right! And it's his right to accept it or not! He is not a slayer! He does not have god given ability for a specific cause! He has a genetic strength that he can choose to use or abuse for what he considers the greater good. Or not. I've always thought I'm quite good at guitar- it doesn't make my responsibilities in life revolve around music."

"Well I say-"

"Nothing! You say nothing, do you understand me? If he truly is a Grimm, honestly and properly, than he will come to the conclusion that best suits him when he can see it. He has an entire life ahead of him- and while we may have chosen this line of work, he hasn't."

"He does every night! He chooses to go out and fight demons!"

"No- he chooses to live his life while he has to be here. To do his best while he has to be here. When school is done, and his friends are all deciding plans- only then will we see what he truly wants to do with his life, if he's even decided by that point. We can not and will not set the council upon him and force a decision."

"They can train him to make the best decision!"

"Brain wash him you mean- and you know they would."

"Balder dash, you well know-"

The door creaked open; Xanders face peering through the small space that was made. "Giles?"

"Xander," the older man stood properly, backing away from Wesley with a frown on his face. "I'm sorry... we were just speaking about-"

"Me."

"Well, yes but-"

"But," Wesley interrupted, trying to sound warm and coming off condescending. "Your options. Xander, you do know that you have options here, right?"

"To train with the council. Or not."

"That's right," Wesley grinned, taking a step forward, "You could have the very best training, Xander. With the very best instructors-"

"No thanks."

There was a moment of spluttering.

Then a moment of silence.

"...Excuse me?"

Xander simply shrugged, somehow managing a calm that Rupert couldn't imagine trying to achieve when being around the other watcher. "Ya'll sounded pretty serious about the brain washing thing. Which isn't exactly of the good sounding. I kind of like my brain with all the filth it comes. Plus everything written in the Watchers diaries sounds pretty much like they blackmailed Grimms into working for them... uncool at best."

"Well now-"

"I don't know 'em. I know Giles. I trust Giles."

The unspoken, I don't trust you, was heard loud and clear. "I'm staying here for now, Wesley," Xander put his book bag down on the library table with a frown. "Until I see a better option."

"Which he doesn't, yet." Giles grinned mockingly. "There you have it- his decision. Are you going to abide by it?"

Wesley took a long breath. "For now."

"See that you do."

* BTVS GRIMM BTVS GRIMM BTVS GRIMM *

The attic was about as disgusting, which was really saying something as it was Xander who was thinking it. A film of dust so thick that it wafted with every careful step, filling what little field of vision he'd managed to create with his fathers old flashlight. His parents were asleep, their room directly beneath the attic floor- and while Xander wasn't entirely sure if his parents would care he was up here, he knew his father well enough to know it wasn't going to end well for waking him up.

What really made him wonder though was how his mother would react. Xander hadn't tried to come up to this little old room since he was maybe eight or nine- and she certainly hadn't been happy. He'd been all about the attic then, wanting to make it a We Hate Cordelia Chase Headquarters. They'd been using old boxes as tables and seats... and he's spilled a drink.

Next thing he knew there had been spankings- real spankings. And not just for himself either, but Jessie and Willow had both gotten a whop on the butt in exchange for his carelessness. His mother had never been one for physical punishment; she'd of rather left that for Tony... and it had stuck with him.

He hadn't bothered to come up here since.

It just hadn't been important.

The 'table' of boxes was still set up though, covered in a thick dust and looking strangely small. Untouched for almost a decade. There were other boxes too, he could see, faint as the light was. And Xander found himself strangely tentative, kneeling down to take the nearest one, set apart from the others on the floor.

But it wasn't the old tomes he'd expected, flipping open the cardboard with held breath.

Photographs.

Hundreds of photographs.

The kind of photographs he shouldn't have been able to find in his own house. Muesum style pictures.

And Xander found himself pulling out photo after photos- some of them so old as to look ancient. Girls in corsets and men in tall brimmed hats. One man who had to be in his thirties who looked so much like himself that Xander felt the need to blink past it. Stern expressions and perfect poses. It was like going forward in time, watching small children grow up and random people come and become constant inclusions only to leave again. Black and white stills and snaps shots of other peoples lives.

They looked impossibly familiar.

"It's your Great great grandfather," the voice beside him was quiet and careful. His mother appearing in the darkness as though she had always been there, night gown sweeping the floor as she sat beside him. "I never met the man, but I'd heard stories. Apparently not the type you'd ever choose to cross."

"...Mom."

"You're not supposed to be up here, Alex," her voice was still quiet- but it seemed to drift on the dust. Her full attention was on the photographs in front of him, and she reached out to take a few- letting her fingers draw across them as though she were touching time. "It's been so long since I looked at these... you know, I thought you might have ruined them. I didn't want to look, and know for sure."

"I was a kid, mom," he replied, feeling the guilt of a decade old crime too suddenly. "I was clumsy."

"You're not anymore," she wasn't looking at him. "You were clumsy last year. You were clumsy the year before. But something changed this year... you're growing up, I suppose."

"So they say," he sighed, regretting the action as a spasm of coughing came on. "Not that I'm particularly enjoying it."

"Nobody ever does," she smiled sadly, still looking at the box- and just as suddenly as he'd been coughing, her hands were plunged in- reaching the bottom of the cardboard and pulling out pictures at random.

"You'd of liked your grandparents, you know," she looked wistful, "My dad... he was a good man. I always hoped he'd be alive when I started having kids. When I was younger he would take me out to the yard and point out constellations. I wasn't interested, but I loved those moments. I think you would have as well."

She was quiet for a long moment. "What about your mom?"

A slow frown. "She was... a very strange woman. A tad off, honestly, though you might have liked her too, despite," she snorted. "She wrote stories, you know. A drew pictures. Not nice ones... She'd tell dad about them... he always seemed to think it was important, but I never understood why he let her go on about such nonsense. After he died she made me promise not to throw anything out if she ever had to leave any of it with me. Gallivanting around the world and always coming back with scars and bruises. Just like my poor brother, god rest his soul. Stupid boy got himself stabbed through the back in an ally fight, don't you know. Twenty... twenty three, when he died. I was only sixteen. Poking his head into other peoples business and trying to hide the fact that he was hurt when he got home. As though I wouldn't see the blood."

She turned then, and gave Xander the most solid and blatantly sober look he'd gotten since he was a toddler. "Like you."

Xander coughed discretely, not entirely sure where she was going to take that thought. "...She left you books?"

"Too many," she waved a hand at a pile of boxes at the far end of the room, and turned again to her photographs, "But she left these pictures too, and it's not as though we've ever much needed the attic... so I can't really complain."

They both sat silently for a long moment. "I'm going to take these downstairs," she smiled at the box, "And go through it. I haven't thought of dad in so long... maybe some hot chocolate, too. That would be nice, wouldn't it?" She smiled at him, as though in her mind they were having a strange moment. A family moment. But Xander was distracted by the books, more than anything, and missed the smile entirely.

"Can I take a look at the books then?" Xander asked, pointing towards the other boxes with a nonchalant wave of his hand, "If you're not going to?"

She blinked a few times, before talking. "But wouldn't you rather-"

"You know what mom," Xander continued suddenly, breaking off the sentence before it could become too heavy of a question. "I think I'm tired... but maybe I'll go through the pictures tomorrow. And the books after that, if you think that's cool."

She nodded, tired but happy. "Be careful not to wake your father, when you head to bed. You know him."

With a last longing look over his shoulder, Xander said goodnight to his mother- and spent the rest of the night listening to his mother awake in the living room. Wishing and wanting to just go back up and look. But those books- his heritage and his explanation had been there for almost ten years already.

They could wait one more night.