*****

Not seeing what hits him is pretty much par for Xander's course, and this particular hellwhatever makes it a hole in one. He lands face down, Spitting turf in time to a soundtrack of Buffy kick-kick- punching up another point on the Slayer scoreboard.

He wonders, distantly--does the Watcher's Council keep track? Is Buf in The top ten yet? When she is, does she get a civic promotion? And what would they call that? Slayer Two? Slayer Supreme?

Then it's over--there's a terminal grunt from something not-quite-immortal enough, and Xander's going from elbows to shaky-legged stagger to catch the post-game show.

"Burial job," Buffy says brightly. It's one of those nights where she's more or less enjoying the work. She catches him in a focused spotlight of brief concern, finds all his teeth in all the right places and hikes to her pack to find the collapsible shovel.

Not a vamp. Xander squints at an almost human face split by a green, improbably scaled tongue. The demon's wearing a loud suit, clashing tie and big gold chains which remind him--low-grade guilt sensation--of the guys in a porn video he lifted from a video store three years ago. Its fingers are clustered with rings--diamonds and rubies and emeralds, as many as fifteen to a finger, some of which look incredibly real and valuable. Others... not so much: cracked glass, scratched and scarred paste. One's even missing its stone, has four gold fingers on the corners of the setting which grasp painfully at empty air.

Kids' rings on his pinkies, plastic mostly, Cracker Jack prizes, junk. Even a faux-silver skull like the one that he'd lost....

When was that?

"Xander?" Buffy, counting his teeth again.

"Fine. Just fine. Superfine. Do I seem unfine to you?"

"Yup. Overcompensating, even."

But he isn't listening anymore, because he's tossing a movie's worth of popcorn into the soft soil behind a headstone, and the crunchy bits are taking a second shot at getting stuck in his teeth as his stomach heaves and heaves like there's a memory under all that junk food, trying to claw its way out of the grave.

Then--thank God, he thinks, as he feels it coming...

Blackout.

***

He wakes up in the cage, towel under his head and a compress on the shiner. Voices echoing back from the high library roof, a mixed jabber he can't sort out.

For a minute he doesn't bother. He's too busy remembering, figuring Things out, putting it all together. It's embarrassing and painful and exciting All at once. Suddenly it all makes sense. Cordy kissing him. The love spell going into overdrive, Willow cheating on Oz, Faith. Hell, even Anya's asking him to the prom.

Willow: "Was it a sparkle sparkle or a glitter sparkle?"

Buffy: "More of a shimmer."

Buffy. Exception to the rule. Too powerful? He'd wanted her longer than anyone.

Then Giles, hissing in exasperation. "Is there a difference?"

"And you call yourself a librarian?" Buffy's still in playful mode, so they can't be too worried. "Sparkle is when you have sequins..."

"Unless they're black," Willow says.

"Or dark blue or green. Then it's more of a glitter, because they catch less of the light, see? Remember Cordelia's prom dress."

"And shimmer?"

"Silk," the girls say simultaneously.

"It was definitely a shimmer," Buffy adds.

"And it transferred itself from the demon to Xander?"

"No, it just hung in the air between them. For a second. Or, like I said, maybe it was just in the air. And the them location was coincidental."

Enough of this. "If it's any help, guys, I don't feel possessed."

They do the jump and whirl, a little guilty, a little startled. Giles drops a book and Buffy's on her toes, just a hair from raising her fists. He's oddly gratified by that. Oh yeah, I could be bad. The usual pointless thrill of unrequited arousal comes hard on the heels of that thought.

Willow bounces up to the bars. "You're not," she says. "Possessed. I did a spell to check."

"A spell check with dirt." He pushes a finger into the cooling smudge of herb and mud on his wrist. "And I'm still locked up because..."

"There's a spell on you, Xander." Giles says the words so quietly you'd think you were reading them. He fiddles with his glasses and does the looking down thing. "Quite an old one. We're trying to determine what it is."

"Xander," Buffy asks. "Is there any chance you've seen that demon before?"

What to do? Come clean, they'll let him out of the cage. But they'll also want to break the spell...

Amazing, that he hadn't remembered it before. Although it had been one hell of a night.

"Actually, I think I have."

***

What he tells them is true, to a point. It was late at night, and he'd had a fight with his Dad. He left out the relevant "why Xander was on the vamp-infested streets at two in the morning at the age of twelve" detail--that it was the first of the half-dozen or so occasions when the old man had actually punched him. Bruised ribs, no jacket, trying not to cry and half settled on running away, he was headed for Willow's house when the demon caught him.

From there he careens into total fiction, not knowing what he's going to say before it hits the air, trusting it'll make some sense when it does. That's his gift, right?

Well... not his only gift.

"He'd lost one of his rings down a storm drain," he invents recklessly. "Wanted me to swim down and get it."

Buffy's voice grows an edge. "And you helped him?"

"Hey! There was a certain amount of growling and threatening going on. What do you think?" He pushes on, thinking he's seen the core of his improvised lie. "Anyway, the water was too deep. I'd get about halfway down and run out of air."

"You?" Giles frowns. "Xander, I've had the impression you were always a fairly talented swimmer."

"Not that night."

"He had cracked ribs," Willow says softly. Remembering.

Xander avoids her eyes. "So--long story short? He does this shimmer thing and suddenly I'm Aquaboy. I get his ring, and when he makes to grab me again I swim out of reach. Demon leaves, I bail to Willow's, a week later it's forgotten."

"Forgotten. Just like that?" Giles says ironically. Wanting to believe, but not used to getting off easy in Sunnydale.

"I didn't know he was a demon, Giles." He sighs--suddenly he's telling the truth again. "It was a bit of forgettable weirdness in an otherwise bad night."

"He did look like an ordinary guy," Buffy says. "An ordinary, fashion-challenged guy."

"So there's your spell. I'm Swimmerguy. Can we uncage me now?" Xander asks, and Willow produces the keys.

*****

Part 2:

Anyone you want.

That was what the demon really said, after he'd snatched Xander up by the scruff--examined and shaken and had a good laugh while he was at it. Plus some taunting.

"Mommy and Daddy don't love you, little boy?" Har har. "I can fix that. Anyone you want, baby, they'll love you right back. Wanna be irresistible? Huh?"

He'd yanked the plastic ring off Xander's finger and Xander had seen the collection, stacked on each finger, glimmering from base to tip. He'd reached and pulled and a half dozen rings slid free. Earned himself another smack--this one to the head--but when he flung them the demon forgot all about playing games with the runaway. He and his bad suit went scrabbling after the scattered jewelry and Xander made good his escape. Ears ringing, he was thinking that getting hit by a *stranger* was surprisingly painless.

"Go on, run!" Bellowed laughter followed him down Sunnydale's empty streets. "Love will find you, orphan boy!"

Anyone he wanted, and he knew why the demon had laughed. Love, after all, was a big emotional wrecking ball. Landing Cordy as a girlfriend had been downright miraculous, but look at the downhill slide since then.

But now Xander knows that--while certain Buffy exclusions apply�nobody can refuse him. The thought, not surprisingly, gives him an erection.

Anyone he wants. All he has to do now is figure out who the lucky winner is.

***

He's alone in the library, supposedly shelving books but really flipping through the yearbook, babysitting Were-Oz and looking at pictures of girls. It's two days later, and he's got blue-balls the size of oranges and a terminal case of frustration. Deciding what he wants was never a Xander strong point, and now it's infinitely worse.

Buffy's untouchable, Willow's taken, Cordy's mooning over Wesley. Picking someone new means probably involving her with the slayage. Putting her in danger. Maybe getting her killed. What he really needs is a nice straightforward uncomplicated Faith-style without the Faith no- strings fuck.

What if he's wrong? The idea of trying and being rejected is no less depressing now.

Oz growls, low in his throat, and Xander hears steps in the hall. He creeps out to intercept whoever it is before they get an eyeful of Willow's beloved hairball.

A hand falls on his shoulder. It's attached to an arm, fortunately, and it's warm, alive, not undead. Xander jumps anyway.

"Harris." It's Larry. "We gotta talk."

He sighs, hangs his head, and stakes out a lead for the history classroom.

***

Larry has been using him as a sounding board for his every teensy problem since the day he came out to Xander, thinking the two of them were sympatico. Topics so far have included: "if you think a guy is gay but you aren't sure, how do you figure it out without exposing yourself?" "If you want to dance, how do you figure out who leads?" and--Xander's favorite--"So what about this whole genetics thing--were we born this way?"

Luckily Larry has been heavily into unburdening, and all Xander's had to contribute were the occasional random grunt.

"So what is it this time, Lar?"

"I was wondering?"

"Yeah?"

"You know I want to play ball at State next year."

"Me and the planet."

"And for that I have to be in the closet."

"You told me that, too."

"And so I was thinking it would be good to have a kind of girlfriend."

"Okay, Lar--oh. Well... there's the whole honesty thing to consider..."

"Yeah." This earns him an enthusiastic nod. "I know. So what I was wondering is, is Anya a dyke?"

"Pardon?"

"Sorry. I meant lesbian."

"Larry!"

"Well, I just thought... she went to the prom with you and..."

For this I left Oz alone? He shakes his head, takes a step toward the door. Larry, already apologetic, makes a half move to stop him. His expression's contrite, his hand's in the air and he's drawing breath to say he's sorry. You should be, thinks Xander. You can have all the no- strings, no-commitment....

"I only meant maybe she had a girlfriend who'd... "

Sex you want...

"I feel lousy about this whole deceit thing already and..."

I mean, that's what men together do, right, at least that's what it says in the gay sex column....

"I don't want to take someone out and have her think... I thought you and Anya maybe had an understanding."

"Yeah? Understand this, Larry."

Don't think, do. Just like Cordy that first time, just like Willow. He's surprised to find he wants to, that he means it when he grabs those ridiculously broad shoulders and pulls himself in, up, against. He's amazingly unembarrassed by the fact that he's seriously, tangibly hard and the straining, jeans-bound length of his cock is pressed against a swelling twin. Larry's lips are warm and surrounded by short, raspy bristles that tug at Xander's chin.

And he's kissing back. His arms have come down and around and his hands are squeezing Xander's ass. Larry's all but devouring him, one hard, slow kiss at a time. He's everywhere--lips on the neck, tongue in the ear, his fingers ranging into Xander's shirt to rub his shoulderblades and spine, and then sliding around the front to thrust a single thumb into his jeans, pressing hard against the straining, warm-beaded tip of Xander's cock. He gasps then, sucks in the chalk- laced atmosphere of the classroom even as his ankles wobble.

Then they're closing that classroom door, sliding down to the floor in a pile of arms and legs, peeling clothes like gift wrapping, and somehow he's managing to do it even though Larry's got a warm, dry fist wrapped around his cock and is jolting him with deliberate measured pulls. His toes curl for want of blood. Three weeks of exam prep evaporate, and he forgets his middle name. He's bucking now, grinding his ass against Larry's erection, and his whole self is in Larry's hand, riding up and down in that dry palm. Electric. Molten. The world contracts to a view of desk and chair legs and the handjob, oh God, the handjob he's getting.

And then exploding. His nerves go jangly and his hips lose the rhythm as his vision blurs. The orgasm boils through him like water from a hot spring, and cum spatters the white flecked tiles of the history classroom.

Another dry, shuddering breath.

"Xander?"

And he's laughing, clapping squares onto Larry's skin with a chalky eraser, rolling around for another kiss, safe and delighted while Oz lurks in the cage down the hall and Sunnydale creeps its way through another dangerous night.

-end-