*****

So afterward, it's weird. It's just... weird.

Sitting across from Wills at the picnic table in the still soggy park -- the very same park he walked through two nights ago in his underwear in the rain --and for the first time since they've known each other he feels like there's this huge glass wall between them. Or not glass really, because he can obviously reach through it and nab stray French fries, but... something. First time he has something that he really really wants to tell her, but he can't. He can only, apparently, think it at her really loud:

//HEY WILLS, GUESS WHAT? I FUCKED ANGEL ON THE ROOF OF THE BRONZE! YEAH! ANGEL. BUFFY'S ANGEL. SEE I WAS UP THERE JERKING-OFF...// And whoosh, he's got that hot/cold feeling going on and he's half-hard and thank God there's a picnic table...

And oh yeah, he's going to be telling this to Willow anytime soon. Willow, who is talking to him about something he has no idea *what* the heck she's saying though he dimly remembers the words 'Aunt Ida' and 'potatoes' and now she's looking at him, eyebrows raised expectantly and he knows there's supposed to be an answer coming from him and all he can come up with is The Goofy Smile and The Shrug.

"That's reassuring," Willow says. "So... how's the weather where *you* are?"

Hot. Wet. Shivery.

"You want to go out tonight?" he asks. "Maybe catch a movie?" Marveling, as usual, at the quickness of WonderMouth -- the Mouth that Speaks without a Brain!

"Um...no?" Willow says.

"I missed something important, didn't I..." Xander says, pushing thoughts of Angel back against the inside wall of his skull, trying not to think of fucking him there too.

"Well, only in the sense of not being able to go out tonight being the thing I was most complaining about," Willow says. "Are you okay?" And now she's scowling at him a little in that Xander-you-didn't-just-fuck-Buffy's-Angel-did-you? way she's suddenly developed and Xander, not surprisingly, has to go.

"I have to go," he says. "I have a... thing."

"Xander..." And it's Willow. His *Wills* for God's sake, except that ever since the night that will henceforth be known as The Night Xander Fucked Angel On The Roof Of The Bronze or TNXFAOT... and a whole bunch of other letters for short... well, since then there are suddenly Things He Can't Tell Willow which seems like a lot of bad but, but the little woody's wanting to be a mighty oak in his pants and he has got to get somewhere where he can...

On his feet. His over-shirt covers it, but barely. A book bag would be nice.

"I'll uh... I'll call you tonight, okay?" he says, or partly calls to her as he's already moving in the direction of away. Willow watching him go and he knows that look.

He is *such* an idiot.

***

But he can't help it. It's like this great big giant... thing. Some chunk of someone else's life that's landed in the middle of his life. Except... and here is where he'd really like to be able to talk to Willow about it -- this thing is his life too, isn't it? His life now -- he means. Since Buffy came here. Thhat other life. Up on the rooftops danger boy. That's him too. He's got this superhero life -- like, okay, he's not the Slayer, but he's... slayed. And fought things. Big fucking scary things. Monsters. Vampires.

And now he's fucked one too.

And thinking this while jerking-off (again!) in the can at the public library. Hand on his dick too warm (and he's tried running it under cold water for a while first, holding ice cubes, but there wasn't time for that this time -- he had to...) working himself with the fast, ruthless pull-and-twist that usually brings him off in about two seconds but isn't working like that now because he's already...

Twice today. Because he can't stop thinking about what it felt like -- oh, and there it goes -- felt like to have Angel -- oh -- under him, around and oh, Jesus. Angel...

And he comes. It's short, it's fast, it leaves little evidence in his hand. Nothing too earth-shaking. Barely even knee-shaking. Well, hell that should be no surprise the way he's been going at it today. But that isn't really it. It's just he has something to compare it to now. To compare every sex he ever has to.

Is anything he ever does going to measure up?

//cool leather; unholy furnace heat...// And oh, Jesus, his dick is begging like a punchy old prize-fighter.

//Just gimme a another minute, Xan -- I just need to catch my breath...//

//'S'all right, li'l feller,// he thinks at it, wiping its little head clean and tucking it tenderly into his briefs. //That's the last time today. I swear.// And he's talking to his *dick* now, and isn't that like the first step to polyester pants that smell like pee and sleeping under a bench in the bus station? Second step, maybe. Fucking a vampire has got to be a worse faux-pas than that.

And the really bad thing is, he thinks -- washing his hands and glancing at himself side-wise in the mirror -- he's not just talking to his dick, he's *lying* to it. There's no way he's not gonna... Not like yesterday. Yesterday, he was super-restraint guy! Guy who didn't need to masturbate because he'd fucked! And that had, amazingly, lasted for twenty-four hours -- until he'd woken up this morning, hard as a freaking baseball bat from a dream that had no content beyond: cool, hot, wet and doing one perfect swan dive after another off the high board into an empty pool.

Which, he wasn't sure exactly how, meant Angel. And just what, besides jerk himself raw, is he supposed to do about it now? About the rest of the day, now to be spent Willowless. And then tonight. And the rest of the summer, maybe. The year. His life. Is he supposed to pretend it never happened? Is he supposed to hope it happens again? Is he supposed to go out... hunting? And glances at himself in the mirror at that and sees the glint of that old pack spirit lurking in some unswept corner of his soul...

Hunting Angel. And *there's* a nice jackhammer rush and he wants to think of something funny to make it seem a little less... real maybe. Except there's nothing funny anywhere around it. It's just kind of a cold, smoky, slippery darkness crowding out the bright sunshine leaking in through the frosted windows and Xander knows he wants it very very much.

***

It seems like less of a good idea at 3 a.m. in an alley very far from home. His attackers don't play fair. First of all, there's two of them, which really sucks. Secondly, they're not vamps, they're humans so the only actual weapon he has -- his pointy chunk of wood -- really isn't much use unless one of them decides to throw himself on it eye-first. And worst of all, they're not content with taking his wallet and calling him names, turns out they have to rough him up some before they go.

It's more of a shove-fest than a beating but it's a scary, out of control feeling to be knocked around by strangers and when Xander hits the ground, finally, he stays down, garbage juice and all, because he knows that's how you deal with bullies. And it works, they go away, taking his seven dollars and his driver's license and his picture of him and Willow and Buffy squeezed into one of those Hello Kitty photo booths. It's fucking depressing is what it is.

Xander sits up, scootches back against the wall, rubs his bruised arm, bruised head. Smells his lovely new smell. Of course when he looks up, Angel's there.

"Having fun?" Xander asks. Angry. Angel's an irritating fuck. Not there when you want him, always there when you don't. Did he actually forget that? Angel doesn't disappoint.

"You were handling it."

"I was getting my *ass* kicked." Angel just shrugs. Stands there looking down at him, neither of them saying anything. Then Angel holds out his hand. And Xander has a minute... he could ignore the hand. Slap it away. Tell Angel to go fuck himself instead and head home.

Right.

And Angel's palm as just as cool and dry as he remembers it. Imagined it to be. Whichever. Angel pulls him smoothly to his feet and when he lets go, Xander... doesn't. Instead he pulls Angel in towards him. Definitely not thinking much, just... Angel's so close. And pulling on Angel's hand is like tugging on a big, brick wall for a second and then Angel gives. Their faces touch. Angel's cheek is so smooth, the elastic skin at the corner of his mouth makes Xander need to brush his lips over it. He can feel his warm breath chuffing off the coolness. Angel's not doing anything at all. Not even breathing.

And what does that mean? And Xander feels desperate and a little sick but at the same time his whole body has tensed in that supersweet way that's almost a shudder and he can't seem to stop. He closes his eyes, pushes at Angel's face with his face, mouth moving over Angel's mouth. Licks dryly at Angel's cool lips and then slips his tongue inside.

To find the heat, that heat -- just under the cool surface, Angel's burning up and the mouth under Xander's mouth is hot and wet and motionless. Tasting of nothing in particular and just the faintest iron tang that could be blood or just the fierceness of Xander's own desire.

Which is pretty high all of a sudden. Twisting arch of his spine and the sweet tension becomes the promised shudder, a stutter of hot breath that comes out as an awfully breathy little whimper into Angel's mouth and that seems to breathe life into Angel and his mouth moves against Xander's. Just for a second. Just a... a sketch of a kiss. The motion of a kiss and Angel pulls away.

"You stink," he says.

"Your mother dresses you funny," says WonderMouth. Angel gives a little laugh and starts to walk away.

Which is very different, Xander realizes in the instant before his ego crashes to the ground, from disappearing without a trace. And his ego bungees up again, then hangs there, bouncing suggestively in that unreal place where he and Angel have sex sometimes. Like tonight apparently.

And so he follows.

*****
Part 2:

Where Angel lives isn't too far from the Bronze. A grown-up's apartment with sofas, a coffee table. It's a little weirdly 'Pier One' for Xander's taste. Like Angel's trying a little too hard for 'normal'.

//Not fooling anyone,// he thinks at Angel who is apparently determined to ignore him, sorting through his mail in the dark.

Xander's been here before, of course. The night they faced the Master. He'd pulled a cross on Angel, told him just how much he didn't like him. Watching Angel move around the room in the streetlight darkness, Xander wonders if that's changed. Pretty hard to figure out what he feels just at the moment. He's tired, bruised. His horniness is so deeply dug in it hurts. And he really stinks.

"Uh... " he says. His voice feels rusty from not talking all the way here. And Angel turns around, looks at him... oh God...

--and Xander can feel the blood rush hott across his own skin, hear the hard, dry thud of his pulse in his throat. Can smell the sudden tang of arousal in his sweat because Angel is *looking* at him, blank-eyed and lost like Xander's maybe already sucking his cock, which Xander realizes with a roller coaster gut-wrench, he might just to do tonight. Today.

If he doesn't die of wanting to first. If the garbage smell doesn't kill them both.

"Um... shower?" he manages.

Angel gestures with his head. A doorway just behind him, which means Xander has to walk past him to get there. Which seems somehow impossible, because if he gets too close to Angel's gravitational field, he thinks maybe they're just going to slam together like a couple of big old magnets and stick. But he manages, doesn't even touch Angel on his way past.

Once he closes the bathroom door behind him, he's okay. He strips, wraps the reeking ball of clothes in a towel and showers, using Angel's soap. Angel's shampoo. If Buffy were to walk in and smell him right now she would *freak*. And oh, yeah... of course she'd be concentrating on the *smell*.

And please don't think about Buffy? he begs his runaway brain which, instantly helpful, conjures up every Buffy thought, every Buffy wish, every Buffy moment Xander's ever had, runs them together in jump-cut slow motion and adds a Sarah McLaughlin soundtrack in case he's not quite wigged enough...

Well, not really, but there's a picture in his head of the way Buffy and Angel look at each other. The way neither of them looks at him.

//I should go home...// But he doesn't *want* to go home. He wants to stay and fuck Angel again. It's like he's now two completely different people: good Xander and evil Xander and good Xander's got hold of his brain and it's pretty obvious what evil Xander's got a hold of, hard and soapy in his hand and just a stroke or two and he'd be... something.

Not something he wants.

And Xander Xander doesn't seem to be able to will himself to go one way or the other. Definitely, definitely overthinking this, and...oh, just *hell*... He rinses, turns the water off. The bathroom's slightly fogged and he can't see himself in the mirror. He can see the purpling bruise on his bicep though. He can feel the stubble on his chin. He looks around for a shaving kit, finds...

// No shit! //, a case with straight razor and strop. Comes up with a nice disturbing picture of himself tipping his head back onto Angel's shoulder, while Angel runs the razor across the underside of his jaw. Slices a thin crimson ribbon. Xander decides that he can live with stubble.

He towels off, being deliberately not-gentle with his hard-on -- now a permanent fixture no matter *what* he thinks, apparently -- knots the damp towel around his waist, opens the bathroom door. Steps out.

It's still dark. Cool.

Angel's not there. Angel's...//Jesus...// standing right behind him, right at his shoulder. Not touching him. Naked. Hard. Xander doesn't know how he knows he's naked and hard without looking at him, he only knows his mouth's gone dry and if Angel doesn't...

Angel's hand brushes his side, his hip. Soft electric touch and suddenly it's like there's nothing else in the world. Xander closes his eyes. The hand, Angel's thumb circles his hipbone, traces a shape there over and over until Xander can feel it burned into his flesh. And when did his left hipbone get connected to his cock? He can't believe that this weird touch is getting to him like it is, is making him moan a little, push back, his hips kind of rolling but the way Angel's standing he's not contacting anything else. Like Angel is some kind of sex wizard -- behold! I have more sex power in my thumb than any....mortal... oh Christ, it's good...

And nowhere near enough. He can do one-handed wonder any day, what he wants is... Angel. Flesh. Contact. He reaches back but Angel grabs his wrist, holds him right where he is. Frustrated and turned on and he's practically grinding the air with his hips and then the thumb-hand slides down a little, flicks away the towel. Cool flutter of air and Angel pulls him back hard and he's got Angel's chest against his back... Angel's cock riding the cleft of his ass. Angel's mouth oh Jesus teeth tongue *mouth* wet and hot as blood against his throat...

Sucking *hard*... somewhere between tickling and pain and then past that into something so good it's like falling. And somehow Xander knows the sound he's making is just screaming without air, but his hips are going crazy and he can't stop it feels so good and when Angel's magic-thumb-hand wraps around his cock and pulls and pulls, he comes.

Angel holds him there while he shudders, eases up but doesn't stop sucking at Xander's throat the whole time which sends strange, aching pulses through him. Xander doesn't like it. It's taking away the goodness, making him feel empty like this wasn't enough, like maybe nothing's ever going to be enough... But at the same time, it still feels good.

Good enough that when Angel pulls his mouth away he groans. Turns his head and gets a twinge where Angel's mouth was. Groans again.

"Sorry," Angel says and Xander's belated reaction -- icy lightning burn of fear -- pulling out of Angel's grasp, clapping his hand to his neck, bringing the wetness to his face. But even in the streetlight darkness he can see it's only spit. Looking up to see that Angel's eyes are completely shadowed under the ridge of his brow. No way to make out anything on that face but distance...

He thinks he could just leave now if he wants. That Angel won't stop him, won't say anything. Not now. Not ever, probably. It makes him so fucking *angry*...

See, and what he wants to do -- he doesn't want to be angry at all -- what he wants to do is run his hands over Angel's body. All the places the streetlights are making light and dark shadows, Xander wants to feel them under his hands. Wants to see some expression on Angel's face that he can point to and say *I* did that...

Maybe it's not just about fucking Angel, maybe it's more...

And he has no more *words* for any of this and so he takes the two steps that bring him well inside Angel's space. Puts his hands on Angel's shoulders and kisses him. It's awkward as hell. Angel's doing statue-boy again, his erection poking Xander in the belly and Xander doesn't even really know what he's doing, why he's doing it. Except that after a second or two, Angel starts to move.

His hands come up around Xander's waist. His mouth moves into the kiss. It's gentle. Slow. Kissing the way Xander likes it, letting their mouths kind of wander, coming together every now and then for something deeper and just like before, Xander can feel the hitch when Angel starts to breathe. Almost a natural kind of thing, fitting in with the rhythm of the kissing, with the way he's rocking against Xander, hardness riding its own slick line between their bodies. The way the tension is flickering through Angel's muscles, Xander can tell he's getting into a groove but he doesn't know... it doesn't seem right to let it be just *this* again, just... whatever. Flesh on flesh, two ships humping in the night and so he pulls away...

And gets a look at Angel's face.

Angel's eyes on him. Not on him. Looking past him to forever maybe and about a million years older than Xander *ever* wants to be...and for a second it's like all the clutter of should and shouldn't and what and why goes quiet and suddenly he *gets* this, this Angel-fucking thing, from Angel's side...

Angel who is... who is 240 years old and, yeah, a monster and Jesus how do you live even one day let alone forever when it's so fucking *lonely* in there...

"What...?" Angel says, blinking back into the now. "Did I...?" And it makes Xander almost want to cry for a minute, makes him want to take it back, like it's something that he's done. But it's way past that and maybe this is what it means to be himself and here.

They aren't lovers, this isn't love, it's... *this*. It's whatever the hell they're making of it. Which is, somehow, between anger and need and lust, just exactly what Xander wants. Which is maybe something more all by itself. He doesn't know... He doesn't really care. He's just...

"I'm good," he says "I'm... really good."

And he pulls Angel in close again, let's Angel get his groove. Holds him when the sweetness takes him and just for that moment, lets it be exactly what it is.

=end=