A boy. A vampire. An alleyway. Some raccoons. But they don't get in on the action.
Xander. Angel.
NC-17 for descriptive M/M Slash.



Sunnydale is always so hot. So wretchedly hot and sticky, and it never fails to make Xander think of that stupid line "its not the heat, its the humidity". Uhm, no, its the damned heat. 98 degrees in the dead of summer, in the *dark* for pete`s sake.

Catch the choking stench of concrete and tar, of smoldering ash and garbage. Eau De Alleyways on the Hellmouth.

Silly little thought : Do alleyways on the mouth of hell smell worse than other alleyways? Which leads him into an entire train of crazed wonderings about the raccoons that haunt these alleyways. Absently observes them calmly tending to their little raccoon business. What do raccoons on the Hellmouth think about? Aren`t animals supposed to be all hypersensitive to the supernatural? The shift of tectonic plates, the slither of demons, and the skulk of shadows that just don`t belong.

Scurry of tiny feet.

And why is that shadow up ahead wearing a trench coat in 98 degrees? Faint sound of clicking bootheels on concrete, the cadence at once familiar and slightly terrifying. Xander grips his stake tighter, and reminds himself that he is CoolGuy now. Mr. Construction-Worker-All-That. Still has to furiously channel his suave half-self, considering that the only image the former provided him with was a frightening rendition of the 'Village People'.

Then the shadow is in front of him, and the rush of fear is almost comforting. At least its cold.

"Deadboy," he tosses out, cause if he is going to die in an alleyway, he really needs to die a mouthy smartass. Small wince and a chuckle from the shadowy figure who, yea, can wear a coat in 98 degrees, because he has no body temperature. So maybe that's why all the vampires wear them. Or maybe just because they look really cool and attract chicks.

The little alarm bell in Xander's head quiets down, but he holds back the small sigh of relief in favor of smooth irritation. He's always found it quite disturbing that Angel actually has to have a facial expression before he can tell if it's Evil Angel or just Annoying Angel. This would appear to be the laconic latter. He wonders if Angel can smell fear dissipating.

"Xander," the vampire nods. And suddenly Xander is worried again, cause if it is just Annoying Angel, (or A.A. as he likes to refer to him in the most nasty and superior recesses of his mind) then what the hell is he doing stalking *these* alleyways?

"What's going on? Is Buffy in some kind of danger?" Doesn't ask who or what Cordelia might have seen on her private screening room. Somehow, the Prom Queen turned conscience laden visionary is too freaky even for a guy with Xander's vast experience in freaky to contemplate.

"No, well, yes, but...not anymore than usual....That's not why I'm here." Xander is fairly certain that's the longest sentence he's ever heard Deadboy utter in his presence.

"Oh, then why are you here?" The tone a bit more Macho Man than he intended, but ok, maybe it's not, cause this is Xander's place now. The New Improved Xander, and it's also really annoying that Angel doesn't seem to notice either the tone or the improvement.

"I came to see Giles. We keep in touch."

Impromptu visual of Deadboy and Giles sitting around playing guitar and smoking pot, discussing the politics of the Olde Country. Xander wonders if they play cribbage too. Decides he'd rather not know.

"Ah, " he says, putting the stake back in his waistband, and noticing that the smirk hasn't left Angel's face. Rush of instant fear again, just add Vampire and stir.

"So, I'll...." starts to say 'see you around', but realizes no, he won't. Stops and adjusts his shirt. Does not notice Angel checking out the patch of skin beneath his tee as he does so, no, most certainly does *not* notice that.

"Xander," the voice softer, the thumb and forefinger around his wrist harder.

And. Rewind. Where did the hand come from, cause he was just standing here putting the stake away, and there was no hand. He would distinctly remember a hand. But there it is, on his wrist, the thumb pressed into the blue vein, the pulse beneath it, and Xander feels the weight of all the blood in his body thudding right there, beneath that hand.

"Wh-what?" Damn the lack of fluent speech, the return of the Xanderzeppo. Lifts his chin, manages to meet the dark eyes flecked in gold, irises wide open to swallow the night..

And now suddenly Xander wonders if vampires have to sleep. Knows they *do* sleep, but wonders if they really have to, cause Deadboy is looking nothing if not really. really. tired. Tired and slightly edgy, jumpy like Willow on coffee, or like someone else is wearing his skin- and that's a bad thought, cause the only other creature who tried that was sort of an asshole.

"Are you all right?" Xander whispers, and Angel just smiles. Smiles because of the question, or the distinct lack of tremor in the voice, or the fact that he still has Xander's wrist crushed under his thumb.

"Yea," once again with the monosyllabics, but it's the eyes, it's in those eyes; fire and chocolate.

Hungry, Xander realizes. Angel looks hungry. Makes a move to pull his wrist away, but it refuses to budge. And Angel isn't exerting terribly much effort, not tightening his grip, not raising his gaze, certainly not breaking a sweat, just- standing there. Being all coat-wearing and sleepy and holding Xander's arm in that insanely strong thumbwrestle hold.

Jolt of cold fear again, this one much less pleasant than the last, and pull..and damnit! Bone on bone, grinding noise, while this *look* crosses Angel's face, and since when did Deadboy have this many looks?

And you know what Xander hates the most about vampires? It's not the fang thing, it's not the way they get all the really hot women, hell, it's not the suck you dry or even the whole curious lack of eyebrows in gameface thing. No. It's how they move so quickly that time is defied and probably offended. How you can blink and suddenly there is a shift in reality, nothing is where you left it, and suddenly they are...

Pressing your back to a brick wall when a minute ago there was at least an arms's length between you. And in those sudden and jolting movements, things are erased. Space and gravity and things that should just be constant.

Things like fear.

There isn't any fear inside of Xander, and that's not right...so it must have been sucked into the vacuum created by that sudden movement. Yes, it must be in that strange black hole where unmatched socks run off to, where balloons fly off to when you let them go, because Angel is close. So close in fact that Xander can *feel* his non-breath, his non-pulse, and he knows that in and of itself should be frightening, but it still. Isn't.

"Xander," Angel whispers again, with a strange lilt at the end there, a rolling of the tongue on that consonant which makes Xander strangely grateful his name ends with an 'R'.

Shift of molecules and defiling of the laws of physics and Angel's face is only inches from his own. Xander realizes with a blink that he isn't being held any longer. No preternatural grip on his sore wrist, no hands on his shoulders. Nothing physical holding him to that wall, unless his absurd curiosity and deranged wonder have suddenly become corporeal.

Which is entirely possible because he is certain *something* inside him has shifted. Something indefinable but essential. Something that has swallowed his fear whole, and along with it, quite likely his common sense. Replaced it with an insatiable urge to hold up this wall.

And Angel bends forward from the shoulders, doesn't press his waist in, doesn't put his arms out, just bends, and now would be a good moment to stop thinking about the agility required in pulling off such a maneuver.

Now would be an excellent moment, in fact, to choose fight or flight. Cause he feels just like he did when he was very little, and he went swimming in the ocean with Uncle Rory. Good old drunk Uncle Rory, who was really really lousy at the fine art of baby-sitting. Who was busy making time with the bikini-clad blondes whilst five year old Xander played Peek-a-boo with the waves. Busy guzzling down a brew-ski while the waves played Peek-a-boo back.

And Xander has never forgotten that *moment*, that clear, sharp instant when even Xander's child brain knew with a certainty that he was going to die. He had swallowed the salt and the water and he had breathed it *in*, his lungs and belly were full of it, and it was a part of him, and then ...it was All Right. He would drown and it would be all right. He was calmer than he had ever been. Would ever be again. He was almost annoyed when the hulk of a lifeguard pulled him out, deposited him a puking and sweating mass on the sand in front of his Uncle.

Now feels a lot like that moment. The surreal sense of calm belonging to a drowning man. Drowning in the filth of an alleyway, and suddenly all he can smell is salt. And in the darkness, all he can see is Angel's face and hands, the white on white of him.

Closer. The face by his and the eyes lit up from within. Human eyes don't light up that way. And if Xander didn't know any better he would swear he is about to be kissed. And then suddenly, he is. And..isn't. Because it's more like an invitation to a kiss. A Please RSVP brush of chilled lips on his that make him arch up on his toes, and press deeper into the lack of response.

Except for the pulling away.

"Tell me you've never done this before, Xander."

Xander wishes he would stop saying his name that way. It makes it much more difficult to lie. Licks his suddenly dry lips, and this time he sees Angel watch. Shudders once. Sees Angel watch that too.

"Uh, kiss a guy in an alley? Kiss a dead guy? Kiss a dead guy who-"

Silenced by a large index finger across his lips, brushing over the saliva Xander just placed there with his own hesitant tongue. Rubbing back and forth, gathering the moisture in small drops and then dragging it down along Xander's chin. A hard swallow beneath that questing hand, and it follows, tracing the Adam's apple as it bobs up and down in a jerky rhythm.

"Yea, any of that." Angel smiles. Something of a thief in that smile. Maybe that's where the fear went. Maybe Angel steals socks too. Maybe Deadboy has a whole collection of half pairs of mortal socks under his bed, and-

Shakes his head, answers the earlier query. "That would be a big no."

"Hmmm...." is the vampire's only reply. That and the thumb across a cheekbone, drawing a smooth line of cool and jolt from nose to eyelid.

"Well, I mean there was that one time when I was 10, but you know, I don't think that counts at all, and I think Peter actually turned out to be gay, and I'm not -"

Cut off by the crush of lips on his, cold and jolt again, and oh..oh so soft and hard all at the same time. Mouth half open, dragging across his own, back and forth, back and still no breath but not dead, oh no, so very alive and here.

Angel leans in now, arms on Xander's shoulders, mouth more insistent, harsher kiss, and Xander realizes it is because he is groaning. Groaning into that strange, cool kiss, with the tongue that snakes inside. And *big*. It's way bigger than ... well, ok, anyone else's he's ever kissed. Realizes it makes his mouth feel kind of full. Taken. Kept.

Cool tongue warming now inside his own mouth, and licking his canines and palate. Wonders what he tastes. Wonders what he tastes *like*. Meets that tongue half-way and is rewarded with a moan in kind. Which sends the cold and jolt straight down to his toes, cause he knows he did it. He made that moan come out of this statue who has him nailed to the wall of an alleyway with just his lips and hands. And now just hands again and Xander bites back the whimper of frustration.

"Tell me what you want, Xander."

Ok, *there's* a question. And Angel has pulled back just enough to allow Xander to realize that he actually expects an answer.

"Well, at the moment, I'm thinking I'd rather not be raped by a vampire in an alley."

Laughter sonorant, rich, and right at the small of his back where he feels the reel. "I'm not gonna rape you, Xander."

And Xander wants to say, well then, Deadboy, that doesn't leave us too many options, but he can't, because there are lips again.

Lips on his chin, over the rasp of stubble that Angel doesn't have. Lips at his ear, and the mimic of breath inside the curved shell. Lips at his throat, and the hands rubbing his arms now, up and down in a rhythm Xander realizes is comfort. A shudder ripples through him at the contrast. Teeth at his neck and large hands at his elbows, and this time the shudder is fear.

"Shh...." against his cheek, tongue pointed and almost sharp and licking the corners of his eyes.

Sampling him.

"I won't hurt you, Xander. Look at me. "

And he does, and it's that *look* again. The one that says fuck and feed and devour, and Xander knows he ought to be afraid, but he just can't find it. It's where the balloons are, or in some drawer Angel keeps filled with stolen emotions. Those lips close around his Adam's apple, suck softly, and then he groans again.

A blink of lightening that isn't real, and Angel is on his knees. On his knees in front of Xander, and nuzzling his face against the smooth cotton of his shirt. Xander's hands working at his sides, fingers clenching and unclenching, silly, useless little snakes.

More skybolt and the shirt is undone, and wow, Xander thinks, if I had that power, who would I get naked first? But oh, it's a quick thought, because then that mouth is open against his belly, and it's surprisingly warm now, warm and wet, and insistent. Licking long strokes up and up, mouthing the soft flesh and biting each rib in turn. Xander's palms pressed flat against the brick wall, and a swallow dies in his throat. Flat surface of tongue against his nipples, and they have never been particularly sensitive (Anya, he remembers saying, you may as well be licking my wallet) but now, oh gods, now they are happy to salute this kiss.

Tongue licking a path down between his pecs, down to his zipper. Eyes fly open and the swallow is reborn as a gulp.

"Ang-" is caught there, hovers in the moment between hesitating and just running, when Angel looks up at him, smirks again, and removes the stake from his waistband.

"Ok?" he whispers up to Xander, and this is suddenly very funny. (Do you mind if I remove the object of my Death before I suck on your-) And Ok. Not so funny now. More dry mouth terror actually, and maybe we should just leave the stake *in* my waistband, thankyouverymuch.

But there is a clatter of wood on concrete which suggests that decision time is well past, and his zipper remains in its previous up position. Breathe. Breathing is good. Breathing is always of the - oh. jesus. Mouth over the denim and the crazy silk boxers he has become so fond of in recent days, and how is it possible that he can feel all that through layers of clothes? Feel the tip of that long, hard tongue trace every outline and contour of his cock, swelling now to extreme discomfort beneath his jeans. Feel the hands holding his hips against the wall while those lips continue their exploration of inner thighs and metal zippers and too many pockets.

Hands on his belt, finally, astounded that they are his own, covered by larger hands. A singular and sudden *lack* of mouthing at his crotch, and Xander realizes this is the last RSVP he is likely to get. Angel gazing up at him with an expression that would be blank on anyone else. But Xander can read something there. Something that reminds him of sand and sun and salt.

The belt is open, then the pop pop of snap and broken zipper and the rip of silk. Xander hears another ragged groan and this time he can't tell at all whose it is.

The brick is rough against the small of his back and the smooth skin of his buttocks, but Angel has him pressed up against it, and he may as well be *nailed* to this wall, may as well be nailed to the ground, may as well be

because Angel has his nose flush to Xander's belly, and his cock deep inside his throat, and tomorrow Xander will spare a thought for vampire-sword-swallowers, but not now. Now he will just throw his head back and not feel the dull thud when scalp meets brick. Now he will just make the sound which causes Angel to shudder around him and take him in deeper and how is *that* possible? Now he will just bury his fingers in remarkably soft chestnut hair while a long, flat, warm tongue sneaks out to cover his balls.

Vaguely coherent thoughts about predators and prey, and what it means to be *eaten*, swallowed whole with nothing left but bones and breath and sweat. And then that is gone too, and there is only the animal noises in the back of his throat and the dizzy whorl of color behind his eyelids.

He is just noise and light as he pants and arches as much as he is allowed against those hands, and thrusts his cock into the tender skin and open lips and curious lack of sharpness.

And when Angel stops sucking just long enough to swirl his tongue over the swollen head, around and around, and back and then takes him back inside with a muffled sort of grunt and Xander's fingers tug on those dark spiky locks hard enough to feel the scalp raise beneath the pull, then

then Xander will break. He will spill open, quaking and keening and holding that head close to him. Prayers in another language, the language of men coming, and Xander has never really *heard* himself before, or maybe he's just never made quite as much noise and quite as little sense.

Angel's Adam's apple moving now; slow, rhythmic swallows, in contrast to the preternatural stillness cloaking the rest of him. Swallowing and swallowing without letting go.

And licking his lips when he finally does.

Now Xander will slide down the wall and try to remember where he left his bones. And lie very still when Angel gathers him up into his lap, and adjusts his clothes for him.

And it isn't until Angel is no longer beside him that Xander remembers breathing can actually be used to form speech. Which is a moot point anyway, because Xander has never been so hot at knowing what to say in even the most casual of circumstances. Pretty much making small talk at this precise moment altogether impossible.

Instead he pushes himself onto his elbows, and leans over to the vampire, reclining an arm's length and an ocean's width away. Laying so still that Xander has the insane and useless urge to check if he is breathing.

"Angel?" softly, so softly Xander himself can't even hear it. The dark head turns. Then of course, Xander can think of nothing at all to say. No Hallmark moment for a former enemy, and former boyfriend of your best friend who just gave you the best blowjob of your life in a stinking alleyway on a Hellmouth.

Go figure.

Instead he just leans in some more, and covers the trembling lips with his own. Drinks in the start, the confusion, the *fear* he can taste in the kiss.

Holds Angel's head still in his fist, and just *drinks.* Opens his eyes to panting vampire and a gaze the color of honey.

Doesn't think, just drowns. Just drags his kiss over the baby-smooth skin, and the bump and plane of chin and cheek. Down the arching neck, and the strange stillness there causes a hot shiver in his thighs. And when those huge, smooth hands wrap around his shoulders to urge him further down the long, muscled body, Xander feels his toes curl inside his sneakers. He inhales the scent of leather and linen and something that smells like tears.

Suddenly, the remembrance...That the last time something like this happened, as far as Xander knows, Angel woke up one soul short. Lifts his head to look into the vampire's face, has only just formed his mouth around the question, when suddenly the answer is there.

One tiny, very sad smile, and the blink of sooty lashes on moonlight. "No," The word shattering the premise and the moment and everything Xander has ever held as sacred.

Nothing else to say, so lips once again find skin, covering a flat belly and pale nipples, and if you're gonna do something goddamnit do it right, so the belt is undone and the fly is undone and the pants are tugged down because Measure Twice Cut Once.

And Ok, cutting is a bad metaphor to use around a guy's cock, even though this one isn't. Cut. Which Xander supposes he could dwell on as a whole new experience, but it's just going to have to get in line.

But Angel is still *still*. Not panting, not moaning, not even moving under the attentions, and it would be enough to make Xander question his abilities, except it doesn't. Instead he feels a completely alien rush of sympathy, because Angel actually looks *afraid*. Like if he does move he will just fucking snap like a guitar string.

And oh, the noise Angel makes when Xander finally takes his cock between his lips really isn't unlike some of the riffs he's heard Oz play. Sort of high and complex and it makes all the little hairs stand up on his arms, and all right, Oz's guitar skills never did *that*.

When Xander moves his head slowly down, and drags his teeth along the length, his name sounds that way to him too. Broken into notes and chords and much, much longer than anyone has ever made it sound...



Enough to make his own cock twitch again.

Finds the rhythm in his name and gives it back to Angel. And it's almost like a pulse, almost like a heartbeat, almost like the whitecaps pulling onto shore. But it's faster and harder and it's not going to last.

Arch of hips under him and a hand on the back of his head. Realizes that Angel is struggling, against him or with him, or ...oh. *Oh..* Spares a glance up, at half lidded eyes rimmed in sunlight, and slightly elongated canines. Can still see eyebrows though, and for some reason that is comforting.

And yeah, he knows the longer and the better and the more, the harder it will be for Angel to keep human face, to keep human *control*, and, fuck it, cause Measure Twice, fucking do it right. Sucks harder and faster and more and his name is a blur of sound now with no end and no beginning and the purr at the end is more of a growl, and can he spare one moment's thought on what exactly he is going to do when

Angel howls and releases Xander's head, arches up up and up and Xander instinctively swallows.

Is surprised at the *lack* of taste. Sort of like vanilla, not in that it tastes like vanilla really; more that you know something is there, and yet, there's just not much else to know about it. Swallows the rest, catches the faint tang of salt. Very faint, cause when he swallows again, it is gone.

And Angel is sitting up already, already tucking in his shirt and buttoning his pants. Handing Xander back the stake. Reaching a hand down to help Xander up. Then they are toe to toe, and nose to nose, and Xander realizes that either he is taller than he was years back or Angel is shorter.

Maybe it's just a little of both.

When Angel leans in to kiss him again Xander's eyes fall shut. And he thinks that if this was a movie, when he opened them again Angel would already be gone. But it isn't, and he isn't. Instead, when he opens his eyes, Angel is half way down the alley, spinning on one boot heel to glance backward.

Xander watches as Angel tilts his head to one side, and maybe, just maybe, smiles. And Xander smiles back. Tucks the stake back into his waistband. And walks home.

The End

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