By Minim Calibre and templemarker
Notes: Season 2 AtS general spoilers. This began as a game of tag. templemarker had just come off of a X/W, and she thought it would be an evil challenge for Minim. However, she got sucked in as well and it became one long snarky improv PWP. There just isn’t enough X/W in the world, is there? Minim Calibre would like to apologize for the Mary-Sueish Dart Abilities of the Boys, but Wesley’s is practically canon, and besides, if they played like she does, the damned scene would have taken a thousand pages. Just be glad you didn’t have to read 1-6-4 ad nauseam. With the utmost thanks to Elena for beta, as the story might not have made a lick of sense without her. And to insomnia, hear hear! Wesley/Xander, NC-17.
Wesley drummed his fingers on the hood of the car. Xander was late. Wesley didn’t have any trouble believing this was the natural order of things in Sunnydale, but it really was rude to make someone wait, what was it? An hour and a half for the man to show up. Really, if Angel had needed a Plartanian steel-tinged sword that badly, he could have driven to Sunnydale himself. Or bought it from Ebay.
However, he supposed, going to Sunnydale would have meant running into Buffy. In light of the late unpleasantness with the Darla obsession, perhaps it was for the best that Angel avoided temptation of the blonde variety. There was always overnight mail. Then again, Wesley strongly suspected Angel might consider twenty dollars too much to spend on postage. “In my day, a couple of bob paid for postage and the mailman.”
One would think, however, that after 200 hundred plus years, the concept of inflation would have sunk in…
“Hey. Sorry I’m late.”
Ah. There was Xander.
“Traffic was a bitch—we ended up detouring down this dirt road, and it was all dusty and one of the drivers started coughing, it would have been funny because he looked like Santa Claus, but then he started dying.”
“How many hours do you really need to get here, Xander? Sunnydale isn’t that large. Barring attacks by large serpents, I can’t recall there ever being any traffic there, and I happen to have been out in L.A. traffic today. It was refreshingly light. Are you quite certain you weren’t playing video games?”
Xander bristled. “You come here to accuse me of lying, or did you come here to pick up an item we spent a lot of blood, sweat, and yes, tears getting for Dead Boy?”
“I have no doubt you were the one crying, Xander,” Wesley said drily.
Xander looked as if he were planning on saying something, but instead he turned on his heel and walked back to his car, a little purple thing that looked as if it had gone through one too few car washes. He popped the trunk and pulled out the sword, wrapped in brown tarp.
Wesley took it in his hands, letting the considerable weight settle in his grip before turning his attentions back to Xander. Instead of the aggravated stance Wesley had been expecting, he found Xander looking at him with… curiosity?
“Is something the matter?”
“Nah, I was just wondering if you were going to unwrap it, seeing as I came all this way to bring it to you.”
“I suppose I should take a look and make certain you haven’t bungled it up. Perhaps handed me a tire iron instead.” Wesley pulled back the edge of the tarp. The metal of the sword was blindingly bright. Most certainly not a tire iron.
“Well, it would seem we’re through. Thank you, I’ll be on my way.”
Xander stopped him.
“Aren’t you going to take it all the way out? Seems like a shame to just take a peek and then stick it back in the wrapper.”
The boy was practically panting. Wesley couldn’t blame him. It was rather a fetching blade.
As Wesley pulled the tarp fully away, he revealed a remarkably untarnished surface, considering it’s age. Again, he turned to comment on this only to find Xander not staring at the blade, but at him.
He was a bit startled, but he recovered quickly, pulling the tarp onto the sword and walking back to Angel’s car. After placing the thing in the backseat, he faced Xander, hesitating a bit before saying, “Would you like to get a beer, Xander?”
After all, the chap had come rather a long way on an errand for someone he didn’t especially care for. It seemed only civil to offer him some sort of refreshment.
Xander blinked and raised his eyes to Wesley’s questioning face. He wasn’t sure why he found himself staring and having inappropriate thoughts about slender, good-looking Englishmen so damned often. First Spike, now Wesley. Maybe it was the accent. But wait! Giles had the accent, and he didn’t think about Giles that way… and. Wesley’d asked him a question. Think, Xander…
Beer. “Yes.” That was it.
“So you’ll join me then?” the crisp linen and starch voice was asking. Uh-oh. What had he agreed to?
“Yeah, sure. Beer, right?”
Wesley looked at him as though he was crazy. He wasn’t too far off.
In the end, Xander got into Angel’s penis displacement, and they had a relatively quiet ride to a pub Wesley frequented. They walked in, getting nods of acknowledgment from the bartender and some of the occupants before heading to a table near the dartboards. Wesley ordered two Batham’s, hiding the smirk that threatened to break as he thought of Xander’s reaction to the heavy beer.
Xander was actually caught up in the “ambience” of the place, looking here and there before turning back to Wesley.
“This place is cool!” Xander enthused, just as the bartender brought them their beers.
Wesley pulled the glass to his lips, grinned into his beer, and watched for Xander’s reaction.
Xander’s eyes widened before closing in bliss. “I haven’t had anything this good since I was a bartender. ‘Course, the beer was the only good thing about it, and even that had its dark underbelly. Or underBuffy, as it were. Working construction, the guys are more into Bud than Batham’s.”
It was Wesley’s turn to go wide-eyed. He hadn’t expected Xander Harris of all people to have any taste whatsoever.
“You tended bar?”
“Yep. At the time, my only other job skill was exotic dancer, and there’s not really a huge market for that in Sunnydale.”
Wesley blinked and took his glasses off to clean them.
“Startled you, didn’t I? You Brits are all alike with your glasses-cleaning and raised brows.”
“I’m sorry, were my brows raised? I was unaware. Exotic… ?” He supposed, given his past as a Rogue Demon Hunter, that anything was possible. It wasn’t at all what he’d expected, however.
“Yeah. Let me tell you, stripping just isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Sometimes I still have nightmares about blue-haired ladies shoving twenties down my shorts.”
Wesley mulled over that as he sipped the dark beer, and Xander started talking animatedly about, what was it? Construction? Yes, that was what Xander had been doing. Construction. His mind wandered a bit, settling on an image of Xander working. Wearing one of those hard hats, surely. Muscles straining, sweat glistening… and he should really be listening to Xander speak.
“Drywall, you say? Must come in handy in Sunnydale.”
Xander smiled, his eyes slightly shadowed for reasons Wesley couldn’t fathom. “Yeah, well. It’s something I’m good at. Can’t fight for beans, can’t cast spells, unless by spells you mean accidental bibliocide by fire… but I’m damned handy when it’s time to clean up the messes. Xander Harris, the OxiClean of the Scoobs.”
He shook his head quickly as if to clear it. “Sorry, I don’t normally hit self-pity until at least three beers. Forgot how strong this stuff is.”
“Quite alright. Happens to the best of us at times. You should have seen us after Angel – well, no, perhaps not. If you’d seen us, I’m afraid you would have heard us as well. I fear I can’t recommend that to anyone.”
They shared an awkward smile of commiseration.
It went on just a moment too long, and Wesley stood abruptly, moving to the dartboard. “Do you play?”
Xander shrugged modestly. “I can hold my own.”
Wesley grinned, and tossed Xander a black case with three green darts. He held up his own red ones. “Wonderful.”
Xander held up a hand. “Question: What are we playing, 501 or 301?”
Wesley considered. “301; loser buys the second round?”
They tossed for first throw, and Wesley won. He let his first dart fly, grunting with pleasure when he doubled-in with a bull’s eye, then made a 30 and a 40 to end his toss with 181 left. Ton 20. Not his best beginning, but he figured he’d go easy on his companion.
Xander nodded his approval and stepped to the line, aiming carefully and sending the first dart loose.
Wesley gave a low whistle as Xander hit treble 20s twice and a 20. Ton 40. Wesley couldn’t believe it. Xander had managed to get a better mark than he had. Well, he’d see about that.
His next throw started well enough. Treble and double 20.
He concentrated on the board, letting himself feel the weight of the dart in his hand. A split second before he let go, he heard a hiss in his ear.
“Use the force, Wes …”
He was fortunate to even hit the board, although he wasn’t especially happy with the 2 it got him. 79 to go, and they weren’t playing easy out.
“That, I believe, is cheating.”
Xander just grinned. “Hey, grow up on the Hellmouth, you learn to go with the moment. My turn!”
Retaliation, Wesley realized, was half the fun. He waited until Xander’s tongue peeked out of the corner of his mouth and the muscles in his arms tensed in preparation for the first throw… and goosed him.
To say Xander missed the mark would have been a gross understatement, but at least he missed the other patrons.
Wesley didn’t bother to conceal his smirk as Xander spun to confront him.
“I believe you implied all was fair in darts and war. Go on, you’ve two throws left.”
It seemed Xander didn’t deal well with surprises or tension. He hit a 2 and a 3.
Wesley aimed his next dart carefully, watching Xander out of the corner of his eye. Just as he pulled back his arm, he moved to the left, bypassing Xander’s predatory poke and laughing as he hit another treble 20. Only 19 to go.
The smirk transformed itself into a smug grin. “Ha.”
He aimed for and got a 1, bringing things down to a manageable 18 before blowing his throw for a double 9 with a single 7.
“Well, it’s your lucky day, Xander. Your throw.”
Xander glowered, and took a step up to the line. Wesley made a move towards him, then relaxed as Xander jumped out of the way. The glowering became a glare. “Meanie.”
“And who started this thing?”
“Hey! Don’t be pulling responsibility into this, Mister Suave British Guy. Just because I—and justly, so might I add—figured I needed a handicap to save me from the fate of beer-buying is no reason to pick on me!”
“You’re utterly mad, did you know that?”
“No. Utterly mad would be this.”
Xander’s hand reached out and cupped Wesley’s ass before squeezing until Wes squeaked.
Xander removed his hand and moved back to the line. “Just so we’re clear, this round we play fair.”
His aim was true. “HA! Bull’s-eye!” He followed it with two treble 15s in quick succession.
Wesley probably would have grumbled had he not been standing stock-still, mind revolving around the fact that Xander Harris had grabbed his ass.
“You grabbed my ass,” he said, stunned.
Xander nodded. “Yup. And threw a Ton 40.”
“Well, to illustrate my point. And to try and force you to pay for the next round.”
“By grabbing my ass?”
“What, the illustation part of it, or the beer-paying?”
Xander came to stand next to him, poking him with a dart. It hurt.
“You’re still thinking about the ass-grabbing thing, aren’t you?”
Wesley rolled his eyes. “How could you tell?”
“Because I’m still thinking about you goosing me?”
Xander grinned. He’d shocked Wesley into silence, and that was no mean feat. Score one for the Xan-man.
“So, you buying? Because you ought to know, if beer is on the line, your ass will, in fact, be kicked.”
“What, not pinched and molested?” Not that Wesley sounded upset about either notion.
“Buy two rounds and we’ll see.”
Xander flushed to the tips of his ears. Had he really said that?
“I beg your pardon?”
Yep. He really had. Oops.
Xander’s words finally seemed to penetrate Wesley’s brain, and without saying another word he went to the bar and ordered two additional pints of beer.
“Let’s have another round before either of us tries to double out,” he said, setting the beers on the table
Xander stuck his nose in his mostly-empty mug, using gulping as an excuse not to talk. Wesley simply handed Xander the next glass before downing his own like it was Gatorade and heading back to the line.
A 1 got Wesley down to a manageble 10, but he busted out on his second throw.
“Your turn again, Xander.”
Xander took a deep breath and walked over to take his shot.
He looked intently at the board, anywhere but Wesley.
If he had taken the chance and looked, he might have noticed Wesley walking up behind him, and firmly grabbing his ass just as he let the dart fly.
He kinda sorta hit the board. If the board was the wall.
Concentration shot, he busted on the second throw. Damn.
The devilish look on Wesley’s face was almost scary. Not a veiny-creepy-rip-your-guts-out scary. More a “yes master, anything master” scary.
“I am no one’s butt-monkey but my own,” Xander muttered.
“What? Nothing, just a good-luck chant.”
Nice recovery, Harris. He forced himself to smile. He was good at it. Clowning though fear and misery was a course he’d aced before kindergarten.
“Good luck for my turn? How magnanimous of you.”
“Hey, what can I tell you? I’m a generous guy.”
On a scale of one to ten, he graded that recovery about a nine, topping his previous high score of 8.5, a memory he’d much rather forget, involving Cordelia, a lunch lady, and a spatula. He shuddered inwardly. Live and learn.
Wesley’s hand was still on his butt.
“You planning on moving in or something?”
Wesley’s voice got a little growly, to match the look in his eyes. “If you’ll let me.”
Gulp. Should never drink with the guy. Should never drink with the guy.
Who am I kidding? Xander thought, grabbing his glass and gulping for courage.
Wesley raised his own glass, clinked it with Xander’s and said, rather suggestively if Xander was still observing properly, “Bottoms up.”
The glasses were plunked down on the table.
And Wesley’s hand was still on his ass.
“Well, my round.” Wesley removed his hand and casually tossed a double 5. “Ha! Game point. I believe you remember what the stakes were?”
“Um, another drink?” Xander asked weakly.
Wesley nodded. “Yes. Something… stronger, is in order here.”
“Maybe a couple rounds of Sex on the Beach?”
Xander was starting to suspect a demon was in control of his mouth. Well, at least he hadn’t suggested they drink Blow Jobs. Although the notion of Wesley licking cream from the top of a glass was not without merit…
“I was thinking more along the lines of adding whiskey to the mix, but if you’d rather…”
“No! I mean, boilermakers sound just great.”
Okay, that one was more like a 1.5. Maybe. It ranked up there with “So’s your mom” and “I’ll sic Buffy on you!”
After three boilermakers, Xander had decided that Wesley must have a hollow leg, a cast iron stomach, or a sponge down his shirt to catch the booze. Because where Xander was seeing double, Wesley still seemed damned close to sober.
Well, until the sight of Xander mushing a bar peanut made him giggle.
“What’s the funny?”
Wesley’s eyes crinkled as he looked at the crushed remains of the legume in question.
“I was just reminded of Gallagher and his Sledge-o-Matic.” Wesley lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Every time he’d hit that watermelon, I’d pretend it was my father’s head.” He snickered and poked at the peanut with a fork.
Xander’s voice was a little slurred now. “Yeah? I always pictured my dad’s head in this vice we had in the basement. I’d stick his head in and tighten it just a little bit at a time… What? It’s no worse than yours, bucko!”
Wesley was staring at him now. “I thought you were such a brat, back in Sunnydale.”
Xander burst out laughing, falling out of his chair in the process. “I thought you were a stuck up prick with a bug up his ass,” he said, gasping for breath. “But then you knew that.”
“And now, we’re here, drinking whiskey and Batham’s and I grabbed your ass!” Wesley started laughing because Xander was laughing, and they soon had the bartender looking over at them with disapproval and a thinly veiled threat to get the fuck out of his bar.
Wesley tried to pick Xander up, falling in the process. “Neill! Call us a cab, would you?”
The pair ended up leaning on each other, waiting outside after stumbling with some success out the doorway.
Xander stopped laughing long enough to ask, “Where’re we goin’?”
“My flat, I think. I’ve more whiskey and more beer, and, seeing as it’s a flat, no stairs to get locked under.” Wesley seemed very proud of this fact, although it made little to no sense to Xander. “Did your parents lock you under the stairs, too?” He blinked, looking like nothing so much as a somewhat inebriated owl. “It’s so very cramped and dark and really quite loud, given the people running up and down them.” His slim fingers pantomimed the motion of people bustling up and down steps.
“I lived in the basement, does that count?”
Wesley frowned as if he was considering a matter of some importance. After a pause, he nodded gravely. “Yes, I believe it does. There are, after all, stairs leading down to the basement.”
A proud smile crossed Xander’s face. “I’m in the club! So there, everyone.”
The cab drove up at this point, and Wesley tucked Xander into the car before putting himself in. He got out the name of his street, and the apartment building number before he realized he had a lap full of Xander.
“Are we friends now?” Xander asked, and if Wesley had been seeing straight he would have sworn he saw a lip tremble. “Because I don’t have a lot of male person friends, and I want a friend who is a guy. Who is a friend. So are we friend-guy-friends?”
Wesley could do nothing but nod, and Xander shook his head in placid agreement. “Good.” Then Wesley discovered that not only was his shoulder good for keeping track of his arm, but it also served as a nifty pillow. At least, Xander seemed to think so.
He hoped the sword would be okay locked in the trunk of Angel’s car for the night. Otherwise, being locked under the stairs would look like a treat.
“Am I as cute as Cordy?”
“Oh, much, much cuter… what?” What started as an absent-minded response turned into a squeak as Wesley realized what he’d just been asked, and what he’d just said.
“Well, you seem to like me, but you seemed to like her, and I don’t know if you like me because you like me, or because you liked her and I’m here.”
“I can assure you, I like you on levels I haven’t even considered Cordelia at for quite some time.”
Xander smiled, looking blissful as a baby.
“Go team Xander.”
Wesley caught one more mumble as Xander’s head buried itself in his chest: “Who’s the buttmonkey now?”
He chuckled to himself, really not getting the reference, and busied himself with the all-important task of smelling Xander’s hair. It was good, smelled like… well, like shampoo. The cheap kind, Suave. He liked it. It was Xandery.
The cab pulled up to a close approximation of Wesley’s apartment building, and Wesley stumbled out, grabbing Xander into an embrace as he threw some bill at the driver. Xander latched on to him, and they managed to make it inside without too much trouble. It was just when they got to the elevator that Wesley tried to disentangle himself enough to press the button, only to find Xander twining his fingers with his own.
Huh. It was sweet, in a we’re-drunk-off-our-asses-and-want-to-get-laid sort of way.
Balsam. It was balsam shampoo. It smelled like cola and reminded him that he had rum.
“If you have anything more, will you be totally incapacitated, or can we just indulge in one more wee, wee tipple?”
Xander lifted his head from Wesley’s shoulder. “Oh, I’m all for one more tipple. If I don’t tip over, that is.” He pressed his face into Wesley’s neck and… nuzzled. Yes, that was definitely nuzzling.
Oh lord, it felt nice.
Perhaps they should skip the drink.
Wesley fumbled for his keys, hampered by Xander’s clinging weight. Xander kept nuzzling, and he kept wildly missing the lock. At least, he did until Xander took his hand and shoved the key into the damned thing, opening the lovely door that led to the lovely alcohol and the even lovelier bedroom.
Xander pushed Wesley inwards, banging the door shut with an outstretched leg and walking him back to the couch. Wesley ended up laying back, again with a lapful of Xander. This was becoming a regular occurrence. He didn’t really think he minded.
“Hands, hands in new places,” he heard Xander mumble as he slid his hands up beneath Wesley’s shirt. “Glad you don’t wear those stupid suits anymore, Wes, cause you looked like an idiot. A cute idiot,” he amended, kissing up Wesley’s jaw, “but still an idiot.”
Wesley tried to look up from Xander’s ministrations. “Are you saying you thought I was cute in Sunnydale?”
Xander paused for a moment, apparently thinking. Thinking was much harder after two pints of Batham’s and three boilermakers, but he persevered nonetheless. “Yes,” he concluded, with a grand flourish of his arm that Wesley grabbed and brought back down to rest at his waist.
“Oh. You had a crush on me, then?”
“Yup,” Xander slurped against Wesley’s neck. “Wasn’t just teasing you because of Cordy.”
“Oh.” Wesley considered this a moment. “Fancy that.”
Xander’s tongue flitted against Wesley’s collarbone, darting into the hollow of the throat where his pulse fluttered while Xander’s fingers worked at Wesley’s fly.
“Oh… ohhh …” Wesley lost track of what he was trying to say as Xander’s fingers slipped inside his boxers.
Rum suddenly seemed much less interesting.
“‘Oh… ohhh …’ what?” Xander teased.
His eyes were exactly the color of a good stout. Wesley’s mind wandered to all the possible puns involving head before Xander’s mouth replaced his hand.
“Oh dear …” Wesley gasped, shucking out a good amount of air with the full-body jerk that came of its own volition as Xander rolled Wesley’s dick in his mouth.
Wesley grasped Xander’s shoulders, pulling him up to meet his eyes. He kissed Xander roughly, pushing his tongue through teeth to meet waiting warmth.
Xander pulled back, breathing harshly, giving Wesley a long look before searing his mouth to Wesley’s as if he was suffocating and Wesley’s lungs were the only way to get air.
They pulled back long minutes later. “Let’s go to the bedroom,” Wesley said. Xander nodded furiously.
They staggered to the bedroom, tripping over each other in their haste and taking each stumble as an opportunity to kiss some more.
It took them a good five minutes to make it the short distance to the bedroom door, but they enjoyed every second of it.
“Wesley?” Xander panted as they entered the room.
“Hmmm?” He lifted his head from Xander’s neck to look at him.
“Do you do this often?”
Wesley blinked, considering the question.
“No, unless perhaps by often you mean never. Well, not since university at any rate.”
Wesley peered over his glasses, which were perched precariously over the tip of his nose. “Why? Do you?”
“No. With a big side helping of no. I mean, maybe once when I was a kid, and okay, there were those thoughts about Ang- I mean, those thoughts about Larry, but we don’t talk about that anymore and I really don’t know what to do next.”
Xander looked at him earnestly. Or at least as earnestly as one can look when there’s a whole bunch of alcohol between your brain and your eyes.
Wesley finally said, “Okay,” and walked Xander back to the bed. Wesley sat down and pulled Xander between his legs, scrunching up the t-shirt that prevented skin from meeting skin and pushing his nose into Xander’s belly. “You smell good.”
Xander nodded loosely. “Okay.”
“I mean really, it must be like riding a bicycle, and at any rate, who wouldn’t have those thoughts about Angel… that strong jaw, those eyes, that coat. You’d look smashing in that coat-” Xander’s hand reached out and pushed Wesley’s mouth shut.
“Wes? You’re babbling.”
“Sorry, it’s a nervous habit.”
Xander could get used to inducing nervous babble in beautiful men. The closest he’d come to it had been inducing platitudes of pride from the late, great Larry, which, when it came down to it, wasn’t even close to the same thing.
Normally, he was the babbler. It was nice to be on the silent side of the equation for once. “So, um, are you going to do something? Or just sit there—ungh—licking my belly button?”
Wesley looked up at him with those damn revealing eyes and said, with a bit of a smirk Xander would never say out loud he really liked, “Getting to it.”
Xander nodded. Again. Apparently his head managed to convey more words than he was really able to at the moment, because he was caught on the incredible sight of his pants being unbuttoned. By a man. By a man named Wesley. By a man named Wesley he’d known since he was eighteen. Wait, Wesley wasn’t eighteen. Xander was eighteen. Had been eighteen. Xander wondered what Wesley looked like at eighteen. Ooh. British schoolboy. Man. Boy. Manboy. He wore knickers, Wesley the Brisish SchoolManBoy. With knickers. Cool. Was he rambling? He was rambling. Guess it was contagious.
There went the zipper, and then the sensation of Wesley trying to burrow into his groin. Felt good, actually. The soft cotton of his boxers rubbed in just the right way, and he could feel the little air currents of Wesley’s breathing.
This is way too coherent a thought, Xander mused.
Wesley decided to help him with that problem by taking out his cock and ghosting the tip with his tongue.
Huh, Xander contemplated. It was hot, and wet, and really really good. It was like being in the jungle but without the bugs. And a lot more sexy. Guh, he summed up.
Okay. This was much better than the never-spoken-of middle school locker room show-and-tell with Devon.
Much, much better.
He closed his eyes and tried to think of anything to keep from losing it and coming just as things were getting started.
Joint compound. He’d think of joint compound. Cold, wet, slick… that sucking sound his hand made when it slipped into the bucket, the feel of it slippery against his fingers, the crisp earthy smell…
Maybe he should start thinking of something else. Wesley’s lips were tight and hot around the cock of Alexander Lavelle Harris, and it was making even the tools of his trade sound porny.
Heh. He’d thought tool.
He managed to bob his head back down, to take a closer look at just what Wesley was doing. Notes for later.
Wesley’s mouth was holding almost half of Xander’s cock, rubbing his tongue over the underside and occasionally scraping his teeth lightly on the skin. That part almost made Xander’s knees buckle, but Wesley also had two surprisingly strong hands clamped on his waist, holding him upright and relatively still. Xander wondered if there would be bruises in the morning. Something to remind him of this night, when the beer goggles did a disappearing act.
Wesley’s mouth dug in deep, going for the root, and just as Xander was getting over the sheer shock of tight, wet, and warm, Wesley pulled back to the very tip and sucked.
That was it. Xander came, bowing over Wesley in a boneless heap. He could hear Wesley chuckling beneath him. Xander realized he really liked the sound, but he mumbled, “S’not funny.”
“Didn’t think it was. Just realizing that bicycles are easier to ride than I remember.” With that, Wesley stretched out on the bed till he had a Xanderblanket covering him rather nicely.
“Wes?” Xander said to Wesley’s collarbone.
“You want me to jerk you off?”
“Yes, I rather think I would.”
This part Xander Harris and his Sock Puppet of Love had a good deal of practice with. Heck, he’d be willing to bet he could teach classes on it.
Other than construction, it was the thing he did best.
He’d already undone Wesley’s pants, so step one was complete. Xander grabbed them by the waistband and tugged them down, taking the underwear with them. Wes, he noticed, had very long legs. He paused when he hit the ankles, preparing himself for the difficult shoe removal maneuver, before noticing that the shoes were already gone. As were the socks. Wesley had nice feet.
Xander finished his depantsing exercise and pressed a kiss in the curve of the instep. Right. He forced himself to focus. No distractions, it was time for a little manual labor.
Mano a mano.
I am Onan, hear me roar.
Okay, so maybe he was a little nervous.
He slid up Wesley’s body and grasped his cock. One hand gripped it at the base while the other made slow, rhythmic strokes up the ridge below the head. He concentrated on the sound of Wesley’s breathing, adjusting speed and pressure according to the quickened pace of it. It was like having a tachometer. Xander couldn’t wait to see what happened when it redlined.
It was really no time at all before Wesley came; Xander figured he must have been a little jazzed already from the fucking amazing blowjob he’d given earlier. Xander definitely had been.
Wesley pulled Xander back to him, clumsily helping get the shirts off and not really letting go of his arm when Xander half-stood to kick off his own pants and shoes. Finally they rested in a tumble of legs and arms and heads that weren’t entirely sure where to go. In the end, they got comfortable enough to zone out into alcohol-and-sex induced sleep.
Their final, eerily similar thought before slipping into unconsciousness was, “What about the morning?”
The question arose sooner than they would have liked, when Xander awoke blearily to find Wesley staring at him.
“Regrets?” The question was almost too soft for Xander to hear.
“I’ve had a few, but then again, too few to mention.”
“Well, Sid, actually. Spike left one of his tapes in my room when he moved out. Don’t tell anyone.”
“Rest assured, I shan’t.”
Xander got the impression that Wesley wasn’t talking about music anymore.
“What about you?”
“I never could quite get into the punk scene. It was all too loud and messy for me. Oh. You mean regrets, don’t you?”
Wesley paused for a moment before saying, “No.”
“Good,” Xander sighed.
The two just sort of sat there, staring at each other for a moment.
“I’d like to kiss you, but I fear morning breath,” Wesley said with that same hint of a smirk he’d had the night before.
Xander started to grin in agreement, until the shock of realization crossed his face. “Man, I am in so much trouble. I was supposed to be back in Sunnydale last night. I didn’t even call. I am so dead.”
Wesley started to laugh.
Xander looked at him like he was crazy.
Then he started to laugh too. They were just one big pile of bed-shaking, morning breath laughter. It was nice.
“Xander, I suggest we go get some breakfast.”
“Right-o. Pip pip.”
“What the hell was that?”
“Oh, don’t tell me British people don’t use ‘pip.’ It’s in all the movies.”
“Oh, dear god.”