This is the thing that scares him almost as much as nothing. This drifting, this aimless wandering through life while everyone around him strides about, buoyed by purpose and driven towards something definite.
Willow's been talking about visiting Kennedy for a time before getting back to her own family. Giles is making plans to return to England, and Xander can tell that Buffy is tempted to go with him, if only to take some time out before she and Dawn set about re-planning their own lives. Faith took off days ago, along with the former Principal, and the last of the new Slayers are heading off home today.
Even Andrew seems to have a plan of sorts. He's become a sort of general assistant to Angel's crew, researching and running errands and helping with their move, and presumably they're happy to keep him around. Occasionally Xander sees him in the middle of some task, or chatting with Lorne or the woman with the glasses, apparently named Fred, and he just looks so… so comfortable. Like he's found his place.
Xander wants to know why he's the only one not fitting in.
He'd asked Andrew about it that morning, wanting to know how he'd settled in so easily here. Andrew'd explained he'd just gotten talking to Lorne and Fred and eventually discovered that he had something in common with the L.A. team. Like him, they've all made mistakes. They all have regrets. But they're getting on with life, trying to do something positive, and that includes taking in lost souls. He'd chuckled, then told Xander, "and the new guy, he can just fit right in with people who are just like him." Xander hadn't gotten it. He'd smiled anyway.
He's starting to think that they're leaving him out on purpose. Not out of any kind of malice: they've just assumed he wants to be by himself. They don't say much to him when he's around, and they don't seek him out when he's not. They don't know he's floundering.
They don't know either that Andrew's still slipping into his room at night, sleeping next to him until it's time to go fetch breakfast and make coffee and renew the search for Cordelia.
He knows there's something not right about it: about needing to know there's someone else there next to him before he can fall asleep. Xander doesn't like what all this is turning him into. He can feel himself falling, and knows the longer it goes on, the harder it's going to be to pull himself back out.
So Andrew's kind of his lifeline now. It's knowing that once the daytime sounds of the hotel fade away and the traffic noises creep in again, his door will slide open like a whisper and there'll be someone who wants to be next to him. It's knowing that Andrew will stop whatever he's doing whenever Xander appears in the lobby and tell him everything that's happening with a grin that's even audible in his voice. It's knowing that there's something good still left even after she's gone. It's all this that's keeping him from straying out into the city and just letting himself go.
He realises all of this in one bare moment of empty time while he sits on the stone seat outside the hotel, listening to the city sounds and wondering why he can't see the way to go next. The knowledge freezes him, sends ice through his blood and makes him stand and walk away, just move somewhere, to prove that he hasn't atrophied and is still a real live walking talking Xander.
Which is why, when his bedroom door sighs open that night, he's sitting on the edge of the bed instead of in it. He's up on his feet before Andrew's even inside, pushing the door closed behind him and pulling him into a dangerous embrace, so tight it makes Andrew gasp.
"How do you know what I want?" he asks, and the question seems familiar but he can't place it.
Andrew's hands are on his waist, giving him sufficient leverage that he can push back, just enough to look up into Xander's face and show his confusion. But Xander doesn't know how to explain, doesn't even comprehend it himself. All he can do is hold on to Andrew, pull him back again, drop his head 'til his chin is on Andrew's shoulder. And then there's Andrew's neck, right next to his mouth, and there still isn't enough contact, and all he has to do is turn this way just a little more, tilt his head to the side just this much, and there. His lips press against warm skin like a shadow, and he feels the shiver that rolls through Andrew's body. But one isn't enough, so he has to try it again, and since he's there he might as well make it three, four, until he's smudging cotton-soft kisses across Andrew's jaw, and suddenly here's his mouth, so close to Xander's, and why not?
It's like feeling rain on his face, waiting for the drops to fall in just the right place that he can taste them, with head tipped back and eyes - eye - closed. It's listening to the little pops and clicks each time lips pry apart, thinking it's enough then needing to find just one more, one for luck, then one to tide him over, then another just for the hell of it.
Then Andrew's looking at him like he can see where Xander disappeared to these past few days, and now he's running to catch up. There are muddled steps across the floor, then a pressure at the back of his calves that plonks him down to the mattress, accompanied by a sigh of complaint from ancient bedsprings. When he gets his bearings, Andrew's kneeling beside him, a hand on Xander's arm to steady himself as he waits for his cue.
It dawns on him as he studies Andrew through vision that's still fuzzy round the edges, that maybe this is still kind of new to Andrew. He kisses like he's mimicking Xander's movements, waiting to be taught what to do. Turns out he's a fast learner though, because when Xander drops his gaze to Andrew's suddenly-flushed lips, there's hardly any hesitation anymore. There's still that same undecided caution, only now it's silk, not cotton, smooth and fluid and effortless touch of plump flesh against flesh. His arms snake around Andrew's waist, and his endeavours to pull them closer only result in a graceless tumble to the bed, his head hitting the pillows square on with a muffled 'oomph'. Deft fingers scuttle under Andrew's T-shirt, pressing against heated skin as Andrew plants both hands either side of Xander's shoulders to hold himself up.
Raindrop kisses become a storm, and he's just aware enough to be grateful of Andrew's eagerness to learn when he realises their tongues are sliding together, flickering and tasting like it's the most logical progression on the path they've chosen.
There's a twist, a shift in position as Andrew tries to settle himself more comfortably along Xander's body, and suddenly Xander is arching up and hissing, nearly biting Andrew's lip in his shock. His good eye snaps open and he stares up, trying to read Andrew's face for some indication of what he did to make Xander feel that sliver of jagged bliss that just swept through him. For a second Andrew looks terrified, then his eyes widen, and he shifts once more. His hips roll against Xander's and there it is again, curving his spine until Xander pushes back against him. Andrew inhales sharply, a surprised smile tugging at his open mouth.
It must be Andrew who removes their clothes, he decides later, because all he knows is suddenly he has five feet and some odd inches of warm, nude Andrew pressed against him from top to toe. The blankets crease and wrinkle underneath them as they rock together, taking some of the clamminess from Xander's sweat-soaked skin as engorged flesh scuds together. Frenetic kisses wear away until his mouth moves uselessly against Andrew's, and it's not quite enough, not even as his hands sweep down Andrew's back and trail over his sides, and still not enough as he bucks against Andrew's hips, setting a new pace that makes Andrew grunt with the effort of keeping up. It's still not enough, not until he arches his back and suddenly every muscle he knows feels tight and squashed, and suddenly he's shuddering ferociously, moaning his release along with Andrew's name. Andrew writhes against him a moment more, his eyes creased shut, until he too is shaking, unable to bear his own weight any longer as he crumples atop Xander's inert form.
The room around them swims back into focus, and he's aware of a sudden stickiness that he really ought to deal with, but can't seem to summon the required energy. But then Andrew is wiping at his stomach with the corner of the blanket, which strikes him as vaguely icky but he can't think of anything better to do.
His last realisation before he loses himself to sleep, is the fact that he doesn't have to fit himself around curves of any kind when he holds Andrew: instead his slight frame seems to fold and bend itself around Xander's body, like a rag-doll, like the pillow he used to wake up hugging in his old apartment, squished into a shape that fits him.
*****
tbc
Willow's been talking about visiting Kennedy for a time before getting back to her own family. Giles is making plans to return to England, and Xander can tell that Buffy is tempted to go with him, if only to take some time out before she and Dawn set about re-planning their own lives. Faith took off days ago, along with the former Principal, and the last of the new Slayers are heading off home today.
Even Andrew seems to have a plan of sorts. He's become a sort of general assistant to Angel's crew, researching and running errands and helping with their move, and presumably they're happy to keep him around. Occasionally Xander sees him in the middle of some task, or chatting with Lorne or the woman with the glasses, apparently named Fred, and he just looks so… so comfortable. Like he's found his place.
Xander wants to know why he's the only one not fitting in.
He'd asked Andrew about it that morning, wanting to know how he'd settled in so easily here. Andrew'd explained he'd just gotten talking to Lorne and Fred and eventually discovered that he had something in common with the L.A. team. Like him, they've all made mistakes. They all have regrets. But they're getting on with life, trying to do something positive, and that includes taking in lost souls. He'd chuckled, then told Xander, "and the new guy, he can just fit right in with people who are just like him." Xander hadn't gotten it. He'd smiled anyway.
He's starting to think that they're leaving him out on purpose. Not out of any kind of malice: they've just assumed he wants to be by himself. They don't say much to him when he's around, and they don't seek him out when he's not. They don't know he's floundering.
They don't know either that Andrew's still slipping into his room at night, sleeping next to him until it's time to go fetch breakfast and make coffee and renew the search for Cordelia.
He knows there's something not right about it: about needing to know there's someone else there next to him before he can fall asleep. Xander doesn't like what all this is turning him into. He can feel himself falling, and knows the longer it goes on, the harder it's going to be to pull himself back out.
So Andrew's kind of his lifeline now. It's knowing that once the daytime sounds of the hotel fade away and the traffic noises creep in again, his door will slide open like a whisper and there'll be someone who wants to be next to him. It's knowing that Andrew will stop whatever he's doing whenever Xander appears in the lobby and tell him everything that's happening with a grin that's even audible in his voice. It's knowing that there's something good still left even after she's gone. It's all this that's keeping him from straying out into the city and just letting himself go.
He realises all of this in one bare moment of empty time while he sits on the stone seat outside the hotel, listening to the city sounds and wondering why he can't see the way to go next. The knowledge freezes him, sends ice through his blood and makes him stand and walk away, just move somewhere, to prove that he hasn't atrophied and is still a real live walking talking Xander.
Which is why, when his bedroom door sighs open that night, he's sitting on the edge of the bed instead of in it. He's up on his feet before Andrew's even inside, pushing the door closed behind him and pulling him into a dangerous embrace, so tight it makes Andrew gasp.
"How do you know what I want?" he asks, and the question seems familiar but he can't place it.
Andrew's hands are on his waist, giving him sufficient leverage that he can push back, just enough to look up into Xander's face and show his confusion. But Xander doesn't know how to explain, doesn't even comprehend it himself. All he can do is hold on to Andrew, pull him back again, drop his head 'til his chin is on Andrew's shoulder. And then there's Andrew's neck, right next to his mouth, and there still isn't enough contact, and all he has to do is turn this way just a little more, tilt his head to the side just this much, and there. His lips press against warm skin like a shadow, and he feels the shiver that rolls through Andrew's body. But one isn't enough, so he has to try it again, and since he's there he might as well make it three, four, until he's smudging cotton-soft kisses across Andrew's jaw, and suddenly here's his mouth, so close to Xander's, and why not?
It's like feeling rain on his face, waiting for the drops to fall in just the right place that he can taste them, with head tipped back and eyes - eye - closed. It's listening to the little pops and clicks each time lips pry apart, thinking it's enough then needing to find just one more, one for luck, then one to tide him over, then another just for the hell of it.
Then Andrew's looking at him like he can see where Xander disappeared to these past few days, and now he's running to catch up. There are muddled steps across the floor, then a pressure at the back of his calves that plonks him down to the mattress, accompanied by a sigh of complaint from ancient bedsprings. When he gets his bearings, Andrew's kneeling beside him, a hand on Xander's arm to steady himself as he waits for his cue.
It dawns on him as he studies Andrew through vision that's still fuzzy round the edges, that maybe this is still kind of new to Andrew. He kisses like he's mimicking Xander's movements, waiting to be taught what to do. Turns out he's a fast learner though, because when Xander drops his gaze to Andrew's suddenly-flushed lips, there's hardly any hesitation anymore. There's still that same undecided caution, only now it's silk, not cotton, smooth and fluid and effortless touch of plump flesh against flesh. His arms snake around Andrew's waist, and his endeavours to pull them closer only result in a graceless tumble to the bed, his head hitting the pillows square on with a muffled 'oomph'. Deft fingers scuttle under Andrew's T-shirt, pressing against heated skin as Andrew plants both hands either side of Xander's shoulders to hold himself up.
Raindrop kisses become a storm, and he's just aware enough to be grateful of Andrew's eagerness to learn when he realises their tongues are sliding together, flickering and tasting like it's the most logical progression on the path they've chosen.
There's a twist, a shift in position as Andrew tries to settle himself more comfortably along Xander's body, and suddenly Xander is arching up and hissing, nearly biting Andrew's lip in his shock. His good eye snaps open and he stares up, trying to read Andrew's face for some indication of what he did to make Xander feel that sliver of jagged bliss that just swept through him. For a second Andrew looks terrified, then his eyes widen, and he shifts once more. His hips roll against Xander's and there it is again, curving his spine until Xander pushes back against him. Andrew inhales sharply, a surprised smile tugging at his open mouth.
It must be Andrew who removes their clothes, he decides later, because all he knows is suddenly he has five feet and some odd inches of warm, nude Andrew pressed against him from top to toe. The blankets crease and wrinkle underneath them as they rock together, taking some of the clamminess from Xander's sweat-soaked skin as engorged flesh scuds together. Frenetic kisses wear away until his mouth moves uselessly against Andrew's, and it's not quite enough, not even as his hands sweep down Andrew's back and trail over his sides, and still not enough as he bucks against Andrew's hips, setting a new pace that makes Andrew grunt with the effort of keeping up. It's still not enough, not until he arches his back and suddenly every muscle he knows feels tight and squashed, and suddenly he's shuddering ferociously, moaning his release along with Andrew's name. Andrew writhes against him a moment more, his eyes creased shut, until he too is shaking, unable to bear his own weight any longer as he crumples atop Xander's inert form.
The room around them swims back into focus, and he's aware of a sudden stickiness that he really ought to deal with, but can't seem to summon the required energy. But then Andrew is wiping at his stomach with the corner of the blanket, which strikes him as vaguely icky but he can't think of anything better to do.
His last realisation before he loses himself to sleep, is the fact that he doesn't have to fit himself around curves of any kind when he holds Andrew: instead his slight frame seems to fold and bend itself around Xander's body, like a rag-doll, like the pillow he used to wake up hugging in his old apartment, squished into a shape that fits him.
*****
tbc