Does anyone know who runs this site anymore? It used to have such an easy to use interface. This was, maybe, FIVE YEARS AGO. Since then, it's gotten increasingly complicated and I can't find anything. If you go to the TV archive, they don't even have CSI: Las Vegas as an option, even though I POSTED A CSI: LAS VEGAS STORY THEIR TODAY. It defaults to anime every freaking time I try to do something and there are a million drop down menus for NOTHING. Am I the only one pissed off? My pissed-off-ness has grown over the years and I'm ready to blow up today!!! ArG!!!!!

Title: Run
Author: Scarlet
Pairing: Jim/Josh
Rating: PG/T
Summary: Wherein Jim is heartsore, heartsick, and just plain sick while Josh is Mr. Understanding.
Disclaimer: I do not own any part of The Office and write for my own selfish pleasure.
Author's note: Set post-Casino Night. Thanks to Katie for the beta.
--------------------------------------------

On the day of Pam's engagement party Jim buys a bottle of Jack Daniels and toasts her good fortune with shots from a dixie cup he commandeers from Jeffrey's desk. The fact that he does this at seven o'clock, two hours past the time Karen swished gracefully out the door, and three hours since Andy slunk carefully out the rear fire entrance, doesn't escape him.

The light is still shifting under Josh's door so Jim knows he's not completely alone, drinking in the dark. Josh is here, and Margaret over in accounting who seems to have even fewer things to do than Jim does these days. She casts judgmental glances Jim's way as he refills his Snoopy dixie cup and he's reminded of Angela. Wonders if Angela was invited to the engagement party.

An hour passes, then two. Margaret stomps off at eight, somehow put out that she's not the last to leave on a Friday night for once. Dozes. Wakes. Jim's face rests pleasantly on a stack of memos in Karen's neat handwriting and one of them sticks to his face as he sits up, blue ink staining his cheek in reverse. If he were to stand at the men's room mirror he'd be able to read the words clearly.

A further search of his surroundings tells him he's alone at long last. The beam of light under Josh's door is extinguished and Jim sighs. Then he notices the note taped to an empty Big Gulp on his desk.

Don't stay too late.

It's not on a post-it, but a scrap of Dunder Mifflin's finest, taped with precision from Jim's own dispenser. The thought of someone, anyone, caring enough to leave him a note warms him a bit so he takes another celebratory drink and lays his head back down.

***

Six-thirty, and not in the p.m.

Jim's mouth feels like cotton or sandpaper or something equally cliché. He runs his tongue over his teeth and breathes deeply, trying to clear his mouth and mind. Something woke him up. Something besides the dumptruck sound outside his new apartment (which he's grown used to), or the sound of his old alarm clock (which he’s never gotten used to).

Coffee sounds like a great idea. And maybe another bottle of somethng brown and strong and anti-memory-inducing. His car is somewhere...close. The parking garage across the street maybe. But the thought of wandering the dirty parking garage in the brisk early-morning hours isn't appealing either. He settles for resting his head on his arms and trying really hard not to think thoughts that are too...visceral.

Warm skin, flushed and just a little damp from nerves and anticipation, heart thudding--

"I thought you might still be here."

Josh's voice is odd and unexpected. A scream in church or a giggle in Mr. Johnson's eleventh grade American History class. Inappropriate because, well, misery doesn't love company as much as the saying would lead you to believe.

"I guess I fell asleep."

"I guess that's the understatement of the century. Gonna talk about it?"

"Nope." Jim searches for his bag. His laptop is tucked neatly in it since last night, when he had a dim hope of simply going home and pretending the girl loves--loved--wasn't getting married to a, to some fucking, to.... someone who wasn't him.

"Look Jim, I didn't say anything last night because I thought you needed your space, but when you get drunk on company time I think--"

"Fire me, then." Not bitter, just defeated. In all things.

"I don't want to do that. I want you to be the salesman I know you are."

"Sure thing. Monday morning is only forty-eight hours away." He wags his finger in the air causally. "Everything will be better on Monday." He knows it's a lie, but it sounds good and he thinks maybe he believes it a little bit so maybe Josh will too. No luck.

"Come on." Josh gestures for Jim to follow him outside. And what choice does he have? The employee, drunk at work, has little options. He imagines what Dwight would say if he'd been the one to find Jim passed out cold on his desk and realizes he can't imagine. He's been away too long, maybe. Or maybe he's still too drunk. "Drink this." Josh passes a bottle of water to Jim as they walk the Dunder-Mifflin hallway. It's warm, but satisfying, and when he gets to the bottom of it he thinks that his tongue might feel a little more human.

Once in the parking lot, he casts cautious glances around, wondering if the DM intervention team has descended, but it's just Josh that's come in on his day off to nurse a heartsore salesman back to health.

Jim spies his car four stalls from Josh. It's not hard—it’s the only other car in the parking lot.

Josh is waiting by his car, staring at him. "I want you to come with me."

Jim's eyes are blurred and pancakes would hit the spot right now. Or even an AA meeting would improve his Saturday. He could tell the sad crowd how it feels to have your heart torn out not once, but twice, by the same woman.

Josh doesn't seem to be taking about a destination, per se, but an activity. For the first time Jim notices that Josh is wearing a loose pair of jogging pants and a tee shirt. He's wearing sneakers, too. Those really great ones that Jim would get if he had the money or if he really *cared* about running instead of, let's face it, just the sneakers.

"I don't run."

"Sure you do. I've seen you."

"Yeah, well I don't run when I'm drunk, then."

"Fair enough. I'll just give Jack Mifflin a call and explain to him how the third highest salesman in the company couldn't be bothered to run with his supervisor, but *could* toss back enough alcohol to—"

"—And running it is."

His shoes aren't bad, but his clothes are completely wrong. Two blocks into it and dark circles of sweat stain his shirt beneath his arms and he can feel the criss cross brand of sweat down his back. His head is pounding and his heart is pounding and the smells assaulting him from the industrial complex in northeast Stamford make his nausea more pronounced.

Thankfully, Josh doesn’t try to make him talk. He just jogs slowly next to him in that way that says he wants to go faster but is slowing his pace for Jim’s benefit. Jim huffs and puffs but Josh has barely broken a sweat.

“I usually do about six miles on Saturdays, but I’ll give you a break.”

“Thanks.” It’s a great victory that he can even gasp out the word and Jim mentally pats himself on the back. What is he doing? Sprinting nauseous and heartbroken on a dirty road, miles from home and far too close to strip malls and fast food. The smell wafting from a Dunkin Donuts assaults his nose and it’s all he can do to keep himself upright.

“…and after I left last night I figured I’d give Michael Scott a call and see if he knew what was going on--”

And that’s all it takes. Jim heaves the contents of his stomach into the gladiolas behind a decorative retaining wall surrounding the Dunkin Donuts. He heaves and heaves and watches almost an entire bottle of alcohol, and something that might have, several hours ago, been a cheeseburger, come up.

Josh’s hand is warm on Jim’s back and he strokes him slowly, like his mom used to do. Concentric circles, flat palm. Josh is good at it. Josh is good at everything.

“Did you talk to him?” Jim manages.

“No. He wasn’t answering his cell phone.”

Probably at the party.

“Well, it’s just as good.”

“You want to talk about it now?”

“Really, really no.” What point is there? Rehashing old memories? Painful ones? Good ones? Making everything raw and recent all over again? Time heals all wounds. The only problem is that the time he needs to heal this one isn’t time he has to spend. Maybe in a few years it will all be better. And now all he has to do is wait ten years to feel better again. His stomach hurts.

“I’m going to take a couple of shots in the dark—just to narrow things down for my own peace of mind. Okay?”

Jim shrugs, sits on the cold cement wall and scrubs his face.

“Family?” Jim lets out a low, stale breath. “A girl?” Jim’s eyes sink shut and Josh squints up at the overcast sky. “Okay then.”

They stay that way for a while, Josh standing across from him, Jim sitting on the wall, letting the cold seep through his khakis. Sneakers and khakis. Who decided that Casual Friday was a good idea?

“Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going get some coffee. You’re going to sit here and try not to ralph before I get back.”

“Yeah, you don’t want to miss that thrill.”

Josh smiles and jogs off. Jim tries not to stare at the wet spot in the gladiolas. It’s hard not to let his gaze drift back, but he realized it’s easier if he looks away, finds some other area to stare at: the pile of cigarette stubs from the last person to grace the wall, the guy spraying out the Arby’s drive through across the street, the sound of the cars on the freeway just past the onramp.

That’s when he realizes what he has to do. He just has to look away. Not literally, but metaphorically. He’ll just shine over the last few years and all mentions of…her. And anything to do with broken hearts or soft hair or the way she pinched his arm every time he started to let a grin ruin a perfectly good—

“Black. No sugar, no cream. Thought it was safest at this point.”

“Thanks.” Jim takes the large cup and they each sip in silence. His ass is freezing but the alternative seems to be jogging with hot coffee so he suffers in silence.

“I know that *saying* I know what you’re going through is both trite and unwelcome, but I do know. We all do, in some way.”

Somehow Jim doubts that. Doubts that anyone knows, with as much clarity as him, how destined they were to be with someone, then watched that same person take a big, tasty crap all over destiny.

Nice picture, Jim.

Her voice is in his head. He has to erase it. Make his mind blank.

“So who broke your heart?” Jim stares very hard at his Dunkin Donuts cup, his cracked cuticles, and the mustard stain on his pants. Blank. It helps. He doesn’t feel quite so nauseous anymore.

“Which time?” Josh chuckles in that fake-friendly way, like they’re two paper reps being introduced at a sales conference, instead of two quasi-friends loitering on the side of the street. Jim winces and Josh bites his lip contemplatively. With resignation he begins. “Okay. Truth? Junior year of college. We had dated four semesters, which, in my fraternity, was the equivalent of a diamond anniversary. I thought he was the one. And he thought Chad Copeland was the one and…he broke my heart.” Josh chews the rim of his cup, a million miles away and yet now he’s somehow closer and more real to Jim than he was before.

Josh’s sexuality doesn’t phase him—there’ve been rumors and hearsay in the office since the first day he started. A dull haze of winks and knowing glances that Jim learned to tune out as much as Dwight’s moon-eyed stares at Angela. But the thought that someone else, someone he genuinely respects, has been as mutilated by love as he has been is strangely, oddly, comforting.

“How long did it take you to get over him?”

“Who says I got over him?” His voice is flat and Jim feels the few things he knows about Josh subtly shifting into place. The late nights and early mornings where everyone remarks on how diligent Josh is at his job, while Jim notices the dark circles of insomnia under his eyes. Josh’s frequent trips to Jamaica, Cancun, Borneo, all timed to coincide with the company picnic or the Christmas holidays. His luxurious townhouse that no one’s been invited to, but has been much speculated upon.

Jim nods in understanding and drinks his coffee. It’s cool enough to take small gulps and it feels good going down. His mouth tastes less like alcohol and more like something resembling early-morning breath. Not a huge step up, but something that puts him in the realm of human.

They set off again, just walking this time, not really talking about anything. Josh chats comfortably about the current sales market, football, the weather. Jim practices making his mind—*that* part of his mind—go blank like the hazy sky. The sun’s risen by now but is obscured by a thin cloud cover. Josh’s voice is like that filmy haze, covering thoughts too painful to bear.

Josh tosses his empty cup into the brush at the side of the road. It’s scandalous to Jim. He half expects some Environmental Police car to cruise up and make them collect it. But after another block Jim thinks *what the fuck?* and tosses his as well.

Maybe that’s his new life. The New Jim. Maybe now he’s the guy that tosses cups on the side of the road and doesn’t signal before he turns. A completely different guy than before. Because that other guy didn’t get laid much, now that he thinks of it. Maybe a New Jim is a Better Jim.

They start jogging again, but this time Jim feels better, clearer somehow. Not just his stomach—which does feel miles better—but everything. Maybe it’s time to reinvent himself. Throw himself into his work. If Dwight, *Dwight* of all people, can be the top salesman in the company, what’s to stop him from doing the same?

He tells this to Josh as they circle back to the office. Josh nods in the right places, gives the Male Head Nod when needed, then stops.

“You sound like a Man with a Plan, Jim,” he laughs.

Josh sounds a little like Michael. Without warning the ache returns. But, shockingly, it’s better this time. He thinks maybe the first step in healing broken hearts has been achieved when the thought of people *surrounding* the breaker no longer bring you pain. He can take a moment to wonder where Michael is now (probably in bed) and what he’s doing (dear *God* let it be sleeping) without the twisted gut that’s made his life hell ever since he got the invitation.

“I just think that throwing myself into work will keep me occupied for a while. Make me think about something besides myself.”

“Work is a great motivator, Jim. But it can’t be a panacea for all life’s pain. You have to take time for yourself.” Jim chuckles. “What?”

“Naw, it’s just I’ve never heard anyone use the word ‘panacea’ before. I wasn’t even sure how it was pronounced.”

“I’ll try ‘cure-all’ next time.”

“Well don’t *lower* yourself on my account.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Josh is leaning against his mustang, chin up, in that way that’s almost arrogant except it’s not. It’s not called arrogance when it’s all true. A sudden thought causes Jim to blush.

“Hey, are we having a moment?”

Josh looks startled, then thoughtful in turn. “Some people might call it a ‘moment’, yes.”

“Interesting. Should I be expecting more of these?”

“Well, you’re only permitted three per fiscal quarter, but they are available for you to use at your discretion.”

Strange how friendly banter can lead to friendly flirting, can lead to any number of impossibly strange and alluring scenarios, regardless of orientation. Now, for example. Josh is leaning and smiling and staring straight in to Jim’s eyes. Jim wonders what it would be like if Josh leaned forward and kissed him. Would he push him away, cling to him pitifully, or just stand straight like cardboard, pardon the mental pun.

“I’ll be sure to save them for emergencies,” he says, but his mouth is dry and he’s very much aware of the fact that he smells like sweat and booze and vomit. Josh licks his lip and it seems like one of those inviting moments that he had with Pam except they weren’t invitations at all and—

“What do you want, Jim?”

“Want?”

“Out of life. You’re just floating here in Stamford. Is the whole ‘jumping in with both feet’ idea real? Because I like my people here for the long haul.”

It could be a double entendre if Jim looked at it just right. It’s probably a…single entendre? Is there such a thing? Jim realizes that he’s been silent for too long and the pause between their words is lengthening. The long haul. A quick pros and cons list leaves him as unsure as ever. He owes Josh an answer though, an honest one.

“I don’t know. I really don’t.” Josh nods his head in understanding but doesn’t speak. “But I think…”

“Yes?”

“That I want to be one of them. The long-haul guys, you know? I just don’t know where I want to haul…my…load—can I just skip the analogy?” Josh grins.

“No trucker analogies. Good to know.”

“Well, not all trucker analogies. I don’t want to limit myself, you know?”

“Because you’re keeping your options open.”

“Exactly,” Jim says with a faux-serious face that he almost pulls off.

“Well, Jim, as your boss I think that’s a wise decision. Trucking analogies have been known to inspire many people in the workplace.”

“Much like the stapler.”

“Or the zip drive.”

“You really are some kind of maverick aren’t you?” Jim’s face has that easy grin he hasn’t felt in months. “The next thing I know, you’ll have Andy—“

Josh kisses him.

Jim doesn’t have time to think about it. He doesn’t run and he isn’t cardboard. He isn’t clinging pitifully, either. He just brings his hands up to Josh’s arms and pulls him closer.

Then, too soon, it’s over and the dopey grin on his face isn’t mirrored on Josh’s. His boss studies him critically and Jim squirms under the scrutiny.

“Yeah…you’ll be okay.” Josh pats Jim’s face affectionately and finally smiles.

“Wow.”

“What?”

“I thought I heard my mother in the parking lot. My mistake.”

“You’re comparing me to your mother. I see.”

“Well, she’s a pretty amazing woman.”

“Oh, undoubtedly.”

Jim kisses Josh this time. It’s longer than before, slower. He’s not sure if he’s going to make a habit of this…whatever it is they’re doing. But New Jim is already a lot happier than Old Jim, though in all honesty that doesn’t mean much. When they part, Jim realizes that he hasn’t thought of her—Pam—in several whole minutes. He takes a deep breath and reaches into his pocket to get his keys.

“You know, I think maybe I am that long-haul guy. If not Dunder-Mifflin, then something…else.”

“If this company doesn’t meet your needs, I think I saw a Help Wanted sign at the Dunkin’ Donuts.”

“Woah, let’s not rush into anything. I’ve already been headhunted by Arby’s and I want to keep my options open.”


The End

Title: The Florence Nightingale Effect
Author: Scarlet
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: R
Archive: Ask and you shall receive.
Feedback: Oh please, yes, yes, yes!
Email: scarletsfiction@yahoo.com
Authors Web Site: www.geocities.com/scarletsfiction
Disclaimers: I don’t own CSI. Quite obviously.
Authors Notes: No real spoilers, per se. Thanks to Katie for the beta.
Summary: Nick is hurt (sort of) and Hodges tries to help (sort of) and everyone’s the better for it (sort of).


He didn’t figure it would hurt so much, a glorified paper cut. But cardboard cuts deeper than paper. Wider, too. And Nick is spitting mad that he chased the perp into the warehouse instead of just waiting for him to reemerge like Catherine said. Mad and embarrassed, which is why he’s standing under the showers at two a.m. instead of basking in the tepid warmth of Ecklie’s praise for a job well done.

Nick wiggles his toes in the streams of pinkish water flowing from his elbows. For some reason it’s where the blood from each nasty cut seems determinedly drawn. As sweat rinses from him, its salty agony reminds him again to always listen to what Catherine says and he mutters under the staccato of the shower, “She’s always right.”

“Who’s always right?”

Nick’s head snaps up and his heart thunders. It’s a natural reaction to being caught talking to yourself and he blushes, grateful that he’s already red from the warm, pounding water.

“Catherine.” He smiles ruefully at David Hodges, who is sitting on a bench, fully-dressed in the locker room. “Shoulda taken her advice.”

He holds out his arms and Hodges twists his face in disgust.

“If you’re open to advice all the sudden, might I make some suggestions? I’d start with your cologne and go from there—“

“Can it, Hodges.” Nick dips forward to take one final rinse and makes a mental wish that Hodges will be gone when his eyes open. Whoever grants wishes isn’t shining her luck on him today, though. He turns off the shower.

“So, about that cologne. If asphyxiation was the effect you were going for—“

“Why are you here, Hodges?”

“Free country.” Nick glares at him. It’s the look he’s honed after years of working with careless crooks and murderers. He’s pissy and short-tempered and the cuts are still bleeding, seeping into the puddles of water on his arms and running down his waist.

“Get out of my way. I need a towel.”

“You need a lot more than a towel.”

Isn’t that the truth, Nick thinks. His body is still thrumming with adrenaline and he’s highly aware of being naked. He doesn’t mind that part; he’s got a good body and showing it off doesn’t embarrass him. He *would*, however, like to be alone sometime soon to take care of it.

Hodges shrugs. “Catherine told me to bring you this.” Nick scrubs water from his eyes and steps closer. He can’t see for shit without his contacts in, but he wouldn’t tell Hodges that. Or anyone else for that matter.

Hodges is carrying a first aid pouch and he shakes it gently. “Dr. Hodges, at your service.” Nick grunts and reaches for a towel. “You know, the doctor part is true. I hold a doctorate in biochemistry and physics.”

“I’m fine, Hodges. Move.” Hodges has managed to neatly block all avenues that would bring Nick to his clothes and freedom.

“You’re bleeding like a stuffed pig, Stokes. You’re going to bandage those all by yourself?”

“A ‘stuck’ pig.” Nick is clutching a wet towel at his waist. It’s turning an odd shade of pink in some places where gravity is drawing the blood and water downward and into its absorbent folds. With a nod, Nick acquiesces. He’s not up to an argument tonight. At least not with Hodges. Barfight he might be able to stomach, lay some guy out with one punch. Show them how a queer’s not a queer if he can hit like Tyson—

“You’re wet. The Band-Aids don’t stick if you’re wet.” Hodges grabs a stack of clean towels and gestures for Nick to sit on the long wooden bench running between rows of lockers. Then he proceeds to dry Nick’s arms. The rough cotton scratches over tender skin.

“Geez! Don’t push so fuckin’ hard!”

“Nice, Stokes! You kiss your mother with that mouth? Never figured you for a baby. The guys in Trace are gonna love—lift your arm, please.” Without relaxing his brutal strokes, Hodges finishes drying Nick’s arms, leaving a pile of blood-streaked towels on the floor.

“You’re a slob, man. When janitorial finds out you did that—“

“*I* did that? *I* did that? I wasn’t the one charging into a cardboard factory alone in the dark. Corrugated cardboard is a bastard on the hands. Haven’t you ever moved before?”

“How’d you know it was a cardboard factory?”

“Catherine. “

“Oh.” Nick paused. “And yes, I’ve moved boxes.”

“What happened when you were done? Did you just rip them open with your bare hands, Mr. Perfect?”

“No, I used a box opener, Hodges, like everyone else.”

“Hold still.” Hodges has the case open; bottles and tubes of products Nick has never used before begin to litter the bench. Usually he’d use a Band Aide. Maybe some rubbing alcohol like Nana Stokes used when he was little, but Hodges has bottles and scissors and tape.

“They’re just papercuts, not surgery.”

Hodges shakes his head, exasperated. “You always want things quick and easy, don’t you? Now turn your arm this way.” He hefts Nick’s arm toward his body so the inner damage is revealed. “Shit.” Hodges hisses it low and its intensity startles Nick, who hadn’t realized the damage was so bad. “I’m not sure I’ll be enough. You might want to get this one looked at.” As he coats the wound with ointment and gauze, Nick surreptitiously glances at the top of Hodges’ head. His critical eye notes that he needs a haircut. Jackie would do a good job, or Chantal, but he’ll never to tell Hodges that he gets his hair cut at a salon on the strip. He’d rather take a second run at the box factory.

“Why didn’t you wait for Warrick? It sounded dangerous, what you did.”

Nick’s not sure, really. Something about adrenaline and glory. Or foolishness and stupidity, depending on how you looked at it. Either way, Hodges’ hair is too long, but it’s shiny and looks surprisingly soft. It smells good, too. Like fruit or flowers or something.

“Did you just sniff my neck?”

“No.”

“You did. I think you sniffed my neck.”

He could cop to a lesser charge of hair-sniffing, but decides to try and beat the rap. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Now, could you get a move on, Florence Nightingale? I don’t know what you’re doing but you’re sure taking a fucking long time to do it.”

“Shut up. Your bandages have to be secure or they’ll tear off when you get dressed. Then you’ll have to do this all over again.”

Nick becomes acutely aware of his lost clothes as Hodges reaches across his body for the other arm.

“Woah—Why don’t you just switch sides?” Nick scowls.

“All of my stuff is here. Why don’t *you* switch sides?”

“Cause I’m the injured party.” But Nick concedes, clutching the damp towel at his waist with one hand while he stands and tries to keep the second arm elevated. As he sits down on the other side of Hodges’ pile, a drop of blood speckles the floor.

“Now I’m going to tell the cleaning staff that they have to watch the Blood Borne Pathogens safety video AGAIN because one of our CSIs was too twitchy to let a guy touch him. But don’t worry. A couple of sit ups a day, work on that Bowflex of yours, and no one will mistake your manhood again.”

“Damn, why do you have to be that way, Hodges? You just—you drive people crazy. You don’t *think* before you talk.” The adrenaline is kicking in in all new ways now. He’s itchy for a fight. His palms sweat.

“Sor-ry,” Hodges whines and begins dressing the cuts on his other arm. Nick feels the twitch of pre-fight energy burn off, mellow. It’s replaced with an odd kind of shame.

“I’m not trying to be a dick, man, it’s just you can’t make friends when you’re so fucking rude.”

Hodges chuckles mirthlessly. “Is that why you think I’m here? I’m trying to be friends?”

“No. I know—Catherine told you to. Still…” He doesn’t know what else to say. They’re quiet for a moment.

“I’ve got plenty of friends, you know. Tons. They don’t work here, though. You wouldn’t know them.”

“Right. Look, I didn’t mean to imply that you didn’t—“

“Yes, you did. It’s okay. I might have been…was an ass.”

An apology from Hodges’ mouth is enough to stun Nick quiet while the other man finishes his work. Hodges’ manner is obtuse, but his fingers are delicate. They pluck and tear and bandage with ease and Nick wonders why he never noticed the trio of freckles below Hodges’ left eye.

“All done,” Hodges says. Nick stretches his arms experimentally.

“I look like a mummy.” Nick stands and wads up the towel at his waist, shooting it toward the laundry shoot for a 3-point victory Warrick would be proud of. He turns to claim his clothes but Hodges is there, ointment in hand, mouth gaping open. It snaps shut with a start and Hodges hurriedly stuffs the rest of the products into the kit, but it’s too late.

“Were you just staring at my ass?”

Hodges scoffs. “Not everyone is enamoured with your ass, Stokes.”

“But *you* are.” Nick is grinning, grateful to finally get something right tonight.

“You wish.” His voice is distasteful but Nick notices that Hodges doesn’t look him in the eye.

“You know, it’s okay. You’re not the first guy to stare at my ass. It’s a nice ass.” He enjoys the squirm that ensues as Hodges snorts his contempt. Oh, he’ll have fun with this game for a week or two. “If you like my ass, you should really check out my package. I’m told it’s pretty nice.” Hodges blushes, an event Nick thought he’d never be witness to. “Don’t tell me I’m offending you, Hodges. Not after your reenactment in front of Ballistics last week about that Vietnamese masseuse that—“

“I lied.”

“Huh?”

“I lied.”

“Yeah, we thought so. Actually, Wiston bought it, so I guess that means most of Ballistics—“

“No, I mean I lied earlier. Catherine didn’t tell me to come down here. I did it on my own.”

Nick is still, not sure what this admonition is supposed to mean. He’s conscious of his clothes, in a neatly folded pile only an arms length away. He’s aware of his skin, damp and hurting and beginning to tingle. He’s mindful of Hodges, standing still and silent.

“Now why would you do that?”

He wants to make it sound condescending, insulting as Hodges is insulting, but it comes out too husky, barely above a whisper, and he curses himself.

“Don’t know. Thought you’d need the help. And I was right, you know.” He waggles his finger at Nick, who’d like to break it right about now. Or possibly just walk away and leave, like Hodges should be doing.

“So you thought I’d need help?”

“Yeah.”

“And the reason you didn’t just say that?”

Hodges shrugs.

“Uh-huh.” Nick licks his lips, which gets Hodges’ attention in a hurry.

“You know, thinking your ass is—”

“Hot.”

“—mildly attractive is completely normal.”

“It is?”

“Completely. From a purely scientific aspect, the Florence Nightingale Effect is a legitimate psychological complex.”

“The Florence Nightingale Effect?”

“You know, where people who are entrusted with the care and wellbeing of vulnerable patients begin to form a romantic, and often erotic, attraction towards their charges.”

“So…you’re staring at my ass because you’re suffering from a psychological complex.”

“Yes.”

“That’s…lame.”

“It’s not lame. It’s science.”

“Just say you want to look at my ass, Hodges.”

“I do *not* want to look at your ass.”

“Just a peek.”

“No.”

“It’ll do you good. Put hair on your chest. Make you a man.”

“That’s drinking alcohol, you cretin.” Hodges tries to move, but Nick shimmies discretely into his line of sight.

“That’s it. I’m leaving.” Hodges slams the kit closed begins to stomp angrily toward the door while Nick laughs.

“Aw, come on…”

Hodges shakes off the hand that takes him by the shoulder.

“Hey, Hodges. Come on, don’t get pissed, man. I’m just kidding.” Nick tries again to stop the tech from stomping, childlike, to the door.

Suddenly Hodges whirls around, sliding a hand behind Nick’s head and pulling him down until their lips meet in an awkward kiss. Nick pushes away after a moment and Hodges rubs his mouth petulantly.

“Why’d you stop?”

“David Hodges, you do *not* want to play this game.”

“Maybe I do.” His words might be perceived as seductive, if it weren’t for the fact that they’re delivered like a spoiled teenager.

“Uh-huh.” Nick smiles. Oh, yes, he’ll *really* have fun with this game. He clutches Hodges by his navy blue Members Only jacket and slams him against the wall of lockers.

“Ow! What the hell are you—“

Nick attacks his mouth with frenzy, licking and biting at Hodges lips. One hand slides directly between Hodges legs and *grinds* while the other slides under his shirt and jacket to pinch at a nipple. Hodges’ left leg is flailing vainly, as though not sure whether it is supposed to wrap around Nick’s legs or kick him in the ass.

Nick breaks away and steps back. Hodges’ face is red and stubble-burned. His mouth is swollen and he’s sweating unattractively. Nick takes a few steps back and gathers his clothes, dressing quickly. As he leaves, he passes Hodges who is still pressed against the lockers with his mouth hanging open resembling one of those pale pink kissing fish. Nick claps him firmly on the back.

“You take care of that Florence Nightingale Effect, you hear?”

Hodges nods and grunts out a tiny, “Okay” in reply.

The End

Title: Beyond the Pale
Author's Name: Scarlet
Author's Email and URL: scarletsfiction@yahoo www.geocities.com/karenmnick
Disclaimer: The Breakfast Club and it’s characters are in no way owned by me, so there!
Distribution: Sprinkle like dust on the wind; just let me know where it lands so I can visit from time to time.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Andrew/Brian
Feedback: Yes! (What? You thought I was going to say “no”?)
Dedication: Endless thanks to Katie, the best beta in the world.
_______________________________________________________________________

The party, like most things, is his dad's idea. A couple of kegs arrive at seven, already signed and paid for. "I'd rather you cut loose in a safe place, kiddo." Said with affection Andy hadn't heard since kindergarten. It might have been that moment that he'd finally agreed to the graduation party.

If Andy had his way, he'd spend Grad Night on the top of Pike's Bluff, sharing a bottle of whatever Allison could scam from her folks' bar. Car stereo tuned to whatever. The Cure, Aerosmith, it wouldn’t matter. Talking about school and family and whatever shit had her twisted up this week. Wet kisses before dawn, comfortable. But Allison's at some school in Chicago and the weekly letters have turned to monthly postcards and Andy can't quite remember what her skin tastes like anymore. Things change, always change.

He paces the empty house as the sun goes down. His house is the only one on the block with every window lit. Like moths, they flock to the light, trickling in after eight, finally free of family dinners and congratulations. Andy stands at the front door and plays host. He’s good at that: playing.

McCaffey comes first.

"Dude! Don't you have any food? I could eat my own ass!"

"Kitchen."

Then Beeker.

"Clark! Clark! It's finally over, man! Finally over..." Beeker looks dangerously close to puking. Most of the partying stared earlier that day, under the unwatchful eye of visiting relatives.

"Surprised you took your head out of your ass long enough to pass, McCaffey." The two high-five over the kegs. Then McCaffey proceeds to tap the first one as Andy walks away. The broad, easy Clark grin slides off his face when he leaves the room.

It’s not that he’s not glad that high school is over. Andrew just has his own way of showing relief that his old man and most of Shermer High wouldn’t understand. Shit, it’s hard for Jack Clark to understand a lot of things, the least of which is the difference between a couple of beers between good friends and a kegger with a couple hundred of his shallowest fellow Shermer alumni. Andy has to take deep breaths to keep from getting too pissed off these days. He tells himself that his dad grew up in a different time and in a different place and that that’s why he’s such a tool most of the time. It seems weak when he tries to explain it to Allison, so he doesn’t mention his dad anymore.

Around ten he drifts to the kitchen. It's quieter there. Most of the “Happy Graduation” cups have been used, but the dainty “Happy Graduation” napkins sit practically untouched. He folds them into neat triangles and practices flicking them off the end of the counter. Then Andy grazes from the bags of chips covering the counter, wondering if it’s possible to die from apathy, until his ear perks at a familiar voice.

"Really. They did these tests on rats and the ones that ingested the 23% alcohol solution were found to be 78% more impaired than those ingesting a solution of 17% alcohol--"

"Did someone *invite* you, dickweed? Or are you just crashing? 'Cause you don't look like you were invited."

"—and what's with the hair? My buddies and I could shit a better haircut than that."

Andy takes a moment to cringe. He doesn't know who he's more embarrassed for: Brian--who *does* seem to be growing out one pussy haircut--or himself, for calling apes like McCaffey and Beeker friends.

"I invited him."

Andy's presence is, apparently, a surprise.

"Dude! We didn't know he was a friend of yours, Clark. If we knew that..."

Andy is already shoving a bag of Doritos at Brian and guiding him back to the kitchen with a hand on his shoulder. Brian doesn’t waste time or humility on thanks, just shoves a Dorito into his mouth and says, "Nice house, Andy. It looks a little like mine, but ours was built circa 1969 so the porticos are a little different."

Andy doesn't know what a portico is, but thinks that he'd like to know. Maybe he'll check it out later, after everyone's gone home. Maybe not.

"Glad you came."

"Yeah, I was sort of shocked to find the note in my locker. I was just getting back from Trig--well, I was getting back from the orthodontist, but on my way to trig because that's where I'd have been if I hadn't been getting my braces off. Some people misrepresent themselves in anecdotes and I didn't want--"

"Will you excuse me, Brian?"

There's only so much of Brian Johnson that Andy can take. He's not Saint Andrew, after all. Instead he greets some guys from the basketball team that have just arrived, but he does manage to catch Brian's smile as he tips his head back for a chip. Bright white and straight—no more braces. Appealing smile. Noteworthy, even.

Andy doesn't expect Bender to show up at all and, under strict definitions, he doesn't. Not exactly. It's more like he slides in unobtrusively. Like he's embarrassed that he's actually been invited and has a right to the front door. He’s more comfortable ducking through the back, a paper-wrapped bottle sticking out of his long duster and a pierced piece of tail hanging on. She looks a few hits ahead of Bender tonight. Before long, Andy can see her all over Todd Mursky, tongue in his ear and hand in his lap. Bender doesn't seem shocked. He doesn't seem much of anything.

Around midnight, and sporting a nice buzz, Andy sends in the pizzas. He makes a big show of it, the "good guy" feeding the hungry masses. But the money's his dad's and the idea's his mom's. He thinks of the Bluff and cheap wine and how everyone wishes they were somewhere else. Wonders where Brian and Bender wish they were tonight.

Beeker is about six beers ahead of him and crossing into his affectionate stage. Brian and Bender aren't anywhere around and that feels more comfortable, in a way.

“Stellar fiesta, Clark!” Beeker belches.

“Glad you’re having a good time.”

"Fuck, Clark! I'm gonna miss you so much, man!"

Beeker's a tool. Wedgies and fag jokes. He’ll be fat in a year.

"Gonna miss you too, man." This is not the best Andrew Clark he knows, just the Andrew Clark he knows best. "Beeker, I dare you to take down McCaffey!"

"Your ass is mine, Mc-C!" Beeker shouts and the match commences.

Andy can provide entertainment, too. He can play host. He can play wrestler. He can play Andrew Clark. Most of the time.

When the second keg's nearing empty, it's almost 2 a.m. Some drift to find more alcohol, some just go home. A few have curfews that they actually intend to keep. Andy looks for Brian and finds him cleaning in the family room—tonight dubbed the Makeout Room by those less sober than himself—with a plastic bag in one hand and a used condom pinched between the fingers of his other hand.

"That yours?"

Brian sputters, protesting without forming words.

"Relax, Johnson. I'm just kidding."

"Brian."

"Huh?"

"It's Brian." His mouth is soft and serious and Andy realizes that for a second he just forgot. Forgot how things can be different with some people. Better.

"Sorry. Brian."

"Your house is trashed. Is it always trashed when you have parties?"

"Pretty much."

"Yeah, well my mom would have kittens."

"I think my mom's just glad I'm not boning some guy in the back of her Jag." He lets Brian draw what he will from that sentence. He's tired of editing. And the Jaguar Incident, as it has come to be known in his head, was a formative part of his senior year, even if it never got around school. Somehow it seems wrong to go through all of Grad Night and not mention it at all. Brian might not have been the best audience for this anecdote, though. His mouth gapes. Andy takes the condom from him and sighs. Remembers that he'll have to clear everyone out of the upstairs bedrooms before he goes to bed.

"Did she really do that? Uh, find you? Like that?"

"Yeah. I think..." He's quiet for a moment. "I think she was more pissed off that we were using her car than the 'boning a guy' part." He covers the tension with a forced smile.

"Wow. I just--I mean, I never knew." Brian’s face is red.

"Could we not talk about this anymore?"

"Sure.” A beat. “I mean, I want to respect a guy's privacy--"

"Thanks."

"And that's really big news you've got there, and I'm the last one--"

"Brian, shut up."

"Sorry."

He tips two half-empty cups of beer together to form one full drink and sips it slowly. "You know, you don't have to clean up. You're a guest, right?"

"Right."

They're quiet for a while. It seems odd, too quiet, with Andy's confession hanging between them.

"I mean, if you *wanted* to help, you could."

"I want to."

"Good. That's good." Andy nods his head, appraising Brian. It really *is* a pussy haircut he's got. And a pink Polo with a belt cries “in-crowd” as much as syphilis. And Jesus H. Christ, could he be any gayer? Checking out another guy's clothes—he might as well check out another guy’s package. He wonders if he’s normal. Abnormal. A big horny deviant. Allison would tell him to chill the fuck out, so he scrubs his hand over his face and decides to let it go.

Brian holds open a trashbag while Andy tosses in cups. The house will still be trashed in the morning, but they can get the obvious things out of the way at least. Then again, it might make his dad happy to come home to a shithole. Proof that his all-American kid is still normal, even when he’s secretly sucking cock.

Andy’s reasoning is perverse and backward tonight. It could be the beer.

"So...people had fun tonight?" Brian asks.

"I guess so."

"You don't care if people have fun at your party?"

Andy thinks. Does he care? He doesn't want anyone to have a *bad* Grad Night, but does he give a flying fuck whether they have a good night? "Not really."

"Oh." Brian looks disappointed.

"Well, I care if *you* have a good night. But McCaffey and Beeker?" He shrugs.

"Oh."

“Yeah.”

Later, he finds Jill Murphy puking in the downstairs bathroom, a wine cooler clutched in each hand.

“You’re such a nice guy, Andy,” she sobs as he wrenches the half-empty bottles from her hands. It makes him feel guilty. He just wants to take a piss without an audience. She stumbles to the hall and he kicks the door shut behind her. No one said he had to be the nice guy. He isn’t the nice guy. He’s just…Andy.

He unzips and takes a leak, punching the wall above the toilet in the meantime. He strikes it again and the plaster cracks just a little. His hand is sore but he’s alert. The pain feels good. Clarifying.

When he leaves the bathroom, Jill is gone.

“I called her mom,” Brian explains.

“See? *You’re* the nice guy,” Andy hiccups. He fills two cups with the foamy dregs of the last of the beer and gives one to Brian, who sips at it with a grimace.

“How can you like this stuff? It tastes like shit. You know that, right?” Brian sniffs into the cup and Andy shakes his head.

“You are such a spaz, Brian.”

“Hey, all I’m saying is that—“

“Naw, I’m glad you’re here. Spaz is…good.” He paws the back of Brian’s neck affectionately and shakes him a little. Brian stiffens, then smiles and takes a large foamy chug of beer.

Clearing out the upstairs takes a lot longer than Andy anticipates. Beeker’s passed out in the hall closet and has gone from affectionate to belligerent.

“Fuck, Clark! I’m fine! Gimme my keys…”

“I told you, I don’t have your keys. Just walk home. You’re three streets away, man.”

“Gimme my fuckin’ keys, asshole, before I mess you up!” There’s a little vomit drying on his chin, a splash on his shirt.

“Are you going to walk or do I call Teeger?” Coach Teeger is a bigger threat than the cops are, even. Thankfully Beeker isn’t able to process the fact that, as of 2 p.m. that afternoon, they’re all officially off the wrestling team. He grudgingly shakes off Andy’s attempts to help him down the stairs and stumbles to the front door.

“It’s been real, man,” he hiccups.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Andy stands at the door, breathing night air and car exhaust. Then he drags his heals upstairs. Checks the master bedroom—rumpled but empty. He stretches out as he walks down the hall, hearing his joints pop pleasantly, and opens the door to his own room. He can smell pot as he pushes the door open and the source is sitting cross-legged on the bed, heavy boots rubbing mud onto the bedspread. His mom will wig.

“I thought you left, Bender.”

“Well, I was going to. But *Johnson* here has been entertaining me with tales of your sexual conquests.”

“I was not!” Brian’s leaning uncomfortably against the dresser and exhaling a shallow drag from the joint.

“Did you, or did you not, say that Andrew was worshiping the one-eyed monster in the back of his mother’s Jaguar?”

“Thanks a lot, Brian,” Andy slurs, but doesn’t mean it as scornfully as it sounds. Somehow he doesn’t think Bender’ll care the way Beeker or McCaffy or *god forbid* Teeger would care.

“So….Andrew here is packing fudge.” Bender’s eyes are twinkling and Andy isn’t sure whether to be concerned or relieved. “Pillow biting after hours.”

“You know I would *never* have said anything if you told me not to tell anyone,” Brian interrupts, “but Bender made me.”

“*I* made you?”

“You gave me pot.”

“And…?”

“Both of you just forget it. It’s no big deal.”

“Well, I beg to differ, Cappy.” Bender takes back the joint, taking another deep drag before continuing. “When Andrew Clark starts boning frat boys instead of cheerleaders, it’s time to call Ted Koppel.”

“Didn’t say he was a frat boy,” Andy says, then plucks the joint from Bender and takes a hit himself.

“Whatever. Claire know?” Bender is straining for nonchalant. He fails.

“God, I haven’t talked to Claire in…” He tries to remember. February? March?

“She’s pregnant, you know.”

Bender’s words hit the room like lead. Like a dare. Andy doesn’t know what to say. Brian’s eyes are huge and silent in the ensuing awkwardness.

“Congrats, man—“

“—‘s not mine.” Bender takes another hit and kicks his boots to the floor where they land with a thump. Andy stares at the mud crumbled on the carpet, at anything except Bender’s face because it’s not really a surprise and it’s not really fair, but it just *is* and maybe that’s what’s most shity. And maybe he just needs to sleep or fuck or take another hit because his skin is prickling with tension.

“Does he go to our school?” Bender and Andy both swivel their eyes to Brian. “Your guy, you know? Do we know him?”

Four eyes fixed on him and Andy realizes Brian’s not talking to Bender. “Naw.”

“Pool guy?” The tension eases and Bender seems relieved. Maybe amused. The looks are so similar.

“He’s older. Construction worker,” he adds as he stretches back across the end of his bed. ”And, uh, not adverse to using his tongue.” Andy laughs and blushes but refuses to lower his head when he realizes he’s just, basically, come fucking out to two people in one night.

“He build your family a new maid’s quarters?” Bender asks with only a little sulkiness behind the jab.

“Guest bath.”

“The one downstairs?” Brian asks.

“Yeah.”

Brian nods. “Good workmanship.” That earns twin sniggers and a pair of pillows strike him hard in the face. “What? I appreciate skilled craftsmanship.”

“So Andrew here is banging construction workers. What about you, Johnson?”

“Me?“

“No, let me guess.” Bender crawls forward onto his knees. “Brian here has the look of a man who’s recently lost his cherry. Admit it, Bri. Was she a choirgirl? Captain of the chess club?” Brian doesn’t answer, just begs Andy with his eyes. “She keep her knee socks on when you fucked or did you get to Full Ankle?”

“Leave him alone, Bender.”

“Why would I do that?”

Brian’s face is red and his chest is heaving.

“You’re pissing him off.”

“I thought that was the point.”

“If Brian doesn’t want to tell us—“

“Oh, but he does. Don’t you, Johnson?”

Brian’s face gets redder and he mutters “Shut up,” under his breath.

“There’s no one, is there?” Andy asks in a surprising moment of clarity.

“Shut up.” Brian’s teeth are clenched together and he looks ready to cry or hit or possibly throw up.

“Andrew was just trying to enlighten me, Johnson—“

“Yeah, well *enlighten* each other on your own time. I’m leaving.” Brian’s pissed—really pissed—and Andy’s slow to react. He does manage to get a foot out to Brian’s path, banging their shins together.

“Hey, Bender’s just being Bender. We’re all cool, Brian.”

“Maybe you are, but…” Brain’s staring at a spot on the wall. Andy looks. Three shelves of neatly framed photos, trophies, ribbons. Andy’s choice of words was…unfortunate.

Shermer High School All City Wrestling Champion, 1983.

1984.

1985.

His Homecoming King scepter collecting dust under a worn-looking yearbook that’s only a few days old.

“Brian—“

“I have to go.”

“No. You. Don’t.” Bender exhales slowly.

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t *have* to go,” Bender drawls. “You *want* to go ‘cause we embarrassed you.”

“The difference?” Brian’s all puffed up now. He looks ready to fight and the mental image makes Andy giggle—a really spastic giggle that causes him choke on his own spit and cough. Then he imagines Brian in a gray singlette, smooth Lycra on pale skin and lean limbs. A half-nelson that could be more. The giggle dies unexpectedly.

“Stay.” His voice is husky. He coughs a little and that helps. “Stay, man. We’re sorry.”

“I’m not—“

“—Shut up, Bender. Come on, Brian…” He kicks Brian with his extended foot just a little so he draws closer to Bender and the top of the bed. “Stay a while.”

“Yeah, Brian. Andrew has so many things to teach you. Isn’t that right, Captain?”

“You are an unbelievable jackass.” Andy smiles at Bender, though, and Brian succumbs to their prodding. Bender shoves the joint at Brian’s face and he carefully pinches it between his fingers before taking a hit and lying back between them to watch the smoke curl into the air above their collective heads.

“I just thought there’d always be time, you know?” Brian mumbles.

“Time for what?” Bender coughs and shifts so that the three of them are stretched over the width of Andy’s bed.

“To have sex,” Brian says, like Bender should have known.

“What, you’re dyin’ tomorrow? Shit, Johnson, just get up and go over to Suzie Simple’s house and tell her you’re looking to poke some dweeb cunt and then it’s all over.”

“You’re a prince Bender. Really classy guy.”

“Come on, Clark. You know you were thinking the same thing. Johnson’s not losing his cherry ‘cause he’s home watching Star Trek every Friday night.”

“Starman.”

“Huh?”

“I’m watching Starman—“

“I’m trying to help you here, man. So quit fucking interrupting.”

“Sorry.” Brian takes another hit and Andy watches him bite his lower lip and then exhale, the smoke making twin curls escape from between the edges of his lips. It’s so fucking sexy that Andy is confused and has to shift and stare at the ceiling while Bender continues to wax philosophical about Nerd Virginity.

“See, all you got to do is get yourself out there. Where do geeks go to cut loose around Shermer? The library? How about the bowling alley?”

“*I* go to the bowling alley,” Andy says defensively, then wonders what it might be like if Brian showed up there, all Regular Guy and anonymous. Thinks maybe he’d go there…just say hello, buy him a beer if Tanya was working the bar, and just…let things figure themselves out. He wonders if that’s why Brain is eighteen and a half and still untouched in the biblical sense of the word.

“Could we talk about something else?”

“Sure, John-son,” Bender taunts. “Let’s hear some more from Andrew over there.”

“How about hearing from you, Bender?”

Andy has to give it to Brain. He turns the tables so fast, even Bender is quiet for a second.

“What *about* me?”

“Claire’s out of the picture.”

“Yeah.” There’s a tone in Bender’s voice that has Andy a little nervous, but Brian pushes on relentlessly, apparently deciding he has a death wish. Or maybe it’s just that tonight is about coming out on several different levels. Apparently Brian has an inner Bender he’s been hiding for a while.

“And pregnant by some other guy. Doesn’t that upset you? Or piss you off? Doesn’t that make you, like, the biggest loser in Shermer, Illinois? I mean, you *had* Claire Fucking Standish and she gets it on with some guy at her father’s office?” Bender’s eyes open wider. “Yeah, I know about it. Her little brother’s on the debate team. The whole *freshman class* knows about it, Bender.”

Bender’s so silent, Andy begins to wonder if the guy fell asleep. Finally Bender offers a flippant, “Who cares.”

“*You* care.”

“I don’t give a fuck about anything, especially Claire, asshole.”

“Well then that’s the biggest lie of all, isn’t it Bender? ‘Cause if you didn’t care at all, you’d be out with some girl tonight and not laying here with us faggots talking about your sad, rich, pregnant ex.”

For the umpteenth time tonight, the gravity in the room tilts and Andy feels his stomach sinking to that odd place beneath his chest. He waits for Bender to hit Brian. He doesn’t. Then he waits for Brain to correct himself—one faggot and one genuine heterosexual—but he doesn’t.

Enlightening.

Andy leans up on his elbow and watches Bender. He’s staring at the ceiling and his chest is rising and falling heavily; his mouth is open. One hand reaches out toward the headboard and snuffs out the stub of the joint, leaving a singed circle on the wood. The corners of Bender’s eyes are wet.

Andy doesn’t know what to say. Bender turns on his side and watches him over the rise of Brian’s body. His knees draw up and he’s truly speechless for the first time since Andy’s known him. Andy watches the light from his football lamp cast weird shadows on Bender’s face. He looks like something far less poetic than a kicked puppy. A kicked rat, maybe. Or just a sad kid that grew up way before he should have had to and is now finding the reality of his world just one too many kicks to bear.

“Brian didn’t really mean that—“

“—Yes, I did.”

“Shut up, Johnson.”

“My name is Brian, you asshole. You’re not Bender. You can’t call people by their last names unless they’re on a team with you.”

“This a new rule?” Bender asks, amused. Andy smiles, Brian sulks. They’re quite again. Andy tries not to watch Brian, but there’s a long, lean arm pressed against his and the atmosphere in the room reminds him that sometimes lust and anticipation win out over caution and good judgement.

“He just meant that it’s okay to admit that things are shity,” Andy says at last. “You’re not alone.” It doesn’t sound all that comforting when he says it, but Bender nods just the same. A car passes by the house and the headlights briefly illuminate the room; the criss-cross pattern of the window paints a momentary cross over a wall filled with swim trophies from junior high. He wonders if his mom would cry if he dropped them one by one into the pool and let the chlorine do its magic.

“That true?” Bender says, and pushes Brian with his elbow.

“Close enough.”

“Well, uh, thanks.”

“Sure.”

Bender’s free hand reaches out and drops onto Brian’s stomach. It doesn’t move and Andy stares at it, fascinated. Bender’s hands are smooth and tan and surprisingly delicate. There’s dark hair on the back, and small tufts on each knuckle. The nails are short and ragged, but clean.

“Bender?”

“John-son?”

Bender’s hand pushes up on Brian’s polo, tugging it from his pants. He’s grinning wolfishly at Andy over Brian’s body. Brian sounds like he wants to protest, but then Bender’s rough fingers are scraping along his bare stomach and he stops, inhaling hard. He holds incredibly still.

Andy is mesmerized by Bender’s hand, but more so by the pale skin underneath. There’s a thick trail of gold hair there and Bender is stroking through it. He swallows hard and breathes shallowly, trying not to pant. Brian’s abdominal muscles twitch and contract as Bender draws his fingers over it in light figure eights. Andy’s eyes flick to Bender again, but now Bender’s watching Brian’s stomach, his own hand, and seems miles away. The grin is different now. Soft.

Letting his guests get molested isn’t something he printed on the invitations. Andy knows that Bender’s upset and he knows that his own ability to make good decisions left about a half-hour ago. But when he looks at Brian, when he tries to offer escape and a somewhat drunken ride home, all he can see are blue eyes so pale, they look like the acid washed jeans he’s had since freshman year. And Brian’s eyes are watching him. Watching Andy while his body twitches with apparent pleasure. He licks his lower lip and leaves his mouth open while colorless eyelashes sink halfway. Andy’s cock rises hot and hard; he can’t look away.

Then Brian is still and Bender’s mesmerizing hand is on Andy’s neck, pulling him in, pulling him closer, until Bender’s lips are touching his own. It’s a strange reality where John Bender kisses dudes and stranger still when Andy’s the dude in question. Still, Bender’s got talent and a spicy taste that Andy decides he’s totally into. He opens his mouth, and laps desperately, grunting softly and very fucking grateful that his folks aren’t coming back from Chicago until the next day.

Andy’s free hand rests on Brian’s stiff new denim and he lets his mind fall into the kiss until he feels another hand on his throat, slipping around his neck. The fingers are smoother, though. Longer and colder. He parts with some frustration from Bender’s mouth and finds another hand tugging at his arm. He allows himself to be pulled away and cool lips touch his. These lips aren’t as tenacious. They brush sweetly, softly. They’re hesitant and Andy blames the pot and the beer on the fact that he’s kissing Brian for four whole seconds before he really realizes it.

Honestly, he’s never really thought about kissing Brian before. Not until tonight. Somehow it seems like that’s all he’s thought about since the kegs arrived, though. And now he’s doing it, hand sliding over Brian’s thigh and tongue in his mouth and it feels so goddamn good he could cry. He uses his free hand to pull at his sweatshirt and manages to get it about halfway up his chest before extra hands help peel him free. He swings his leg over Brian, straddling him, thinking only of probing deeper, kissing harder, and working his hands over the fair, freckled skin he saw earlier.

When a hot tongue touches his neck, he welcomes it. And when he sits up to stretch and a dark head takes his place, he returns the touch, pushing Bender’s hair out of the way to lay a long lick and a kiss to the sensitive skin on the back of his neck. Bender’s already stripped off his trademark flannel shirt; it lies in a puddle over the muddy boots on the floor. Andy sits up and smiles at the pile, imagining the fit his mother would have if she saw her carpet, and the simple, heavy sigh she’d give if she saw them on the bed. It makes him smile. The world has such a fucked up sense of irony.

Andy shoves up Brian’s shirt until Bender catches on, sitting up and letting Brian sit up. Brian’s lips are kiss-swollen and red, as are his beard-burned cheeks. He wears a dazed grin and pants hard, scrambling for the nearest mouth, the nearest area of bare skin. Andy yanks the dreaded pink polo over Brian’s head while Bender laughs at Brian’s eagerness, rolling his eyes at Andy and then sucking hard on Brian’s neck. Andy strips off his own undershirt, tossing it over Bender’s, and kicks off his sneakers. Brian’s toeing off his own wingtips, wiggling to get closer to Bender’s mouth and Andy’s hands.

Bender flips his hair out of his eyes with a toss of his head and pulls Brian’s mouth to his. It’s fucking hot and leaves Andy with one option that he’s both terrified of and exhilarated by. His hands fumble excitedly at Brian’s fly and he feels Brian shudder when he carefully unzips him.

It’s not like he’s a slut. He’s not Hugh Hefner or Richard Gere. But Andy’s always been good at sports and tonight is no exception. He tugs down Brian’s jeans and then wrenches them the rest of the way off, laughing to himself as Brian’s hands automatically reach to cover himself. His dark red boxers are tenting out at an absurd angle and Bender’s hand is reaching out for it before Andy slaps it away.

Bender chuckles next to him and somehow, bizarre as the night is, it feels comfortable. Right, in a way Andy will try to explain to himself in the years to come but will never be able to accurately put to words.

Andy presses his mouth to the hard point stretching at Brian’s boxers. He sucks and rubs until it’s not just his own spit making a dark circle on the fabric. Brian is thrusting almost imperceptibly and Andy takes it as a good sign. He tugs down the elastic waistband and smiles as his lips bump up against Brian’s erection. Bender’s hand comes up behind his head, guiding him down, and the act makes his own cock throb harder. He imagines being directed like in the bad porn reels he and Beeker watched in the basement sophomore year.

“That’s right, Mr. Clark. Now suck him down. Make him cry…”

He’s really stoned.

He really doesn’t care.

Bender’s hand strokes the back of his head and it’s almost…gentle. Andy sucks Brian hard, knowing that Brian won’t judge him the way someone with more experience might. It’s nice. He wants to say it’s comfortable, but that’s not exactly the right word. Comfortable doesn’t explain the erection trapped in his jeans or the way his blood is roaring in his ears. It doesn’t explain the tiny cries from Brian’s mouth or the way Brian’s hips are pushing up, up, up.

Andy rubs himself through his jeans, enjoying the feeling of painful friction against his sensitive skin. He tongues the end of Brian’s cock and realizes the salty flavor there is getting stronger. Brian’s trembling now, and Andy knows he’s close. If he has to admit it, he’s pretty impressed that Brian lasted this long. He wraps has hand around the base of Brian’s cock and strips him roughly, up once, up twice, hard suck, and then Brian is coming.

“Oh fuuuck…!” Brian’s voice is raw and ragged. It hits a nerve and Andy’s cock dances under his own hand.

Bender’s other hand has been holding him upright, but he slumps forward a moment after Brian, obviously spent. His fly is open and it looks like he’s been humping Brian’s hip. Bender doesn’t seem pissed, though. Just satisfied.

Andy crawls up the length of Brian’s body, taking note of the blushing skin and shiny sheen of sweat. Brian’s panting hard and twitching happily and they *made* that happen, which is so fucking amazing. Andy’s panting himself, still hard, but not complaining. Then Brian’s hand tangles in his own and it feels kind of…nice.

“Thanks.” Bender is succinct, as usual. After two tries he sits up and zips up his fly, taking a moment to nuzzle the side of Brian’s neck and whisper to him before he stands. Brian’s grin broadens but he doesn’t say anything in return. Bender leans back and leaves a wet kiss on Andy’s forehead.

“Thanks for the party. It’s been highly educational.” The words hold no contempt, though. Bender slides on his shirts, pulls on his boots. Leaves them untied and yanks on his coat.

“Are we good?” Andy asks, maybe too cautiously because he can see Bender roll his eyes through the back of his head. Bender turns.

“I don’t… hang out, you know? But we’re cool. Thanks,” he adds as an afterthought. “Thanks.” And it’s sincere, which is also unbelievable. Andy smiles, though, and Bender smiles, too.

Then it’s just two.

It’s different. Not worse. Not better. Brian’s cooling down and Andy’s heating up. He stands, jeans open and dangling from his hips, and moves to the window. When the door slams downstairs he watches Bender crossing the lawn, arms and jacket wrapped to protect himself from the chilly dawn air. Andy continues to stand and stare because he doesn’t really know what to say to Brian. There’s so much there, and so few words that seem adequate.

Abruptly, hands slip around his hips, sliding beneath his BVDs and liberating his cock. It’s so unexpected that he leans forward without thinking, bumping his forehead against the cold glass. It feels amazing. Hot on his dick and cold on his face. Brian’s body is pressed against his back, warm and smooth and strangely confident. Andy leans back and lets his arms dangle. He steps back again, spreading his legs wantonly and letting his loose jeans slip down enough to allow Brian free reign.

Smooth lips on his neck bite and kiss. One hand holds him still at the hip while the other pumps his cock easily.

“I’m glad I came tonight,” Brian whispers as he strokes. Andy smiles.

“Me too. Hey, double entendre,” he gasps.

“I know.”

“I bet you do.” Now Andy does feel like a slut, in the best sense of the word. He’s doing nothing, just standing. Letting it happen. Letting Brian Johnson have his way{comma here?} and isn’t *that* a crazy idea, too.

“This isn’t the way I thought about doing this.”

“Uh-huh.” Andy’s coming close. His balls are tightening expectantly and his heart is racing.

“I mean, I don’t think about this all the time or anything.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But when I do, it’s always with you.” Brian whispers it in Andy’s ear and tonight—this morning—it’s the hottest thing he’s ever heard. He climaxes then, comes *hard*, and Brian seems surprised that he made it happen. His hands shy away and he steps back as Andy groans.

Andy has to reach out to steady himself and clutches Brian firmly, before he can flee. Brian looks oddly confused, as if he’s not sure how he came to be standing naked in Andrew Clark’s bedroom at the ass-crack of dawn. So Andy kisses him. Kisses him fiercely, which leaves no room for discussion. Brian looks no less dazed when they part, but he does smile.

“You don’t have braces anymore,” Andy wisely notes.

“Uh-uh.” Brian’s turn to be speechless now.

“I noticed earlier.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. You look good.”

“I do?”

“Yeah.” Andy’s not really a man of many words.

“Did you know over 70% of the teenagers in the United States wear braces at some point in their life.”

“No.”

“It’s true.” Andy’s not going to debate him. A quiet silence falls over the room. It’s the kind of silence that can only be found at dusk. The sky is pink in the distance. Andy hopes Bender’s coat is warm enough.

“I meant it before.”

“What?”

“I’m really glad you came.”

“That’s just because you had sex,” Brian says after consideration.

“Maybe.” Andy tugs his jeans up the rest of the way, but stops Brian when he reaches for his own. “You cold?”

“Kind of.”

Andy tugs back the covers on his bed and Brian hesitantly crawls in. He’s never had another guy in his bed before. It’s a strange kind of taboo that stirs his libido that much more. Andy follows him in, not protesting when Brian nervously tugs at Andy’s jeans.

“Be fair.” On someone else it might be a flirtatious comment, but Brian sounds like he’s protesting a cheated move in Battleship.

“Help me.” Long cold fingers work the jeans off and Andy kicks them out from under the bedclothes and onto the floor. Skin to skin and he feels really naked now, and not just in the physical sense.

“I didn’t really want to have a party tonight.”

“Why did you, then?”

“My dad.”

“Yeah.”

They’re quiet for a while. Brian doesn’t seem to need any more explanation that that.

“I really just wanted to go to Pike's Bluff,” Andy admits.

“I know that place!”

He decides that childish excitement works for Brian. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, my dad took us hiking there once.”

“That sounds cool.”

“I had a trig test to study for. He made me take the book.”

A flicker of mutual understanding passes between them.

“We could still go there. Later, you know?” Brian says shyly, then smiles one of his new brace-free smiles. “We could talk. Or we could just…you know?” Brian blushes so red that Andy imagines he can see it color his toes. “Or we could listen to music. I have a new boom box. It takes these CDs and the sound is really amaz—“

Andy has to kiss him.





The End

Title: Wesley-come-lately
Author's Name: Scarlet
Author's Email and URL: scarletsfiction@yahoo www.geocities.com/karenmnick
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and UPN own Buffy the Vampire Slayer in totality. Joss Whedon and the WB own Angel: the Series. No profit is made from this piece of fiction and no copyright infringement is intended.
Distribution: Sprinkle like dust on the wind; just let me know where it lands so I can visit from time to time.
Rating: FRAO
Pairing: Giles/Wesley
Feedback: Yes! (What? You thought I was going to say “no”?)
Author's Notes: Only the second time I’ve ever done Wesley/Giles and I realized both were for the maleslashminis. Funny. Written for lostgirlslair. She wanted to make sure that while it wasn’t heavy angst, it also didn’t show them as bumbling buffoons. I’m not real sure I’m on the mark here, but I hope she likes it anyway. Oh, and a Johnny-come-lately means an inexperienced newcomer. Hence the title.


“In which box shall I put Magrite's Treatises on the Dantalion? ‘Demons of Ireland’ or ‘Organ Eaters’?”

“Neither. Here, give it to me.” Giles was fussing with a stack of Watcher diaries. He snatched the book impatiently from Wesley’s hands. “Dantalion are worshipers of Diana. It goes here.” He thrust the book into a cardboard box marked “Diana” and resumed his packing of diaries, years 1884-1889.

“Well you needn’t snap at me. I’m only trying to help,” Wesley said quietly, if not a bit petulantly, and Giles felt the tiniest happy twinge of satisfaction. Packing his beloved books before the library’s utter demolition was not his idea of a grand way to spend the days prior to graduation. Everyone had to do things that they didn’t want to do, though. He doubted that Wesley had begged Buffy for the job of packing hundreds of books in her grand graduation plan. No, not likely at all.

“…Chase brought up a fascinating point.”

“What’s that?” Giles began a fruitless search for packing tape as Wesley spoke. “I was just saying that Ms. Chase feels that any system of organization one comes up with is likely to change as dictated by the needs of the moment.”

“Actually, I believe her exact words were, ‘Why do we need to organize this crap when Sunnydale is just going to be an all-you-can-eat loser buffet anyway?’ ”

Wesley stiffened but remained silent and Giles began to feel a bit guilty for taunting the younger Watcher.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Tell the truth? Giles didn’t know how to finish his sentence.

“It’s quite alright.” Wesley adjusted his tie. “Perhaps I’m not the most unbiased source regarding Ms. Chase.”

Giles snorted before he could stop himself, but Wesley didn’t seem to notice. “And how is Ms. Chase?”

“Um…fine. You know, she is quite a lovely thing, but we’ve decided to…er, allow our passions to wilt on order to allow our friendship to blossom.”

“That’s how you’re putting it, is it?” Giles began securing the boxes in front of him.

“Of course. It’s the absolute truth.”

“Right. Well, that’s…It sounds remarkably mature and level-headed.”

“It is, thank you. No need to go rushing into anything, is there?”

“Not at all.”

“Slow and steady and all that.”

“Right.”

Wesley suddenly slammed down the volume on demonic weapons he’d been holding and wailed, “Oh, Rupert! It’s a lie! It’s all a lie.”

“Sorry? What’s a—“

“Everything! Ms. Chase—Cordelia—finds me utterly unsuitable and I must confess that our brief coupling was anything but idyllic.”

“I don’t want to hear this—“

“Certainly it was fine at first. She’s a very attractive girl—have I mentioned that? And her lips are of the sweetest, most soft—“

“Dear lord, I have no interest—“

“But our fleeting kiss, though well-executed I must say, was lacking a fundamental—”

“Propriety?”

“—ardor. It’s utterly inexplicable.”

Giles snorted again, then set himself firmly to packing Watcher diaries, 1889-1894.

“Is there something you’re not sharing with me?” Wesley looked so genuinely flummoxed that Giles had no choice but to set down his book, remove his glasses, and begin polishing them in order to avoid having to meet Wesley’s gaze directly.

“Well…Well. I suppose I found your…coupling, did you call it? I found your coupling odd to say the least.”

“I admit she was quite young.”

“Yes. And, well…”

“What?”

“Female.”

An enormous pause followed Giles’ admission in which he was able to replace his glasses and locate the missing diary of Watcher Alfred Romanski, 1890.

“Are you implying that you thought I was some sort of…of homosexual?” Wesley said at last.

“Well in a word, yes.”

Wesley was again blessedly silent for several minutes and Giles was delighted with the fact that he’d found the one subject that would silence the loquacious Watcher.

“You may be correct,” Wesley said at last. It was Giles’ turn to be speechless as Wesley continued. “I don’t, of course, have empirical support and I dare say my father wouldn’t agree with your findings but…My goodness, the evidence does seem to point that way, doesn’t it?”

“Well there you are,” Giles said uncomfortably. “Now, if you’ll just pass me that book.” He indicated a small green book just under Wesley’s elbow.

“Of course.” Wesley passed over the book, lost in thought while Giles wished he were anywhere but the library at that exact moment. “It would explain a great many things.”

“Would it?”

“Indeed. Certainly I’ve found women attractive, but I must say that there’s no replacement for the companionship of a fellow man.”

Giles responded with a mumble of assent.

“Their musky scent, their strong physique, the brazen sexuality of the male gender is alluring—“

“Dear lord, Wesley! Why must we have this conversation NOW of all times? I regret even mentioning it at all!”

“No, Rupert! You’re right. I think you may be entirely correct. I am a homosexual.” He let the words linger for a moment. “I am a homosexual. Homo…sexual.”

“Will you stop saying homosexual?”

“Does homosexuality make you uncomfortable, Rupert?”

“Yes! I mean, no. Human sexuality in any form is a venerated—Damn! Will you let this issue lie? We’ve a great deal of work to do.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

“Certainly. I’m not one to overstep my bounds. I just thought that you, being the one who introduced this topic, would have certain insight.”

“Well I don’t.”

“As you have said.” Silence prevailed for several seconds, then, “It’s just—“

Giles dropped the half-filled box he had been holding. “What? ‘It’s just’ what?”

“I’d rather thought of you as…”

“Yes?” Giles’ acid tone did nothing to discourage the young Watcher.

“As a man of some repute in this area. Don’t misunderstand, it’s not as if your reputation is one of lothario of the gay community. However, before I arrived in the states, I was told that you were something of a reckless playboy in your youth. A rumor I find, admittedly, hard to believe.”

“I wouldn’t listen to—Wait, why is that hard to believe?”

Wesley sighed indulgently. “Listen to yourself. You’re hardly acting as the open minded, free spirited man the rumors claimed you to be, Rupert.”

“Stop calling me Rupert. It just…sounds ridiculous when you say it. And I’m just as open minded and free spirited as I’ve always been. Now, unfortunately, we have a great deal of work to do and little time to do it. There are more pressing matters at hand.”

It was Wesley’s turn to snort. “There are always pressing matters. Aren’t there, Mr. Giles? I think you’re avoiding areas that you find uncomfortable. It’s classic psychology, you know. Pass me the tape.”

“What?”

“Pass me the tape. This box is filled.”

Giles shook his head, confused, then passed the large roll to Wesley. “Here.” His head ached and he rubbed his temples.

“Forgive me. I’ve overstepped my bounds. I’ll say no more about it.” Wesley began to unbutton the cuffs of his immaculately pressed shirt and proceeded to roll up the sleeves.

They worked in silence for several hours. Giles sorted carefully, as was his habit, but his mind was elsewhere. However farcical Wesley’s sudden awareness was, the fellow had obviously been surprised and was dealing with the newfound understanding in his own way. Giles was rarely prone to long bouts of introspection but he indulged now. Was he being closed minded? Was he still as free spirited as he was in college? He knew what Ethan’s opinion would be, though it mattered little. The ironic things was that Wesley was the sort of man he would have found quite attractive in his youth. Dark hair, soft hands, sharp mind. Or relatively sharp, he thought, then chuckled at his own flippancy.

Giles soon found it necessary to roll up his own sleeves as the late afternoon air became stifling in the enclosed room. One by one the boxes began to build up and the two men began gathering them into a makeshift mountain, ready to be removed later with Oz’s van. Several of the larger boxes were quite heavy but Giles hesitated to ask Wesley for his assistance. He wasn’t sure why. It may have been because of the resemblance Wesley bore to past lovers, or it could have been something to do with not looking weak in front of the other man. Neither option set well with him.

“Are you sure you don’t need assistance?” Wesley asked, when Giles nearly dropped the crate he was carrying.

“No. I’m fine.” He repositioned his hands and hastily placed it on the growing stacks. “Just fine.”

“Because it looked as if that crate were quite heavy—“

“I’m FINE.”

“Of course. You would know better than I.”

Giles rubbed the bridge of his nose where his glasses rested. A weak headache had begun and was growing with each hour. “It’s just this blasted headache. I’ve taken medicine, but I’m afraid it’s here to stay.”

“Let me help.” Giles wasn’t prepared for warm hands on his neck, nor was he unpleased. Wesley began to rub his neck and shoulders while Giles stood stiffly in front of him.”

“Thank you, I’m sure it’s better now—“

“You’re so tense! It’s no wonder you don’t feel well.”

“The ascension of a demon bent on genocide does tend to cause some stress,” Giles said crossly.

“Of course. That must be it. It’s just…”

“What?”

“Well, I hope that it’s not our earlier chat causing you anxiety.”

“It’s not. And I can assure you that you were wrong. Are wrong. I have nothing against, em, homosexuality. Or sexuality in general. I’m as broad minded as I ever was.”

“Good. That’s…good.”

The fingers on his neck began working into his scalp, stroking the tender spot behind his ears that he found utterly glorious.

“You should know that I’m quite sexually liberal—down a bit, yes that’s it—and allow others the same freedoms. Moral indignation is simply jealousy with a halo.”

“Well said.”

“It wasn’t me. I believe it was H. G. Wells—my you have marvelous hands. Where did you learn to do this?”

“Oh, a bit here a bit there. Better now?”

Wesley’s hands stopped and Giles was disappointed.

“Yes. Very good.”

“As I was saying, I picked up a bit in college. Nothing better to seduce the young ladies than a nice massage, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I’m sure.”

“But I suppose that’s all water under the bridge now.”

“Perhaps.”

Wesley went back to stacking and arranging boxes while Giles removed the last of the valuable texts from the lower shelves. While he stacked, he thought. The only word to describe Wesley was enigma. Wesley was simply an enigma. All of that knowledge combined with ridiculous naivete. It was a puzzle. A rather handsomely packaged puzzle.

An hour later they packed the last book. Wesley added it to the stack while Giles wiped the counter with a damp cloth. Then he stopped, staring at the cloth and reveling in the absurdity of cleaning a counter that would be demolished in less than a day’s time.

“That’s it then,” Wesley said. He began to switch off the lights one by one. Darkness fell across the library, but Giles remained rooted firmly in place. “Something wrong?” Wesley was suddenly rather close but Giles didn’t move.

“The library is the single most holy place on earth. Did you ever think about that? Churches rise and synagogues fall. But a library remains a place of learning throughout.”

“I don’t suppose I’ve ever thought about it.”

“I will hate to see it destroyed. Sacrilege, in a way. There’s just something about a library…The learning that takes place here. The treasures that are found with the pages of a book. Why the very smell of a book—“

Feverish lips suddenly found his own in the near dark. Giles was startled, but then the mouth on his opened up and the warm slip of Wesley’s tongue slid forward. Wesley’s hand found the back of his head and began that gentle rub behind the ears that had so pleased him earlier. It was an odd relief to find the knot of tension and impending doom that had lived in his stomach for weeks dissolve in the face of pure sexual pleasure. His trousers were hot and full and he moaned with pure pleasure.

Wesley broke the kiss to glance down to Giles’ chest. “Can I…?”

Giles nodded in a lusty haze and Wesley proceeded to unbutton his shirt and loosen his tie. Then Wesley’s mouth fixated on Giles’ chest. Giles rested his elbows on the counter and leaned back, giving Wesley access to his chest and the trail of hair leading downward. The soft hands Giles admired earlier unbuttoned his trousers. Before he could offer even a weak protest, his pants were puddling at his ankles with his undergarments.

He felt strangely comfortable, naked in the library. Odd, that. But after so many hours spent in the library, it almost seemed like home. Maybe it was only fitting to give it one final goodbye of sorts. He let his head roll back, eyes tracking the patterns of fading sunlight on the ceiling while a smooth hand began stroking him.

He soon realized that Wesley had slid to his knees. Giles sat up and took the dark hair in his hands, twisting his fingers in and tugging him forward. Without provocation, Wesley slipped Giles’ cock into his mouth and began bobbing gently at first, then more urgently, on the rigid organ. Giles watched him work, pleasure mounting at once. Wesley was expertly kneading his testicles with one hand while opening the fly of his own trousers with the other. It made quite an erotic picture, he thought, as Wesley began to simultaneously stroke himself and pleasure Giles.

Wesley’s talented tongue left Giles cock long enough to lick at his testicles. Giles tensed with pleasure as first one, then the other, was taken into Wesley’s mouth and orally massaged. Giles groaned, then felt Wesley stiffen below him. Wesley pulled back and Giles watched as he came, ejaculating heavily against the doomed counter.

Wesley was back in a moment, sucking hard, a man with a mission. Without hesitation, he took Giles in entirely, nestling his nose against his belly, before withdrawing. Giles felt himself draw close, the tension building with each plunge of Wesley’s expertly trained, skilful…

“You…are…a…prat!” Giles exclaimed as he came.

Wesley chuckled around him as semen dripped from his lips. Weak-kneed now, Giles slumped down and joined Wesley on the ratty carpet. Wesley’s arm came around him almost affectionately while Giles caught his breath. They leaned against the counter, sweaty and relaxed.

“You called me a prat,” Wesley said at last.

“Yes. A lying prat.”

“Lying?”

“Just answer me this. When did you decide to do it?”

“Do what?”

“Seduce me?”

“Hum…hard to say. I suppose it was when you blushed at the word homosexual. Naiveté is such an aphrodisiac.”

“I suppose so,” Giles chuckled. “So then…you’re…I mean, when did you…”

“Come on, old man. You and I both know that sexuality isn’t static. It’s as malleable as, well, life. Nothing stays the same, Rupert.”

“I suppose not.”

“Not even libraries,” he said quietly.

Giles looked at the empty stacks. “Variety can be a good thing, I suppose,” he said at last. “Change is good for the soul.”

“That it is, friend. That it is.”

The End

Title: Snapshots of the Old Guard
Author's Name: Scarlet
Author's Email and URL: scarletsfiction@yahoo www.geocities.com/karenmnick
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon owns Buffy the Vampire Slayer in totality. No profit is made from this piece of fiction and no copyright infringement is intended.
Distribution: Sprinkle like dust on the wind, just let me know where it lands so I can visit from time to time.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Giles/Wesley
Feedback: Yes, please! Scarletsfiction at yahoo dot com
Author's Note #1: Written for txrabbit for the maleslashminis Giles round.
Author’s Note #2: What was I thinking volunteering to write Wesley and Giles? “I love Wesley. I love Giles. Why shouldn’t I be able to write them?” I must have thought in my dazed stupor. But as the week went on, I realized that I’VE NEVER WRITTEN THIS PAIRING IN MY LIFE, nor had I ever read this pairing!!! Dom!Giles? Sub!Wes? Ack! Calgon take me away! So, having said that, I must now pimp for Wes/Giles stories as I know I’d love them and also beg forgiveness from txrabbit if I’m totally off the mark here.
_______________________________________________

Giles

Giles rarely pines for London. A plane ride. A boat ride. Home is only a credit card away. Always there, like a familiar friend. And like an undemanding friend, London moves to the rear of his mind. Taken for granted that it will always be there.

Then, one day, it all changes.

It seems London has come to *him*, in the form of rosy cheeks and a naiveté born of entitlement. His first impression isn’t dazzling, his second even less so. The voice grates; Giles finds his fists clenching to strike out of annoyance, then flexing open out of understanding.

Was I once so provincial? Was my snobbery so evident? My weaknesses so transparent?

Still. There’s intelligence there, a quality that frequently forgives all faults. And a fragility that Giles longs to nurture as well as exploit. He muses that someday he might do both.

*

Wesley

The first time they meet surprises him. Giles is nothing like the other Watchers, and thus represents everything he hates. Americanized and undisciplined, Giles is more likely led than leading. But appearances can be deceiving and Wesley vows to draw an opinion based on merit rather than personal opinion or sinfully enigmatic eyes.

The problem he finds is that one can’t simultaneously approve and disapprove. Can’t admire and abhor. So a decision must be made.

He vows to make that decision, possibly before the week is out. Or perhaps the month.

Then again, one should never be in a rush to judge.

*

Giles

Seducing him isn’t planned, not in the manner that Giles used to plan; subtle glances and touches, smoky music in his London flat, a gravely purr full of promises.

It isn’t so much a seduction as it is the conclusion of a certain inevitability. Both with threadbare nerves and too much adrenaline. Both horny and lonely and nursing a secret desire to break and be broken (in spirit if not body). Twin fingers of whiskey while tending to unsubstantial injuries. Warm going down and so hot coming up and it isn’t “coming home” or “a lost love realized” or anything so prosaic as that. It’s just inevitable, in a way neither will ever bother to explain.

*

When Wesley sleeps, Giles looks at him with fondness. It’s not love and it’s not hate. It’s almost certainly need and most definitely tinged with desperation. But above all it’s fondness.

Giles strokes his skin and Wesley stirs but sleeps deeply, mumbling and laughing within the confines of his own twisted dreams.

It may never work. Maybe nothing ever does. There are complications too large to overcome between them. There’s a cloud of obligation and responsibility with which they’re both familiar. Giles could list why this will never last too long, but he never does.

*

Wesley

The first night Giles takes him leaves something to be desired. For one, the sheets are substandard—scratchy and cheap. Wesley absently wishes for the soft flannel of his childhood bed as his body rolls and a gasp becomes a grunt. Still, there’s something to be said for the present. Here and now.

*

Late one night. Muffled grunts because there are sleeping visitors, exhausted from battle. Their coupling is illicit. Luxurious and dangerous. Perfect.

Wesley longs to turn and wrap his pale legs around Giles’ waist. His current position, and the length of chain binding his ankles, won’t allow it but there’s enough give for him to bend his legs, heels pressing sweat-slick skin.

Firm fingers pinch the back of Wesley’s knees softly at first, then harder until he screams and Giles shudders.

Wesley smiles.

*

Giles draws things from him he didn’t know were there.

A gasp.

A cry.

The occasional tear.

Did Giles know him long ago? Do all those in Sunnydale come with an uncanny knack toward precognition?

Giles knows him, knows his mind, his body, what will drive him mad with pleasure.

And sometimes, he imagines, just mad.

“You’re moving.”

Wesley knows it’s a warning, not an observation. His fingers claw fistfuls of sheets and he stills, nails twisted in navy fabric. He opens his mouth and tongues the mattress, already damp with the mutual musk of two bodies concluding a long night of shared pleasure.

*

Giles

The children know. Perhaps not Buffy and certainly not Willow, but Oz has lowered his eyes on occasion in understanding and acknowledgement. Xander’s quips have become more acid and strike with certainty at Wesley.

Giles rarely defends Wesley and more times than not he agrees with whoever is verbally flagellating him at the moment. The young man invites derision and Giles can hardly be called cruel when one is so socially inept.

Later, though, there’s discussion. Reprimand. Absolution for both of them. And Giles vows that Xander’s next well-aimed verbal arrow will not find its mark.

*

Wesley

The thing Wesley misses most about London isn’t the tea or rain or subtle worship of all things antiquated, as most newly assigned watchers later report. Wesley appreciates the past, but has learned that giving it too much sway in his current circumstances invites ponderings that occupy more of his faculties than he is prepared to give. No, what Wesley misses most is the two-meter length of finely hewn chain that lays with its cuffs, curled neatly in a box within a storage facility six blocks from the Counsel offices.

American chain is as crude and abrasive as the ill-mannered employees that peddle it.

The tips of Wesley’s fingers graze the cold chain as he longingly removes it from Giles’ scarred wooden bedposts. He hears sweet girlish laughter and freezes momentarily. His heart thuds in his chest. His cock is hot and hard, imagining getting caught holding the precious metal with only a crisp pair of Y fronts and Giles’ open oxford as armor.

It’s only the television next door, blaring insipid American sitcoms day and night.

The cuffs slide into an unremarkable drawer in Giles’ nightstand at last.

Wesley shivers. Imagined delights and realized fantasies.


Giles

He still finds himself cringing when Wesley asserts himself. He still longs to strike him, and not always in gratification. But more often than not it’s with affection he looks at him.

Naïve, yes.

Endlessly infuriating, always.

But his fingers are delicate. They grasp a pen or a teacup and Giles watches them. Their fragility hypnotizes him and he knows home has come to him.

*
The end

Yeah! Just awaiting a beta and I finally, finally, finally have a new fic to post. It's for Moosesal who I have owed since Christmas. I was properly shamed by the administrator of the Secret Slasha site but at least I got it done and the writer's block is over.

Finally getting back into the swing of things. Livejournal. Life. A new Andrew icon makes me happy so all is mostly right with the world.

Has anyone started a thread or a site or...whatever, regarding side trips before or after Writercon? I've always wanted to visit Savannah (something about Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil and my longstanding love of Kevin Spacey and Jude Law). I'm looking for other folks who are also interested in going.

Karen

For Kat8cha who requested cotton candy lube, an empty can of red spraypaint, and make-up sex. Sadly, this is unbetaed which may become obvious if you read it. It's also my first Spike/Wesley so....yeah.

-------------------------------------

The hollow, metallic clang of the spray can hitting Wesley's ornate antique desk brings no reaction from the subdued man sitting behind it. A full minute later there is the flip-click, and then pull, of Spike lighting a cigarette with his Zippo. It does no more than cause the seated man to sigh deeply and gently place a thumb in his mouth. The moist digit holds Spike captivated for a moment before Wesley lowers his hand to turn the page of an ancient spell book.

Impatient, Spike flicks a chipped fingernail at the empty spray can and send it spinning over the desk's smooth surface where it hits Wesley's book and spins off, landing with a bracing clang on the marble floor. Spike is momentarily startled and winces before he remembers why he's here.

"Ten foot letters in the front lobby. 'I'm sorry' big as un-life. That what you wanted?" The forced edginess in his voice barely conceals the quiet desperation beneath. "Public apology for a public scandal?"

"I asked for nothing of the sort of. If you'll excuse me, I've much work to do."

"I could work you. Nice and proper-like…," Spike offers, trying another tack. It doesn't bode well for the vampire as Wesley slowly removes his eyeglasses and sets them on the edge of his book.

"Do you really believe that that is all it will take to find yourself in my good graces once again?"

"Never knew I was in your good graces to start with," Spike says truthfully and it brings a flicker of a smile to Wesley's mouth. It's brief but, to Spike's strung-out nerves, it's all the forgiveness he'll need. "He would have found out sooner or later, pet. Why does it matter so much--"

"Because *I* wanted to be the one to tell him, in my own time. You'd no right revealing to Angel--"

"And what about me? I'm just supposed to wait in your office until you're ready to take lunch? Stay at home and darn your knickers? Have my hair done with the other Wolfram & Hart trophy wives? Bugger that--"

"That's not what I said and you know it. Just . . . just leave before I get upset again."

"*Before* you get upset?"

Wesely does not answer, only replaces his glasses and resumes turning pages in his book. Spike doesn't leave, but he does watch the progress of Wesley's thumb as it slides between the tall man's lips, then purposefully turns each page.

"Sorry."

"Excuse me, I don't think I quite heard you." Wesley's thumb doesn't stop.

"I'm sorry I told Angel about this."

"This?"

"Us. Our . . ." At a loss, Spike pinches the cigarette butt between his lips and shuffles his feet uneasily.

"Are you upset because it was wrong to tell him or are you upset because I'm angry?"

"Both, I suppose."

"Both, you suppose." Wesley takes off his glasses a second time, conceding with a flick that sends his them cluttering over the desk. Spike grins, dropping his cigarette butt into a potted ferns and slipping his coat off swiftly, then his shirt. It couldn't be a month, could it? Four weeks since the first fateful day. Invasive prowling through Wesley's closets while he made tea following a late-night battle. Finding the new bottle of cotton candy lube and realizing, with delight and horror, that as much as he'd love to use his new-found knowledge to embarrass Wesley, he wanted, *wanted*, Wesley more. Then later, using the whole bottle and half of another. Sheets and skin sweaty and sticky. Touching and licking and fucking in a way so much more intimate than the rough pleasures of the past.

"I'll show you how sorry I am," he cajoles, struggling to step out of his heavy boots with some grace.

"What is this?"

"This? This is my glorious state of almost-nudity, mate. Care to give a fellow a shag or turn up the heat?" Spike shifts on his bare feet before making a concerted effort to stand still. He's so close, so close to being back in the glorious place he'd just barely gotten to know these last few weeks.

Wesley simply gazes at him from the other side of his desk. "I meant, what is *this*?" He gestures to the general space between them.

"A fabulous shag? A temporary diversion? This is . . . what do you want it to be?"

Wesley regards him for a moment before saying, "I truthfully don't know. I suppose I was hoping to figure it out first before telling anyone else."

"Is *that* why you were in a tizzy when I told Angel we were involved?"

"Somehow I don't think telling my employer that I cannot come to the phone because your cock is in my mouth qualifies as simply 'involved'."

"Was, though." Spike pouts.

"Regardless, in the future I'd appreciate it if you discuss things of this nature with me first."

"So now I'm supposed to get all communications 'approved' by you?"

"That's not what I mean, Spike. You're being childish. Perhaps . . ." Wesley stops then, and for the first time Spike realizes how incredibly tired he looks. "I've done a great deal of thinking, Spike. And I've come to the conclusion that we may not be the two people best suited--"

"Don't."

"Spike--"

"Wesley." Just the word is enough to draw a hard lump to the vampire's throat and he forces back a cough. "Wesley, please don't--I won't tell him anything else. Promise. Please don't . . ."

And the panic pounding in his chest dwarfs the fury of the demon's disgust at being forced to beg--to *beg*--this man to take him. To keep him. Love him. Because there are more than craters and an ocean separating him from the person he once loved. And after standing in the dust of the miserable war called redemption that defines his life, he realized Wesley was there. Is there. Can't leave.

Wesley's looking at him now, eyes shining and confused, hands clenched hard on his desk. The ex-Watcher looks so lost in some way, and Spike aches to reassure him but he knows he can't. He knows himself and knows his history. He can't promise Wesley much of anything, really. He's only getting to know this new life, life with a soul, and its boundaries are as mysterious to him as they must be to Wesley. But the thought of him leaving--of seeing Wesley day after day but not touching--burns.

Spikes hands clench until he can feel the damp moisture on his palms that means his nails have cut bloody moons into his skin.

"Wesley," he gasps, suddenly *sure* that this is goodbye and not quite sure why the thought should terrify him so much. "I can be good. I *will* be good. You don't have to--"

"Spike." Wesley's up and around the desk. "Stop. You don't have to . . ." He sighs heavily, breath tickling Spikes hardening nipples. "Don't you think you'd be happier with someone else? Someone more... less like me?"

He looks so tired and vulnerable. The shadows under his eyes make him look older. Worn. Spike loves them. Somehow he looks as old as Spike feels. There's a certain equity in that sort of relationship, he decides.

"Touch me, Wesley," he whispers. The words barely leave his lips before Wesley is before him, so close he can feel the heat of his body. The taller man doesn't move closer, just drops his head slowly onto Spike's shoulders in an oddly childlike way. Spike's head drops as well, and his arms slip around Wesley's waist, drawing in a deep breath of tea scent and pine soap. Breathing in Wesley.

"Need you, Watcher. Don't leave me. Ever," he wants to whisper. Might have said it out loud, because Wesley's arms slide around him and tighten. His lips caress the vampire's neck.

"Are you sure you want . . ." Wesley seems too nervous to finish. Spike turns his head, kisses hard at the wide mouth he's growing to love until Wesley breaks away. "I'm weak. Painfully stupid at times. Hopelessly--" His mouth is silenced again.

"Don't know which one of us is the bigger tosser," Spike finally admits and Wesley chuckles, his lips skating over pale cheeks.

"You know," Wesley says suddenly, "one of us is nearly naked and it's not me." His lecherous grin brings a matching one to the vampire's face.

Wesley slides down to his knees. Long bookish fingers work the button-fly black jeans and swiftly descend over lean hipbones. Then Wesley stops, leaning in to rest a rough cheek on Spike's thigh.

"Already wear you out?" His words are spoken lightly, but there's anxiety in Spike's voice.

"Not at all." Wesley sits back and there's something new in his eyes, some element that's become almost foreign to Spike's understanding.

Relief.

"Do you think we'll have many more bouts like this?" Wesley asks as his lips move to close over Spike's cock, causing the vampire to groan.

"Somehow I doubt we'll be able to go long without a row. But don't worry, pet. You can't discount the luxury of make-up sex."

The End

This most bizarre of stories comes from Drabble-Matic, aka http://prillalar.com/drabbles/

The Battle For The Perfume

Under the table, Andrew danced his perfume. He had been busy with the perfume for hours and now wanted nothing more than a sweet cuddle or a tender massage from his lover Xander.

He said this last thought out loud, and all of a sudden his rough Xander appeared at the door, grinning gently.

"Put down the perfume," Xander said tenderly. "Unless you want me to dance that perfume on your penis."

Andrew put down the perfume. He was shiny. He had never seen Xander so Troi-like before and it made him stinky.

Xander picked up the perfume, then withdrew a chihuahua from his elbow. "Don't be so shiny," Xander said with a Troi-like grimace. "A puppy bit my earlobe this morning, and everything became pinkish. Now with this perfume and this chihuahua I can tenderly rule the world!"

Andrew clutched his glistening earlobe slopily. This was his lover, his rough Xander, now staring at him with a Troi-like elbow.

"Fight it!" Andrew shouted. "The puppy just wants the perfume for his own rough devices! He doesn't love you, not the sweet way I do!"

Andrew could see Xander trembling slopily. Andrew reached out his penis and touched Xander's elbow tenderly. He was rough, so rough, but he knew only his glistening love for Xander would break the puppy's spell.

Sure enough, Xander dropped the perfume with a thunk. "Oh, Andrew," he squealed. "I'm so sweet, can you ever forgive me?"

But Andrew had already moved under the table. Like all the stars in the sky., he pressed his penis into Xander's elbow. And as they fell together in a pinkish fit of love, the perfume lay on the floor, stinky and forgotten.

Drunkenness is nothing but voluntary madness
-Seneca

"Happy New Year!" The words are cried from the mouth of an almost-twenty-something blonde, obviously drunk. Xander averts his eyes as she lifts her top and idly wonders if Girls Gone Wild is filming at the L.A. New Year's Eve Costume Bash. For that matter, he muses, why don't they make a Guys Gone Wild for mostly closeted gay guys with a slight tendency to attract demons and a low tolerance for tequila sunrises?

Xander shifts the stuffed parrot on his shoulder, the sword at his hip bumping him in the process. The air virtually hums with sex and anticipation. Xander twists and bobs, ducking stray blows from two drunken coeds, and finds himself down a street with no name. The party vibe has yet to permeate this avenue, and Xander feels the hairs of the back of his neck rise. No partiers crawl this street, just stray cats and the dull flickering light of a dying halogen light bulb. He's seen enough horror movies to know that this is where the hero decides to "explore further", but Xander turns to blend into the slowly moving throng. It's not that he's not heroic, he thinks. He's just not rock stupid.

Four blocks later and the wiggins hit him again. Strong. He moves quickly and pulls a stake from his pirate boot, cursing his stupid eyepatch and shoving it up on his forehead to see better. He gages the distance between the costumed people spilling from the noisy bars and clubs and his own hotel. Far. Too far. He speeds up his steps.

When it happens, the attack comes swiftly, and Xander can only be impressed at the speed with which his end draws near. One minute he's sidestepping an amorous couple blocking his path, and the next moment his feet are leaving the ground and rough arms, not human, are lifting him off the ground. Hands draw around his throat, not so much choking as *poking* into his esophagus, trying to shuck his throat like a cob of corn.

Then, just as quickly, the hands are still. Frozen. The bodies behind him drop away with a thud and Xander slumps to his knees next to them. He tenderly fingers the bruised skin on his neck and takes in great gasps of air.

"Nothing to see, folks. Beer and lime vodka—not a good mix," an unfamiliar voice announces.

When Xander is confident that he can again stand on two feet he does so, not certain if he should thank his savior or just run like the blazes. He opts for the former.

"Thanks." It sounds like a grunt, inhuman even to his own ears. He clears his throat and watches as the people flow down the street.

"Just a couple of Pesota demon. No problem." Somehow, it sounds as if it *is* a problem, and Xander wants to hide. The voice is deep, powerful in its own human way. Human. Probably. Xander trusts his instincts better these days, but still... His savior is confident, which always throws him off. All people should be as bumbling and awkward as him. He knows that's irrational, and he also knows he should turn to face his savior, but he can't quite bring himself to do it. So he massages his throat and watches the crowd and pretends to catch his breath.

The other man is quiet. "You shouldn't have left them." It doesn't sound like a threat, but Xander is cautious just the same.

"Who?"

"Your girls."

"My girls?" he feigns.

"C'mon, Xander. I know you ain't *that* slow."

Xander turns then because this guy, this man, knows his name and knows his girls and that means he's either a friend or about to lose a limb.

"Who are you?" Xander scans the man from head to toe twice. Then he can't help chuckling which turns into what he knows is a terribly inappropriate, but utterly uncontrollable, laugh.

The man scowls and hitches at his tight pants. "What's the matter? You ain't never seen a black Zorro?"

"Not a bald one," Xander laughs, and a smile breaks the stranger's face, bright teeth a stark contrast with the dark skin.

They're jostled by the crowd. People surge past, bumping and pushing. "Let's get out of here," Zorro says above the music.

Xander nods, curiosity and caution warring. He follows broad, caped shoulders to a space between two bars; it's almost a street, too large to be an alley. The walls sway, and Xander curses the tequila sunrises once again.

"So Zorro, you picked up a lot of guys this way?"

The man seems alarmed, confused, then smiles a small smile. "They told me you were funny."

"Yeah, I'm a regular Don Knotts. I'm told I have his figure, too." Xander does a little spin, then regrets it as he loses his balance. Strong hands grasp him and keep him upright.

"Not from where I'm standing," the black man laughs, then freezes, maybe realizing that a come-on has slipped out without warning him first. He swallows hard, and Xander watches his throat muscles work in the dim shadows. "If you're okay, I should probably leave."

"Why are you here again?" Xander is beginning to feel impatient. And horny. And maybe in need of more tequila sunrises.

"Long story. Someone had a vision. They kinda didn't want me to tell you about it. Supposed to be inconspicuous."

"An inconspicuous black Zorro."

"It's a costume party." The man tugs self-consciously at his collar.

"Right. So Cordelia has a vision and they send…you."

"Hey, I didn't say it was Cordelia—"

"It's okay. I won't tell Buffy that Angel and his lackeys are in town."

"I ain't no lackey of Angel's. I just work for him from time to time. Freelance."

"Got it. And tell Cordelia thanks."

"Sure."

Xander nervously licks his lip. Now they're just two men standing awkwardly in the dark side street while
Ricky Martin blares from a dance club across the street.

"Cool mask," Xander says, because there really *is* nothing more to say, and yet he doesn't want to go
back to the hotel just yet. He feels dark eyes scrutinize his body. It isn't an entirely unpleasant experience.

"So, you're a pirate."

"Yeah." Xander waves his stake menacingly, then quickly drops it and scrambles for his plastic sword. "Ahoy matey and... Well, you get the picture." The man only nods. "You know, it's kind of unfair, you being here. I mean, it's not that I don't mind the save-age, because I do, but I don't know your name."

"Name's Gunn."

Good gumdrops why does that sound sexy? Movement on Xander's left catches his eye. Two shapes are partway hidden behind the brickwork, writhing together. He instinctively reaches for the stake that's no longer there, but the other man catches his wrist.

"Chill out, Xander. Danger's gone." When Gunn speaks, it's a whisper close to Xander's ear. Suddenly he isn't so sure that the danger *is* gone. At Gunn's touch, a whole new can of worms comes spilling open, specifically in his gut and groin.

"We should probably get moving. Put distance between ourselves and the highly incriminating demon bodies."

"Yeah." Gunn also seems captivated by the couple on Xander's left, and Xander watches the man's eyes flicker to another couple further down the alley. "Gotta keep moving." Gunn doesn't seem convinced.

"Unless..."

And Xander is so far out on a limb, he thinks, that there's just him, a twig, and a single leaf—the kind that's all yellow and dirty with a crunchy brown tip.

"Unless what?"

Gunn's voice doesn't seem accusing, repulsed, or alarmed at the almost-invitation, so Xander finishes, "Unless you think we should stay here. Unless you *want* to stay here," he adds. Xander's face is red, and he can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks and dick and nowhere else. He hasn't done this since Oxnard, and he knows he'll be rusty and almost certainly regretful. What the hell is he thinking? Xander wants to giggle inappropriately but doesn't.

"You mean . . .?" Gunn stares down the passageway, then toward the throng of partygoers illuminated by the club lights.

Gunn doesn't leave, and Xander takes it as a good sign. Six tequila sunrises, and Xander's gotten bold. The other man's wearing a ruffled white shirt like his own. Xander steps close and grabs two large fistfuls of it before pulling hard and running his lips over Gunn's mouth.

Gunn shoves him, and Xander's back scrapes against the brickwork. For a moment, a split second, his world tilts. This is a very bad idea, he realizes. Gunn's a lot stronger than him, and the girls don't know where he's at. And finding his mutilated body is a shitty way to come out to them. Then huge, hot hands are sliding over his shirt, dragging it from his pants, and warm lips are nuzzling his neck. There's a moan that might be him, might be Gunn, or might be the couple on their left. Xander doesn't much care.

"What do you do?" Gunn whispers. His hands are descending, cupping Xander's cock. It's all Xander can do not to fall to his knees right there. Gunn leaves one hand on Xander and uses his other to take Xander's hand and drag it between the folds of his cape, then presses it to his own hard bulge. He grinds Xander's hand down.

"I can suck you if you want." Where did that come from? Those words have never left Xander's mouth before, though they've reached his ears on one—no, two—occasions that Buffy and Willow will never find out about if there's a goddess in heaven.

Gunn nods, a wide smile breaking the darkness. "Yeah."

Xander grinds his hand harder, then fingers the zipper torturously before sliding it down and slipping both hands beneath Gunn's costume. His dick is already leaking when Xander wraps his hand around the shaft and slides his thumbs over the tip.

"Nice," he gasps, closing his eyes. The smell of fried food and cigarette smoke reminds him where he is. Exposed. Alone. And yet... Hands settle on his shoulders, pressing down gently, and it's so easy to do this. Kissing slowly, letting his back scrape down the wall, taking his hands and Gunn's pants with him.

Gunn shivers and Xander feels an absurd moments of tenderness. "Suck it," Gunn demands. The sound is less sweet, more intense, than the others; it's an aphrodisiac made just for him. Xander nods, suckles the swollen tip before him, and rest his hands over dark hips. Gunn pulls Xander toward him, gently pushing deeper into Xander's mouth. Xander tips his head and draws it deep, sliding the length in at one angle, then out at another.

"Mix it up, Xander," he thinks to himself and is satisfied when he hears the deep voice growl higher, more rough. The hands on Xander's shoulders are suddenly gripping his hair, then stroking his cheeks. He sucks harder, and the suction caves in his cheeks.

Gunn likes that, he can tell. His thumbs trace Xander's cheeks so tenderly that he's momentarily surprised. Xander steps up his efforts. He slides his hands back, cupping at Gunn's ass and squeezing him hard as Gunn pulls Xander forward. Xander grunts around Gunn's cock, so happy and drunk and yes, deeply satisfied to be in a dirty alley on New Year's Eve with a man coming between his lips, panting his name into the darkened sky.

He swallows sloppily and then stands, pulling Gunn's pants with him because he's nothing if not considerate. Xander's not sure what to say to Gunn, who's panting and sweaty and just So Hot that Xander would happily rewind the last half hour and do it all over again. Gunn solves his momentary confusion by kissing him, an affectionate gesture that makes Xander smile under Gunn's ample lips.

"My room's empty until two," Xander rushes out. He might be making a mistake, but if this guy's tough enough to handle Cordelia Chase on a day-to-day basis, then he has to be good people.

"Okay." They turn to leave. "You know," Gunn says, squeezing the hard bulge between Xander's legs until the young man yelps with pleasure, "Cordelia also told me you were full of surprises."

The End

Yep. It's official. I have given up my whole living breathing life in favor of the live journal world. Some (yes, I'm looking at you, Katie) would say that to join Live Journal and, more specifically, to actively update a livejournal account is pure madness, tantamount to buying seven cats and investing in a Lay-Z-Boy. Well I've shirked stereotype and bought a dog. I don't have a recliner and I'd never eat frosting straight from the can. I think I'm doing alright and can handle the livejournal world while also connecting with the rest of the world. At least, I hope...