Slashed Sonnet Sequence

"And that Fresh Blood"
Angel/Xander
NC-17
Takes place just post "Dopplegangland", Buffy season 3

From Sonnet #11:

* * *

Xander's perched on a railing just outside the Crawford Street
mansion, eating Little Debbies, and Angel cannot puzzle out exactly
why. Unless he's making a valiant attempt to drive him screaming into
the sunrise in which case, he's succeeding.

Angel's glance flicks uneasily to the door for the third time. He can
just see the boy, tucked into a stand of white lilies and munching
away on Ring-Dings. Is this a new cross for him to bear? If so, he'd
like to pass on this crumb of redemption, thank you.

Nights alone are rare these days. Though they couldn't be together,
Buffy always finds a reason to be around – training, lounging before
the fire, even that god-awful foreign film. But tonight Giles has
raised his Watcherly head and stated – no, demanded – that she patrol
until dawn.

Angel thinks the Brit suspects them of getting dangerously close, on
the verge of playing with the fire of their old tricks. So, he's
alone. No one (that he'd known of) planning to come by, not even for
favors; no apocalypses on the horizon.

At first he found himself unsettled, at spare ends that he grabbed
for in a futile attempt to neaten his mind. Soon, though, the somber
quiet of the mansion settled back into his bones with the grace of a
weary panther. Alone... he discovered again... was good.

He discovered himself content to simply let it be. Settled down
with 'The Tempest' and a warmed cup of blood, cautiously ready to
enjoy both. Not too much. There is a permanent flinch in his soul
when it comes to taking pleasure in things – anything.

As he drank, he mused that it would be better if he were left
perpetually alone. No Buffy, no temptation. Though in truth he knew
himself to be losing his taste for the young girl; she was too
trusting of his uneasy grip on his better nature, too quick to love
him and too easy to be loved in return. The elegance of her fighting,
though – could he bear to be parted from that beauty to behold?

He ignored the flash of mocking memory that comes to him at times
like this. Reminding him of all Buffy's resemblances to Darla. He
killed his once-beloved Sire for the mortal Slayer's sake and has
shut all doors in his mind that lead to thoughts of her. The locks
are perhaps flimsy, but their hold will remain solid for-ever – or so
he hopes.

His mood had greyed out into a mellow black, his preferred shade, and
he was fully set for a night's contemplation until -

Xander. With his bag of treats from a diabetic's nightmare, all
rustling paper and crinkling plastic. Angel lost count sometime
during Act I, Scene ii, of how many the boy has consumed so far.

When he gets up to cross the room, he feels eyes on him. The back of
his neck crinkles and his temper rises in tandem. It's been less than
three days since Vampire Willow paid a visit from her dimension.
Hasn't the boy seen enough of his kind for a while?

Apparently not, since he's breaking into – Angel sniffs the air –
strawberry Sno-Balls – and looks set to sit there and finish them all.

He puts `The Tempest' back into a leather trunk, selects a newish
copy of Rossetti, and heads back for the bench before the fireplace.
Halfway there, he hears it – crinkle, crinkle – and his temper snaps.

His book shuts with a slam – and the spine cracks. He turns to glare
out the door. "Can I help you with something, Xander?"

The boy has the nerve to grin and wave at him. "I'm good, but thanks."

"I can see that," Angel mutters. "I meant, why are you—"

"Nowhere else to go. Apparently I'm not wanted on patrol, and
Willow's at her cousin's Bat Mitzvah. So..." he shrugs and wads up
another mass of cellophane. "Figured I'd come hang out."

Angel reflects that he really truly had thought nothing could
surprise him anymore. He doesn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice
when he asks, "And this is your definition of hanging out?"

"Me." Xander points to himself. "Hanging." He pats the flowerbed.
Gestures around him. "Out. The company's optional, in case you were
wondering. Don't want to keep you from your Scarlet Letter there."

"It's the 'Goblin Market'," Angel corrects automatically, then
scowls. "And there's nowhere else you could be?"

A cheerful shake of the head. "Why? Are you lonesome, tonight..."
Xander croons in a truly bad Elvis impersonation that he apparently
finds very funny.

Angel winces. "Do you... uh, do you plan on staying very long?"

"Until I get good and bored." Xander delves into a double pack of
Twinkies. Takes one out and holds it reverently in his hand. Runs his
fingers lightly up and down the golden length of it. Nips off one end
and lets it melt in his mouth while he greedily eyes the cream
filling. As if he can't wait any longer, then, he thrusts the whole
of it into his mouth.

Angel's eyes pop open. He sincerely hopes Xander's never performed
that little... stunt in front of the girls. Even Buffy. Especially
Willow. God help them if Giles...

Xander's finished giving the snack cake a blow job and is licking the
remnants of white sugar from his fingers. "I don't think I'll get
bored for a while."

Angel swallows. "Yeah. Probably not." He sways for a moment. If Spike
had seen that... well, Xander would likely be tied up in a trunk, on
his way to Brazil. Spike enjoyed a man with a good mouth.

He swallows again.

"So, do you need anything?" he asks, trying again for that note of
weariness.
Xander pats his bulging Quick-E-Mart bags. "Got all I need right
here." He eyes the second Twinkie. "What did you have it mind?"

The boy's an utter innocent or a complete fool. Angel has his own
ideas about that. "I don't know," he snipes. "Glass of water, shot of
insulin, a bag of refined sugar and a spoon..."

Xander laughs, an easy, flowing sound that Angel grits his teeth with
envy over. Time was, he could laugh like that. As it is... he hasn't
laughed since... he's forgotten. "Sugar, no, got plenty of that left.
Water, maybe. Or coffee. Hey, maybe I'll go get a cup–"

And bright it right back, no doubt. But to let Xander, under the
influence of five boxes of snack cakes, loose in Sunnydale is not a
thought to be borne. Buffy would kick his ass. Willow would frown at
him. Rupert would cough and clean his glasses disapprovingly.

Uh-uh.

Angel shuts his eyes briefly. "I could do coffee."

"You have coffee?"

Fairly certain that he'll regret this, Angel nods.

"Bring it on!" Xander shoves his bag of empty wrappers aside, vaults
off the wall, and bounces in.

It's a shame, Angel reflects, that humans don't need invitations to
enter a vampire's home.

They head for the kitchen, Xander on point with the unerring instinct
of a teenage boy. He rubs his hands together, scanning Spa Spartan
room. "So, what've you got? Folger's Crystals?"

Instant coffee? "I may not know much about coffee, but even I know
that's a desecration," Angel says crisply. One firm hand to the
shoulder pushes Xander back and into his single, uniquely hard
kitchen chair. Bought for Buffy. Angel never sits in his kitchen; too
many memories – of peat fires, stew on the hob, water and wine
boiling for savory hot drinks...

He starts unloading supplies from cabinets and drawers.

"Lot of stuff for a dead guy. Why so much?"

"For Buffy," Angel answers shortly. He fills a kettle at the tap and
puts it carefully on the stove. The gas in this place makes him
nervous, though it's better than the candles most of his kind favor.
The stupid ones. How many vamps he's seen go poof because of a mis-
lit taper...

He shakes his head. "Have you ever even had a decent cup of coffee?"

Xander's stung. "I have been to the Espresso Pump, you know. Lots of
times."

"With Willow and Buffy. And if I know you, you take your coffee like
they do. A melted candy bar in a cup with steamed milk and a pile of
whipped cream. Right?"

"Hey, I resemble that remark." Xander stares up at an open
cabinet. "But I guess that would explain the Reddi-Wip."

Angel jerks around to look before he thinks, then thinks again. The
glower he aims at Xander would flatten a lesser mortal. "Funny."

"I thought so."

Xander's up again, poking around in what Angel's unearths from
storage. "So you're going to brew it? Where's your Mr. Coffee?" He
holds up an eticatical glass-and-brass contraption. "What's this
thing?"

"That," Angel growls as he snatches it back, "is a French press. And
this," pointing, "Is an espresso machine. Lay one finger on it, and
the next time Spike's in town I'll point him in your direction."

Xander raises his hands. "Whoa, easy, tough guy. Lighten up on the
drama. I'm just curious."

"Have you ever heard what they say about curiosity and cats?"

"Oh, one or two, or... roughly a million times." Grin. "I'm still
here."

That he is. Angel's toes ache to kick him out the door. But not
before... "You wanted coffee. I'm going to get you a decent cup if
it's the last thing I do."

"And me all out of stakes."

Angel cuts him a bitter look. "Do you know the difference between the
taste of amaretto and cyanide?"

"Not really."

"Good."

"I think they're both... Hey, you wouldn't."

"Push me a little harder and find out, Xander." Angel measures
grounds, each scoop meticulously level. Decaf. He doesn't like the
notion of adding caffeine to Xander's already syrup-sweet
blood. "You're going to have a cup of coffee that is not only actual
coffee, but tastes good."

Xander frowns. "So how would you know, anyway? You don't do the human-
food thing."

"I like coffee."

"No kidding? I thought you only drank—"

"Yeah, well, don't tell. I'll get kicked out of the union."

Angel's so dry that it takes Xander a minute to realize he's
kidding. "Hey!"

The vampire flashes him a 'you started it' look as the kettle starts
to whistle. Xander looks at it wide-eyed. Angel would bet he'd never
seen one of those before. Microwaved instant or frothy lattes. He
shudders. Someone's got to take this boy in hand before he's out of
control.

He likes the sound of the French press as he depresses the plunger:
*hisssssssssssss*. Li coi coiled, satisfied snake. The coffee smells
strong as venom. A good shot of this and maybe Harris will sober down
from his sugar high.
Checking to make sure the espresso machine's set to go, Angel pours
out a cup of dense black brew and passes it wordlessly to Xander.

"Sugar? Cream?"

"Sacrilege," Angel snaps. "You'll like it this way. Trust me."

"Yeah, that'll happen." Xander looks at his coffee, dubious as a
child who's been told that mud is really tasty. Still, he takes a
hesitant sip, then yelps when his tongue is burned.

Angel blows across the surface of his own sin-dark cup. He can't
resist the smallest smirk. "Let it cool off a little first."

Behind them, the espresso machine starts to growl and bubble.
Espresso is to coffee as Cuban quality is to cigars, and he won't
taint the elixir with any dairy products. The thought of a cigar
makes him want one to accompany this. The smoke might drive Xander
away.

But beyond that, nothing complements strong coffee like a fine cigar.
He's not had one since the days of old, when he laughed at Spike for
preferring slim, feminine cigarillos. Half-a-century later he learned
they'd both turned to cigarettes. Angel quit after hearing that Spike
had almost been dusted when a strong gust at Woodstock blew a
smoldering roach back on his cheap, flammable T-shirt. Some things
just aren't worth it.

He doesn't have any milk and wouldn't add it if he did. He hates
foamy milk. His young sister drank her nightly cup straight from the
cow, with its own natural froth floating on top. He's seen how milk
fouls when blood hits it, and turns a sickening, sour pink shade.
Hasn't drunk any since...

No, not the time to think of that. Push it away. Drink the black
coffee. Good taste. Comforting.

Xander's taking tiny sips as the heat of it dissipates. His mouth is
screwed into a tiny frown, as if he can't decide whether this is good
or horrible. "Jamaican Blue Mountain," Angnfornforms him, knowing
it'll mean nothing.

Xander runs his tongue around the edge of the cup. Pink tongue. He
turns a little pink when he sees Angel staring. "Was hoping for
leftover sugar," he explains sheepishly.

The espresso finishes pouring into the tiny pot. Glad of the
distraction before his fingers curve fully into throttling position,
Angel pushes away to find two tiny cups and measure out his own
portion. Perfectly level. Good. He pushes the other serving in front
of Xander with a grunt and a nod.

"What are you, a caveman now? You've got the forehead, sure, but –
okay, shutting up now and drinking it." Xander sniffs the
cup. "Smells, uh, kind of strong. Okay, okay, sipping already!"

He chokes a little. "Tastes like cigar smoke."

"Then I made it right." Or perhaps a little strong. Surely tiny acts
of revenge can be overlooked in the longer run...

Xander gives him a slightly sickly face. He licks at his lips with
that pink tongue. "Yum?"

And Angel's had enough. He slams his hand into bac back of Xander's
chair, startling the boy badly enough that his cup near jumps from
his fingers. Leaning forward into Xander's face he asks, with what he
considers to be great patience. "Xander. What. More. Do. You. Want?\ "N "Nothing!" That's a lie; Angel can smell it and Xander knows it
sounded off. He starts trying to inch the chair away from the
immovable grasp on it. His own fingers grip and curl around the heat
of the tiny mug. "Is there any more of this?"

But Angel won't be distracted. "You want something. Tell me, or get
the hell out. I'm done playing games, Xander."

"All right, already! It's just…" He shifts, uncomfortable. "It's what
you said when we were sending Vamp-Willow back to her dimension. What
you started to say."

There's a tingling between Angel's shoulder-blades. "Yes?" he asks
warily.

"You started to say that the human host informs on – and then you
stopped. What did you mean by that? Is it that the human part
influences the vampire? Are you part – whatever your name was, and
part Angelus? Then what about the soul? What happened when you lost
it? Did it go back where it came from? And—"

Angel's head aches. He regards Xander until the babble fades to a
stop. Then: "Do you really want to know the answers to those
questions?"

"Maybe." The boy's shoulders hunch up. "Vampire Willow – when she saw
me, she was all over me, you know? Like I was a drug. She thought I
was her Xander. And so I find out that in her world, I'm a vampire. A
real bad-ass. Not someone who knows exactly how many Ring-Dings he
can fit in his mouth at once, if not munching on my foot."

Understanding dawns. "You wanted to know what would happen if you got
turned. Would you stay yourself, or become a monster?"

Xander's head shoots up. "Oh, hey, I *know* I'd be a monster. I lead
the stake parade, buddy... well, behind Buffy, anyway. I just
wondered – if it ever happened, *by mistake*, would there be anything
left of me in there? Or just a demon wearing my face?"

"You're still lying. Try again."

"I am not!"

"I can smell it on you."

"Freaky vamp powers," Xander mutters. "I had a friend, okay? And
Darla turned him. Then I staked him. By accident, but I still did it.
And I'm wondering if I murdered the guy I lo- liked, or did I just
get rid of another fledge?"

Jesse. Angel remembers now. And he understands. "You were lovers," he
murmurs softly.

"We weren't." But it's said quietly, without any real defiance.

So. If not lovers, then fast on the track. How far had they gotten?
Within him, Angel's demon growls.

"I wanted to know. That's all." Xander ducks under Angel's arm and
gets up; makes a beeline for the exit. "You're not in a chatty mood,
and that's fine, because, hey, places to go, people to see here, and—"

"Xander."

The boy stops in his tracks. Angel scents the air. Tears?

Xander scuffs at one eye with the back of his hand and turns
halfway. "I just wanted to know," he says quietly. "I didn't figure
you'd tell me unless I bugged it out of you. That's why the pain-in-
the-ass routine. And on that, I'll be going now."

"Why? So you can find some other vamp who'll turn you?"

Xander stops dead. Louder, Angel's demon rumbles within him. "That's
not true!"

"More lies. You would make a good vampire, though you'd hate yourself
even more. But then..." Angel turns his head to a side. "That's what
you want, isn't it? You despise yourself so much that you need more
reasons."

"I – I don't –"

"Like hell you don't!" Angel acts without thinking, just feeling. His
big hands seize on Xander and turn him face-about. He shoves him to
make him move, move, keep going. Sharp blows between his shoulder-
blades push him into the bathroom, face inches from a mirror.

Xandearedared, seeing an invisible hand hold him up by the
collar. "Take a good, long look," Angel whispered. "See that? See
yourself? You like that? Bet you're used to it. Every single day, you
see that face brush its hair and comb its teeth. God, you even
shave!"

The no-see-um hands jerk him about, and he's staring nose-to-nose at
a vampire in game face. So close that his thick sable eyelashes
tangle with Angel's strange, sharp ones. "Is this what you don't want
to see? Never again, until you travel to Paris, find a street artist,
and lock him starving in the cellar until he agrees to draw you like
this, just... so... you... know... who... you... are!"

Xander struggles against the grip on his shirt. His oxygen's
going. "Angelus!"

The creature shakes its head ever so slowly. "Oh, no. Not Angelus."
The game face disappears. He drops Xander easily as a broken doll.
Stares down at him from a great height of sorrow and regret. "Just
Angel."

Xander scrambles backward, scooting for purchase on the slick
floor. "Oh, hell no. I know you're Angelus. Listen, buddy, I don't
know when you and Buffy had a chance to get happy lately but I knew
it was a bad idea just letting her hang out with you when –"

"You leave her out of this!" Angel fell to his hands and knees,
pinning Xander as in a trap. "She has nothing to do with it. Not one
single thing."

Xander's eyes are wild. "Then what..."

He can't finish his sentence because Angel's mouth has fastened onto
his hard and tight as a vice. The introduction of a cool tongue
against his lips startles him badly enough to start to yelp, and then
Angel's inside him, and oh... it is sweet. Bitter coffee and powdered
sugar are what he tastes as he sweeps around, curling around the tips
of incisors, lapping at the soft palate. Twisting Xander's tongue
into knots.

For a moment the boy relaxes – shock? Then a flicker of acquiescence -

Followed closely by a bloodcurdling scream into the vampire's kiss.

Angel drinks every drop of the yell, then lifts slowly away, licking
his – human – lips. "Sweet," he whispers. "Cinnamon and fear and
wanting."

"Oh, no. No wanting here. As a matter of fact, I think, yeah, really
think that I'm out of here, so if you'd just be kind enough?" He
pushes at Angel's bulk, but he's not going anywhere. Neither of them
are. Angel settles down a little closer still, leaning more of his
weight into Xander.

"I thought this was what you wanted." Angel nestles his chin into the
hollow of Xander's neck. "Thought you wanted to find out what it was
like to be a monster."

Prickles of sharp teeth lightly graze over the throbbing vein in
Xander's neck. The boy's body grows stiff enough to break with fear.
But his mouth never knows what's best for the rest of him, so he
whispers: "Angel. You wouldn't."

"Do you know that for sure?" He gives the faintest sweep of tongue
against that pulse. "You can't imagine what you smell like, Xander.
Soap. Musk. Blood. Coppery blood, so much of it, just... right...
here."

The teeth sink in, maybe a millimeter. Angel is breathing a cool mist
on Xander's neck. The question is loud in the silence: *is this what
you want? To know what the monster's like when it's on the inside?*

Xander can't speak. Can barely move. Manages the tiniest shake of his
head, wincing when he hears the top layer of his skin delicately rip.

The teeth withdraw. "No?" Angel whispers, taunting him. "Then maybe
you want this instead?"

His demon howls.

He lowers himself fully on the boy, weight on his forearms to keep
from crushing him. His legs cover Xander's, and he's aligned himself
so that their groins meet. Xander freezes when Angel's erection
crushes into his pelvis, then gives a full-body shiver. He's hard,
too. Angel wonders if he even realizes that.

He undulates slowly against the youthful hips and relishes the boy's
sudden hiss. "Yes," he whispers. "Your mouth and your mind lie, but
your body doesn't. It can't."

Savaging Xander's parted lips with another kiss, he manages to grasp
one hand and bring it over the boy's head, wrist flat to the floor.
He dives deep, searching out every possible taste and texture of the
life pinned beneath him. The erection rubbing against his own grows
harder, stabbing upwards.

He uses his other hand to snake between them, undoing a snap and
pulling down a zipper. Thrusts his hand inside boxers washed linen-
thin and soft and presses his hand against the swelling organ inside.
Cold, cold fingers in the warm place make Xander yell against his
mouth and wriggle back. The increased contact brings him to a stop,
gasping.

Angel lifts his lips only far enough to whisper into them. "We're
dead things, Xander. Cold and barren as tombs. There's no life in us.
But in you..." he strokes gently, then harder, loving the jerks and
jumps beneath his touch. "You breathe. You walk in the sunlight. Your
heart beats. You could father children. Things I'll never do again.
Is this what you want? Really want?"

"No!" Xander's free hand is suddenly a fist pounding on Angel's back –
but weakly as a child. "Go to hell, Angel."

"Been there," Angel murmurs, lowering his mouth again. "Done that."

His nimble, artist's fingers snake into his own slacks and undo their
fastenings. His cock jerks out, bumping Xander's. His hand is long
enough to encircle both, pressing them together in a bruising crush
that sets the boy writhing. He kisses Xander with a fervency
approaching desperation. *Hate him... hate him... want him... want to
~be~ him... want to be in him...*

No, no, no. He can't; he won't. Instead he keeps his hand moving, the
boy's freely-dribbling sperm and his own cold liquids creating a
slick tunnel. He can hear Xander gasping and muttering beneath him,
but he's too far gone to make out any words. All he knows is this
moment, for it's all that is real, and all that matters.

Xander stiffens into an arch beneath him. Angel swallows his shout as
his fingers are suddenly soaked with heated gouts of semen spilling
everywhere. He works them together twice more and finds his own
orgasm, sharp and joyless, but a bone-deep relief.

Angel lifts himself again to stare down, to take a long, lingering
look. Xander's lips are kiss-swollen, his cheeks and chin raw from
their ravagement. His hair a mad tangle of deep brown, like a
wildcat's fur. He's breathing hard, as if he's just run a race, and
the look in his eyes is that of waiting for the photo finish –
glassy, stunned, unsure if he's lost or if he's won.

Angel doesn't know for sure. He's not even certain what just
happened, or why. But deep within him, his demon gurgles with
content. It's pleased. The taste of a virgin is a rare sweetmeat, now
twice enjoyed within a single human year. At once he's sickened and
thrilled, and unsure of what comes next. Do they stumble off each
other, tuck themselves away in embarrassed silence, and never speak
of it again? Do they hold each other? He just doesn't know.

Doesn't look like Xander's any the wiser, either.

Spike leaps unbidden Ang Angel's mind. He would have licked them
clean and growled with pleasure at it. So Angel slips down to the
pool on Xander's slightly concave stomach and begins to lap.

He has to grin hello to the teenage hormones he's heard so much about
and only vaguely remembers. Under the attention, Xander's spent
erection stirs, swelling slightly. The body's no better a liar still.

He prods at his soul and finds it intact. After all, this was no
perfect happiness. This was wanting and devouring. Sheer hunger,
satisfied.

"Angel?" Fingers hesitantly comb through his hair as he laps. "Why
me?"

He doesn't answer that. He can't. There aren't words.

Instead, he swipes one finger through the remnants of their mingled
come and holds it to Xander's lips. "You didn't enjoy the coffee. See
if you like this better."

Xander hesitates, but then, with the same pleasure as he showed that
hapless Twinkie, sucks the digit into his mouth. Slowly, his lips
curl up in a smile. When Angel draws back, there's a small demon of
his own dancing in the boy's eyes. "Can we do it again?"

Angel laughs in relief, surprise, he doesn't-know-what. "You're never
satisfied with one of anything, are you?"

"Are you? Why should I be, if I can have more?"

Why indeed. There's nothing left on their skins but a slightly damp
spot now, so Angel regretfully ceases his licking and levers himself
up to take Xander in his arms. "Do you want this?" he whispers, new
meaning in his voice. "Really want this?"

Xander hesitates... and nods. So Angel reaches for him, this time
with a gentler kiss.

They understand how this is a freakish set of circumstances. That
Buffy can never know. It only adds a tang to the excitement, lends
them a greediness that only their bodies can satiate.

When tomorrow comes, they'll deal with it then. And with the coffee
residue, and the broken-spined Rossetti, and the awkward shyness sure
to come.

And they'll decide if it happensin. in.

Deep within, his demon purrs: *yes*.

His body doesn't want to let this die. His soul just doesn't *know*.

He'll wait for the morning to break. Not decide not until tomorrow.

Not face that choice until...

* * * * * * * * *

For those interested...

Sonnet #11
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st,
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.
Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase;
Without this folly, age, and cold decay:
If all were minded so, the times should cease
And threescore year would make the world away.
Let those whom nature hath not made for store,
Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish:
Look whom she best endow'd, she gave the more;
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
She carv'd thee for her seal, and meant thereby,
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.