Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/319510.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Buffy_the_Vampire_Slayer
  Relationship:
      Oz/Xander
  Character:
      Oz_Osbourne, Xander_Harris
  Additional Tags:
      welding, Cheating
  Series:
      Part 4 of Nice_Shirt
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-01-13 Words: 5288
****** Nice Shirt: Wiped ******
by gloss
Summary
     Oz builds a cage and Xander procrastinates.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
*
[s3-4 after "Graduation" (3x22):
June, 1999]
 *
Xander's been standing on the middle step down into the crypt for *at least*
five minutes now.
Oz isn't exactly sure how long. He's pretending not to notice. Anyway, he's
welding. Flames, bars, his future cage: He needs to pay attention.
It freaks the humans out when he lets on to using his sense of smell. He
shudders to think what they'd make of his sense of hearing. So even though he
heard the crunch of gravel and sniffed out that particularly Xander-scent of
brown sugar and salty sweat, he keeps his back turned and finishes off the bar
he's working on. The torch is sticky with his sweat
He's mopped his face on the front of his shirt and switched the tape over to
the other side and Xander still hasn't said anything.
"Thought you were hitting the road today," Oz says as he turns around and opens
a bottle of water.
Xander shifts his weight and sticks his hands in his pockets. His hair's in his
eyes like it's been doing lately and something's clearly bugging him. "It's
looking good. Cage: The Next Generation, I mean."
Swiping his hand across his mouth - he's so hot that the water's just kind of
crawling stickily down his throat - Oz shrugs. "More Deep Cage Nine. Lower
budget, remoter. Less predictable."
"Like Sisko, though," Xander says. He's still peering at the cage, about a foot
and a half off to Oz's left. "Good man."
His back's throbbing in something that's creepily close to what contractions
are supposed to feel like, so Oz drops to a pitcher's squat and stretches his
arms and neck. Somehow shop never hurt this much. He nudges the styrofoam
cooler with his lunch and treats with his elbow and says, "Thirsty? Look like
you could take a load off."
Xander lifts one shoulder and tips his head against it, rubbing away an itch,
it looks like. He drops down next to Oz and takes a soda.
"Shouldn't you be halfway to Baja by now?" Oz tugs the shirt out of his back
pocket and wipes his face again.
"Or Vegas," Xander says. "Hey, that's my shirt."
"So it is. Like this shirt."
"Lots of history in that...sweatrag."
After shaking out the shirt and draping it over one bar, Oz stretches his
hands, one finger at a time. Xander sounds pissed-off, and it's supposed to be
Oz's job to figure out why. Has to be more than sweating into the shirt. He's
hot, though, and sore. He's got plenty of time to let Xander cool off.
Xander huffs out a sigh and takes a long, thirsty drink.
They sit quietly, passing another bottle of water back and forth, their fingers
brushing. They're not looking at each other. Oz is glad for the break, glad to
let the sweat prickle and dry as he drinks his water.
Xander fidgets a little, picking at the label on the bottle, shifting his
weight, worrying at a loose thread on his shorts. The fidgeting isn't
worrisome, nothing out of the ordinary. Just Xander, doing his thing. Thinking
with his body. Oz finds it relaxing, a constant, lowkey rhythm like someone
else's heartbeat or breathing.
"Cordy's gone," Xander says. He folds his arms over the tops of his knees and
plants his chin on one wrist. "Found a place last week, already moved in."
Oz knows; his van, apparently, was cheaper than anything she felt like renting.
His shoulders, too. "Fast," he says now. The Xander-Cordy vibe has never made
any sense to him. Or maybe, actually, it makes a lot of sense. It's the poison
that keeps bubbling between them that's the nonsensical thing. "Really fast."
"Than the speeding bullet, yes sir."
Oz lifts the nearly-empty bottle over his head. "Ave atque vale, Cordelia."
"RIP," Xander says. "No, wait --"
"Something like that." Oz turns, smiling, to look at Xander.
Xander's looking right back at him. Huge brown eyes are all Oz sees for a
moment, eyes and long, soft lashes, and Oz thinks, strangely, about the look on
a kid's face just before he blows out the candles. Not just expectation and
excitement there, but worry, too. Almost fear.
Xander blinks and drops his gaze. He believes, Oz knows, that Oz doesn't think
about that night. Those nights. That the taste of Xander's mouth, whether beer
or fog, and the grip of his hands, don't mean much to Oz at all.
"So you slept with her," Xander mutters, interlacing his fingers and flexing
them. Watching them warily and carefully.
*Who, Cordy?* Oz wants to ask. If he was Xander, he could get away with it. But
he's not; that's the whole point.
So that's what it is. Not the shirt, not Cordy leaving town, not even entirely
the two times they fooled around. It's Willow.
"Yeah," Oz says. Carefully, because he has to concentrate on making his mouth
form the right sound. Anyone else -- even Devon -- would have no right to know
about this, to even ask in the first place. "Right before graduation."
Xander exhales in a long, whistling sigh, then tips his head back against the
bars. His knee knocks against Oz's, then rests there, heavy and warm. "You two
sure took your sweet time."
"Just waited a while."
"Guess after you sowed your oats and honey, you could, like, afford to be
patient."
So it is about them, and about Willow, too, a whole origami giraffe complicated
folded thing. The twists and turns of Xander's thinking are never going to be
mapped. It's like the dreams Oz has sometimes about riding the New York subway
(he's never been), then climbing the stairs and finding himself in Epcot or a
giant forest.
"Didn't feel right," Oz says. He wishes he had a fidgety habit. "Not after --"
"After I kissed her." Xander's voice is as flat as the perfect skipping stone,
the one someone else always finds when Oz's pockets are full of interesting but
rough and jagged pebbles. Smooth and flat, battered by wind and rain and tides.
"After you and me," Oz says. "And then, yeah. After you and her. All of it."
He is telling the truth. As close to the truth as he can see it, anyway. Too
many people in his head, himself and Xander and Willow.
"She's better, better --" Xander gulps for air, rakes back his bangs, then
shakes his head.
"Better what? Better off with me?"
"Better than that."
"You're not wrong." Loving Willow is a little like loving John Cale. Sometimes,
anyway. She's not exactly in the same world as Oz is, as Oz and Xander are. She
needs different things. Love but not lust, which scares her, support but not
*friendship*. Friendship is what he has with Devon, with Xander; with Willow,
it's not that -- easy.
When they slept together, the first time, ten or eleven days ago, she kept
asking if she was doing it right. Like sex is verb-conjugation or linear
algebra, something that comes with a solution set at the end of the book. He
held her head in his palms and kissed her eyelids and asked her to feel. Just
feel.
"What if what I'm feeling is the wrong thing, though?" she asked. "Like, you've
got this scab on your arm and your knees're kind of poking me and it's really
cold in here. Those aren't the right things, right? They can't be."
Oz makes her happy. He likes that, likes that, somehow, inexplicably, he's
apparently got what it takes to make her grin and sigh contentedly and just
*be*. He doesn't know how or why he's got that, but he likes having it. Likes
seeing it on her face, feeling it in her touch.
Xander pulls away. A fraction, and gentle, but it's away and Oz blinks at him.
"You didn't tell her about --" Xander starts, then yanks the shirt off the
cage's cross bar and wads it up in his lap. Kneads it like dough. "About, you
know. The thing. At the party, with the shirt?"
Oz's chest is heavy, filled with rocks. He wants to give the right answer. "Or
the other time. No."
"Good."
"Better than that," Oz says and Xander nods. Oz reaches over, to touch the
shirt, thinking it's a kind of apology. Maybe what Xander needs is an apology;
he's already asked for reassurance, but he's still fidgeting and Oz knows he
needs something else.
Something else, something *more*. Oz knows, he thinks, because he needs
something else, too. He curls his hand into the damp fabric of the shirt, lets
his arm brush Xander's, and feels his body relax.
"Glad you guys are doing okay," Xander says. "Just me and Buffy now. Thinking
of starting the Sunnydale Lonely Hearts club. Small little group. Exclusive.
I'm thinking of running for treasurer."
"Secret meetings?"
"Definitely. Like the Stonecutters. No Steve Gutenberg, though."
When Xander pauses for thought -- because this is what he does around Oz,
thinking aloud, and it's another effect Oz has without knowing about it, like
making Willow smile -- Oz nods. "Good decision."
"I thought so," Xander says. "Of course, this is all in the planning stages for
when I get back from my road trip."
"Yeah."
"But it'll be good. You can't beat a secret handshake and shady hazing rituals.
Plus, I mean, you got to make something from the lemonade, right? Omelettes and
eggshells and stuff."
"Pretty much," Oz says.
"Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and take yourself all the way out of
circulation. That's me. Like you said that one time, all about consequences.
I'm Consequences Boy, never to make the same mistake more than six or seven
times."
It isn't about replacements, Willow for Xander or, later, Xander for Oz. If
there are consequences to all the stupid things they keep doing, all of them,
and of course there are, then Xander has to be included in the wake that keeps
on spreading.
Oz gets that now.
"I'm sorry," Oz tries.
Xander jerks, like he's startled by a crash of thunder and lightning, and
stares at Oz. "You? No, man, see, *you're* --"
"I am."
Against his own, Xander's arm is warm, the hair soft and tickly. Words make Oz
uncomfortable, some words more than others. Big, abstract words like Hunger,
God, Pity have never made any sense, not any kind of usable sense. So what Oz
feels when he looks at Xander, freaked-out and confused, isn't pity, not
exactly. He's looking in a mirror, and he wants to make it a little better.
Just for a little while, he wants Xander to stop tearing things apart and
worrying, and just feel good.
In the back of his mind, nestled in the shadows and cobwebs, Oz has to be
honest. He wants to feel good, too.
"I'm never going to be you," Oz says.
"Whoa. Back up. Bullet train of thought there and I'm still on the platform."
"What I said." What Willow wants, near as Oz can tell, is a figure. Someone
called boyfriend, who does boyfriendy things. Like they say on the playground,
Oz is a friend who is a boy. That's what he wants, that's what he's good at. He
doesn't know how to be a boyfriend.
"Course you're not me," Xander says. "I pity the fool who is me."
"Shouldn't."
"Do."
"Don't," Oz says and something slides and lightens in his chest when Xander
returns his smile. Love is a dissection of the world. It slices people up into
"boyfriend" and "friend". A lot of the time, he thinks that he and Xander are
in the wrong petri dishes.
"What're you going to do about it?" Xander asks.
"Dunno. Considering my options."
"Let me know?"
"Of course." If emotions are food, Oz thinks, slipping his hand over Xander's
bigger one, watching black nailpolish and ragged cuticles against tanned, taut
skin, then love is at the tip, right at the top of the pyramid. The rare and
most significant of all the nutritious choices.
Dinner doesn't come in a pyramid, though, and neither do feelings. He heard
what Xander said in the hospital last year, he knows Xander loves Willow. He
saw how Willow kissed him back in the factory, knows that if she had to, she'd
choose Xander.
Oz also remembers how he felt afterward. Not quite like scales had fallen from
his eyes -- what are these scales, anyway? -- just that he had to think. Turn
over the pieces of belief that looked, now that they were broken, really small.
Really stupid.
He was a hypocrite. He had been, and every time he looked at a guy, at Devon,
at Xander (especially at Xander), he was a hypocrite again. Hypocrisy is
believing one thing, doing another. Oz had believed in one guy/one girl; he
felt something different. Something else, something more.
*Else* is a good word. Good, useful category, capturing and holding everything
that doesn't have a name.
"Trust me," Xander says. "You really don't want to be me."
"Sometimes. Sometimes I do." Oz believes in Willow, but he feels more. Not
instead of, which would be simple. In addition to. "Sometimes I just want --"
Xander tilts his head and shifts and then he's kissing Oz. More strongly than
Oz remembered, hand going up Oz's arm, squeezing his shoulder and pressing Oz
back against the cage. The *heat* of him, big hands and wide mouth, slides over
Oz like rain and lava, steaming and marking.
Oz grabs the back of Xander's neck, hot skin and straining tendons, and pushes
forward, up onto his knees, kissing him back. Kissing, sucking Xander's tongue
into his mouth and then kissing harder, until spots swim before his eyes and he
has to break to breathe.
Xander doesn't let him go, just drops his head onto Oz's shoulder and mouths at
Oz's neck, sucking hard.
"--to kiss you," Oz says into Xander's hair. He feels Xander shake with
laughter. "What? It's true."
Xander looks up. He isn't laughing any more. "Shouldn't, though. Because,
because --"
"Yeah," Oz says, but his hand still rests on Xander's neck and his whole body
is thrumming with warmth, drying out his throat. "I know."
"But?"
"But what?" Oz says.
They stare at each other, and Xander's eyes are heavy and bright, his lower lip
a little swollen and getting redder as he gnaws at it. "Heard a 'but' coming."
"But --" Oz stops when Xander grins. "Yeah, there was a 'but'. I --"
"I know," Xander says. He looks down at the shirt again, then over at Oz from
the corner of his eye, and spreads the shirt over his lap, tracing the
stripper's curves with his index finger. "First lesson in being me: mack on
other people's girlfriends. Or boyfriends, whatever."
Oz sits back on his heels, palm cupping Xander's knee, working his lips
together.
"Not what I meant," he says.
Xander fondles the stripper's ass and shrugs. "Doesn't matter. You wanna be me,
got to take my word for it."
In just his pants, sweat sticky down his chest and back, Oz feels -- naked.
Exposed. He coughs, makes Xander look up. "Take off your shirt."
Xander doesn't break the stare. This is silly, playground-level, but Oz stares
back. His mouth aches, his *chest* aches, and the skin on Xander's arm as he
shifts is hot against Oz's cold hand.
Oz remembers now. He doesn't remember forgetting, but he must have, because
he's remembering all over again how this really feels. He wants to take his
time on Xander's skin, go slow and careful, and make sure he doesn't forget
again.
"Please?" Oz asks. Stupid, hypocritical, *needy* as all fuck. "Really want to."
Xander's tongue darts out, corner to corner, and he leans forward, tugging at
his shirt, as Oz leans in. He pinches Xander's chin as the shirt passes, and
keeps pulling, until Xander's mouth is mashed against his own and the ache is
receding. Receding, just taste and heat now, Xander's hand on Oz's chest, and
they're leaning back, back.
He wishes sex wasn't a big thing, wishes it wasn't in the same capital-letter
category of Hunger and God. Wishes that this was all right, touching Xander's
chest, running a knuckle over each nipple in turn and smiling every time
Xander's mouth twists open at the feeling.
"Oz, *crap*, please --" Slight whine, and Xander's hips are starting to work.
Crouched between Xander's legs, mouth running over the faint rise of his belly
as he fumblingly tugs open the zipper, and Oz *knows* he is teasing both of
them. Teasing Xander with the feeling, teasing himself with thoughts of
Xander's dick, making them both hot and frustrated. He wants his mouth around
Xander's dick, the salt and flannel heat of it, he wants a chance to see it for
the first time in the light.
He teases them both, nuzzling along the top of Xander's groin, as Xander's
breath keeps hitching and Oz squirms, getting harder and harder inside his
pants. It's so literal here, just heat and skin and musk. The simplest things
are right here, delicious and sour, and when he finally licks fast up the
underside of Xander's shaft, they both grunt.
Xander pulls at Oz's shoulder and stutters out his name.
"It's cool," Oz says, circling his palm over Xander's stomach. It's supposed to
calm him, but Xander bites his lip and shakes his head hard. "It's okay, I want
--"
"Yeah," Xander says. "Know that. Not worried about that."
Oz smiles as he runs his fingers back and over Xander's balls, makes him grunt
and thrust again.
"Not worried," Xander says again. "Just -- want *you*, though. Want --" He
pulls at Oz's shoulder, harder this time, frowning and frustrated.
"*Oh*." Oz goes up on his knees and wraps his hand loosely around Xander's
cock. "Oh, that's cool."
"Want to try this time," Xander says, smiling at him, scratching his
fingernails lightly back and forth over Oz's shoulders.
"Try what?"
Dropping his eyes, Xander slips his hand down Oz's waist and cups him so gently
it almost hurts. "The thing. Your cock, and me."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Cool," Oz says and shivers.
Xander's smile goes huge. Dazzling.
Oz tries to swing his leg over Xander's, but he suddenly has too few limbs,
wrapped in far too many clothes. He tries again, fails again, and Xander's
still grinning at him. "Dude. Help with my pants?"
Xander bats his lashes and tries to smirk. Maybe it's supposed to be a leer.
"Thought you'd never ask."
Two pairs of hands fumble, and it probably takes longer this way, but every
brush of Xander's palm feels good, hot and rough, and even though he's on his
knees, Oz feels dizzy. Swaying, lifting one leg, pausing midair to kiss Xander,
then wiggling out of his pants. Naked, finally, crushed in Xander's arms, he's
kissing Xander and swamped in a confusion of so much skin and constant touch.
Oz's spine bows, then whips back when Xander finally gets his hand on his cock.
One pull and Oz is out of breath. He looks down at Xander, and he grips at the
cage with one hand, sees mussed hair and a face gone tight, red.
"Jeez --" Oz says.
He bites his lip and tries not to yelp when Xander runs the tip of his tongue
haltingly down the top of his cock.
Xander's smile is crooked and small. "That good?"
"Yeah. Good."
Wider smile now, and Xander's hands span Oz's hips as they pull him in.
"Want to do you --" Oz says, pushing Xander's forehead back. "Both?"
Xander nods, sliding down onto his back, pulling Oz up and around, dizzier than
ever, until Oz is kneeling over Xander's head and his face is hovering over
Xander's belly again. He holds his breath and rubs his nose along the edge of
Xander's pubic hair.
Xander sucks in a breath, his stomach going concave. "Oz, please, *man* --"
His voice is broken. Broken and so loud in the empty crypt, and they're both
sweating. Their skin sticks and slides together. Sweating and waiting, like the
dare all over again, another staring context. Waiting, not teasing.
If Oz waits much longer, he's going to reconsider.
Then, suddenly, something really breaks and they're moving. Oz dips his head,
Xander grips at Oz's hips and pulls him down, and it's hot - wet - sour above
and below and everywhere in between.
Xander's cock jumps in Oz's mouth, and they lock themselves together, thrusting
and rising. The rhythm isn't much, nothing fancy, but it's working and that's
the best thing. Oz's spine conducts the flaring wet heat from Xander's mouth
straight to his own, and he pours it back over Xander's dick, sucking hard and
fast. Pulling Xander into him, pushing into Xander, hair in his eyes, sweat
gluing his legs to Xander's ribs, and he's melting, coiling, going deeper,
faster. Xander's got one knee up and his thigh slaps Oz's cheek with each
thrust, and Oz hears whining build around them, like an approaching swarm of
hornets.
Whining, and asking, and pleading. It builds and builds, getting louder and
going deeper. Oz's knees are numb and raw, scraping on the marble floor, his
jaw aches and lips burn, but he's asking for more and giving more. One of
Xander's hands grips Oz's ass, spreading him, the fingers delving into his
crack and Oz pushes up against it, breath thundering through his nose. Xander
pulls his hand away, misunderstanding, and Oz catches his breath as he licks
hot swirls over Xander's balls.
"Don't stop --" he gets out and Xander grabs him again, fingers moving up and
down like someone miming what it looks like to play guitar. Oz closes his mouth
around the head of Xander's dick, sloppy and slurping, sucking it farther in,
letting it scrape down the roof of his mouth.
He wants to see Xander come. The thought slices like a razor through the swamp
of heat and need, and Oz can picture it already. Wants to see those black eyes
widen and shine bright, the flushed face stretch as it shouts. Xander is close
-- his motion is getting jerkier, arrhythmic, he's gulping and panting, and his
balls, snug in Oz's hand, are tight and furnace hot -- and Oz wants to see.
But when Oz tries to pull back, turn around so he can see, Xander holds him
tighter, crushingly tight. His fingers skid through the sweat in Oz's crack,
playing and spinning out bright sulphur-blue flames up Oz's back. Oz's body
tightens in response to the hug, knees grinding the floor and his skin
fluorescing. Xander's arms squeeze Oz close, bringing him along as Xander
twists and wrenches and comes. Long, triple-pulsed beat of come and Oz swallows
and swallows until Xander curses long and high. In pain, this time, and Oz
pushes himself up onto shaky arms, panting.
Xander shudders beneath him, his fingers still digging into Oz's ass like he's
a lifeline and outcropping against a plummeting fall. Then he exhales, cold
breath over Oz's wet crotch, and takes Oz in his mouth again. Sharp, wet,
enveloping pressure and this, at least, this Oz needs to see.
He pulls out and Xander whimpers, butting his head up, seeking blindly as Oz
swings his leg around and tries to straddle Xander's chest. He's clumsy, his
legs and arms both free-floating and leaden, and Xander tries to grab him.
Whines, "Want to, Oz, please --"
"Yeah," Oz says, finally kneeling over Xander's chest, pushing the sweaty hair
off Xander's forehead. Xander's eyes are huge and wet, heavy with light, and Oz
cups his cheek for a moment. "Want you to, too. Just need to see --"
He wrenches forward, almost overbalancing, as Xander leans right back in, open-
mouthed, and takes his dick again. One hand on Xander's head, tangled in wet
hair, the other on a bar of the cage, Oz tries to take it easy.
Tries to thrust slowly. Tries to stretch this out, enjoy it, watch his cock
disappear slowly into Xander's wide, deep mouth. But Xander stares up at him,
shining eyes and red cheeks, arms wrapped around Oz's waist, and it's not going
to be slow.
Not slow, not with Xander looking at him fiercely and unblinkingly, mouth
stretching tight and fingers pulsing against Oz's crack, pushing him up onto
his knees, up and in and down until Oz is thrusting wild and mad, into Xander,
seeking the heat of black eyes and red lips. Both hands in Xander's hair now,
yanking at his skull, pulling up and pushing in and Xander just holds on tight,
humming and whinnying and gagging a little as Oz finally comes. Comes, and
breaks in two, snapping at the waist, face banging into the bars, nose smarting
and eyes streaming.
All the heat rushes out of him as he comes. Leaves him cold and shaking, skin
crawling like ice-choked water, kneeling here with screaming knees and burning
face. His dick burns in the cold when Xander pulls away.
Oz falls onto his hands, then his knees give out, and Xander's hand are hot,
painful, as he pulls Oz onto his chest, then eases him over until Oz is on his
side, pressed against Xander.
"Not bad for an amateur," Xander says eventually.
Oz's skin is calming down. He's not warm yet, but Xander's touch feels okay
rather than agonizing, and he can see more clearly. "Who?"
"Well, duh. Figure you've shot before," Xander says and smiles tightly. "So,
me. Not bad, huh?"
"Nope," Oz says. Shivers, like phone-wires vibrating when a flock of birds
takes flight, snap and hum all the way through him. "Pretty fucking good."
He sees Xander swallow; his profile and throat are lit in the sun, each fine
hair burning up at the tip. Xander swallows again and doesn't say anything.
"Backspace, actually," Oz says. "Not good. Great."
Xander blinks, then doesn't open his eyes. The light spreads golden over his
lids, pregnant angels and sleeping satyrs. He murmurs something below language
when Oz pulls closer and kisses the side of his mouth, then repeats the sound,
turning his head and kissing Oz back.
Oz doesn't compare. Not fair to do that, to think, for example, that Willow's
far smarter than Devon but Devon has better taste in music but Xander kisses
better than either of them. Even if it's true, it's not fair. Comparison
doesn't do anything besides rank and criticize people he's supposed to care
about.
Sometimes comparison sneaks up on him, though. Like now, on little cat feet
studded with teensy scimitar claws. Xander kisses better. Xander's mouth fits
Oz's, and his hand strays along the back of Oz's neck in little whirls that
match the motion of his tongue.
He's got to figure out how to define feelings better. Better than petri dishes
and food pyramids, anyway. There has to be something that describes what he's
feeling now, how he enjoys Xander's heartbeat and the trembles running over his
skin, the soft fur under his arm that smells like Irish Spring and sweat.
This isn't just wanting him. It's definitely more than sex. Oz holds him,
Xander holds Oz, and if they just lie still, maybe it'll be okay.
They lie there on the floor long enough that the light shifts, covering them
completely, the lightest, warmest blanket Oz has ever felt.
Oz stretches, settling his head higher on Xander's chest. He wishes it was as
simple as this, skin glueing together, discussing the road trip, their words
rising up and weaving through the dust motes in the light.
"Want to get going before sunrise." Xander scratches Oz's shoulderblade and
yawns.
"Good to get an early start."
"Hit the highway, push on through rush hour, and just keep going."
Oz wiggles, nudging his leg over Xander's and twisting so he can see Xander's
face. "East? North?"
"Don't know. North, I could do Frisco, Seattle. Maybe all the way to
Vancouver."
"That's Canada. Vancouver's in Canada."
"Is it? Right, it is. So?"
"Thought the point was -- wasn't it, like, see the USA in your Chevrolet?"
Xander whistles the jingle, then grins. "Buick, actually."
"Whatever." Oz pinches Xander's far nipple and ducks the swat. "Vancouver's
still in Canada, Marco Polo."
Xander doesn't swat him, just covers Oz's hand with his own and sighs. "Good
point. Okay, so east -- great Southwest, cow skulls and lots of turquoise? Or
Northwest, logging camps and taciturn ranchers and freaky psychos living alone
in cabins?"
"Midwest," Oz says. "Badlands, Chicago. Blues and Capone's vault. The El,
Cabrini Green."
"Why do I want to go there? I watch ER. Isn't that like crack gang slum land?"
"Got to see *everything*, Xander. Can't just stick to the scenic vistas."
Letting out a breath so slowly it can't count as a sigh, Xander seems to
consider that for a long moment. "Yeah. Maybe -- St. Louis? What's that, lower
Midwest?"
"Think so."
"Push on through to the South."
"Could work nicely."
"Horse country. Oh, *man*. Dollywood."
"I like horses," Oz says.
"Do you?"
"Yeah. Like, Pleistocene relics. Weird long faces but -- pretty."
Xander snorts. "Plasticine gives me hives."
"Yeah? Anyway. Maybe not pretty. Good-looking, anyway."
Xander runs his index finger down Oz's face. Forehead, down, to the tip of his
nose, which he taps. "I like weird faces."
"Really?" Oz isn't breathless, exactly, but it's hard to talk.
Xander leans in, eyes intent, his smile stretching wide. He rolls his forehead
against Oz's and says, "Definitely."
It's weird, this kind of attention. Oz shivers a little and wraps his arm
around Xander's neck again, kissing him. Weird, because he's not sure he's ever
felt like this before: looked at like this. Onstage, it's different. People
look at Devon; if they look at Oz, it's just recognition. But Xander looks at
him with something else. Oz hasn't ever been one for attention. He likes to do
his own thing, and attention's for other people, people like Devon, Cordelia,
Buffy, even poor dead Larry. Stars.
"Charleston," Xander says when the kiss breaks. "Want to see all that hanging
moss."
"Creepy stuff. And the graveyards, too."
"Then where?"
Oz closes his eyes. The light's changing again, leaving his back in the dark,
chilling. "Your call. What about Chesapeake Bay?"
"You like water, huh?"
"Yeah."
He feels the motion of Xander's nod against the top of his head. "Then we'll do
Chesapeake next."
*We*. Oz lets the word sink over him, over them, one frail little syllable.
It's a pretty word, an old and simple one. He doesn't say anything, just stays
still and quiet. Old superstitions about not tempting the bogeyman under the
bed, not letting on to fear. Don't move and it can't get you. Whatever *it* is
here, something about time and guilt and regret.
He's got a cage to build, Xander's got a trip to take. They really can't do
this any more.
"Hey, Xander?"
"Yeah?"
"Let's go all the way up to New York. Walk all over the city. Ride the subway."
He can hear the smile in Xander's voice, roughening it slightly like sandpaper,
sparkling a little. "Party people going places on the D train?"
Oz stretches, his shoulder popping, and curls his hand around Xander's neck,
pulling in until their foreheads are pressed together. "Go from the station
straight to Orange Julius, exactly."
"Got yourself a plan, my man."
Oz doesn't answer. He breathes in relief and ignores impending worry. Hold
still, he thinks, and maybe he can slow down the consequences just enough to
enjoy this. This, Xander.
The cage'll get built, and Xander'll take off, but right now it's warm in the
sun and he can feel Xander's smile curving against his cheek.

End Notes
     Thanks to Dodyskin for suggesting the Hunger/God/Sex matrix and the
     Beastie Boys for sampling their samples.
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