Negation

Author: Rubywisp

Pairing: Xander/Angel

Rating: R

Spoilers: Set mid-to-late BtVS Season 6/AtS Season 3.

Summary: According to Xander, nothing happened.

Distribution: My site, list archives. You want it, email me.

Disclaimer: Sadly, neither Angel nor Xander belong to me. It's a wrong, wrong thing, I tell you.

~~~

Xander knew he'd been at the bar a long time, and he knew he'd had too much to drink, but he had no idea just how gone he really was until the broad back of the guy at the far table started to look like Angel's.

The guy had that scrub-bristle hair, too, which would've almost been enough to make Xander believe that he was Angel, except for the fact that he couldn't be.

Oh, he had the brooding thing down pat - Xander could tell the waitress had long since given up trying to actually speak to the guy when she brought him his drinks. Moody, anti-social hulk in a leather jacket? It wasn't hard to see how Xander might make the mistake of thinking that L.A.'s very own undead Batman had put in an appearance at the not-local bar.

But even a very drunk Xander knew Angel would never spend an evening drinking in some dive a couple of hours away from the place he'd decided that he was single-handedly responsible for protecting from the forces of darkness. And there was no way Angel would ever get up from a table a good 20 feet or so away from Xander to come and sit down next to him instead.

Angel hated Xander, so the chances of him ever asking Xander why he was sitting in a seedy bar, drunk off his ass, were very slim. Angel wouldn't care if Xander was too drunk to watch his back and ended up a beer-flavored snack for some passing vamp. And when Xander explained that he'd fucked up his life yet again, sharing his own personal runaway groom story, Angel wouldn't sit there, listening and asking questions, looking like he actually gave a shit.

Xander hated Angel, too, and Angel knew it. That's why Angel wouldn't ever sit and drink with him, pouring his heart out about lovers dead and desired, friends who weren't, loss and betrayal.

Xander wouldn't care; the real Angel knew that.

The real Angel wouldn't take Xander's glass out of his hand, pay his bar tab, and help him to his car. He wouldn't drive Xander to the motel Xander had checked into earlier, nor would he help Xander out of the car and into the room, much less out of his clothes and into the shower.

Even if Angel had decided to be nice to Xander (and Xander had to stop for a minute and lean against the bathroom door, giggling helplessly at the ridiculousness of the idea.) But even if Angel had done all those things, he definitely wouldn't still be sitting in the chair by the door when Xander came out of the shower, looking like he was waiting for something. Waiting for Xander.

And when a slightly-wet, boxer-clad Xander crawled into bed between the blissfully-cool sheets, the same Angel who wouldn't still be there wouldn't walk over to the bed and pull the bedspread up around Xander's shoulders, muttering things about wet and cold and stupid people making themselves sick.

Spending the night alone, even drunk and depressed, was better than spending time with Angel. So Xander wouldn't ask him to stay, and Angel wouldn't get undressed, or turn off the light and crawl into bed with him. He just wouldn't.

Not that Xander would want him to.

He wouldn't want to be held, and he definitely wouldn't want Angel to slip one arm around his waist and pull him close. He wouldn't shift and fidget and squirm until Angel rumbled something at him and pulled him closer yet. And he sure as hell wouldn't start to feel warm and bonelessly blissed-out from the attention, much less start wanting... more.

Angel wouldn't respond to Xander's unspoken and unwanted arousal by threading the fingers of one hand through Xander's still-damp hair even as his other hand became intimately acquainted with the curves and planes of Xander's lower body. And he'd never nuzzle against the hairline at the base of Xander's skull, leaving tiny kisses there that made Xander wriggle in his arms. Angel wouldn't wrap one long leg around Xander's own, pulling Xander nearer even as Angel pushed firmly against his ass. And feeling Angel's hard-on wouldn't make Xander gasp and thrust up into the hand that had slipped into his boxers without him noticing.

Xander would never twist his head, looking for Angel's mouth with his own. He'd never craved Angel-kisses and never would; never want to feel those cool lips on his face, hungrily mouthing away the heat that suffused his skin.

It was a good thing, too, because Angel would certainly never, ever trail soft, wet kisses down Xander's neck to his nipples. Never swirl his tongue slickly around one and then the other, biting down and pulling gently, chuckling against Xander's skin when Xander bucked and moaned. And when Xander was finally out of his mind with lust, Angel wouldn't settle on top of him, carefully fitting their bodies together until they both inhaled sharply with the rightness of it.

Xander wouldn't wrap his legs around Angel, crying out and clutching as Angel rubbed hard and harder against him. He wouldn't lavish attention on the strong, smooth neck he'd always wanted - no, wrong, never wanted - to taste, decorating it with a string of bruising, biting kisses that would leave Angel searching for high-collared shirts the next day.

And when it was all over, and the two of them were sticky and satisfied and sleepy next to each other on the too-small bed, Xander wouldn't turn over and mold himself to Angel's back, burying his face against Angel's shoulder as he drifted off to sleep.

~~~

The next morning, when Xander woke up alone, he was relieved. He'd known all along that he'd been dreaming, but he was pleased to see it confirmed. He certainly hadn't been hoping to wake up curled around the muscular body he'd imagined falling asleep with last night.

He was achy and tired - but that always happened when he drank too much. And yeah, maybe he did wake up in desperate need of a shower, but that wasn't a completely uncommon occurrence either.

Xander showered, dressed, and packed his bag, all the time thinking how glad he was that the night before existed only in his imagination.

He'd never discovered that Angel was a good listener and a better kisser, never felt sharp, unexpected sympathy while listening to the recent troubles of a man he spent the better part of a decade hating. He hadn't done anything that would confirm his most privately-held suspicions about the state of his own sexuality, Angel hadn't been tender with him in ways he'd never experienced before, and the whole thing wasn't going to leave a slightly-hollow spot in Xander's chest that he'd spend the next several weeks trying to obliterate with bitterness and alcohol. Because he knew Angel hadn't really been there, and that was just fine with him.

And when Xander left, slamming the door behind him, and a business card caught the breeze and fluttered to the floor, that was fine, too. Angel wouldn't have left a card with a note on it telling Xander to call him some time, and Xander wouldn't have wanted to read it anyway. So it didn't matter, because it never happened.

End.