Stray Birds

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by templemarker

Notes: Happy birthday to Minim. And because I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen Wesley/Xander. Title from a collection of poems by Rabindranath Tagore. Xander/Wesley. You think I’m joking? Improv: #44 (sweat, fly, locked, sage) Spoilers: Specifically “The Price” from AtS and “Hell’s Bell’s” from BtVS.

Remixed brilliantly by victoria p. (musesfool) in the very first round of We Invented the Remix…Redux: I Drove All Night (The Boys Don’t Cry Remix).


Wesley opened the door.


He stared blankly at the man in front of him.

“Um. Look. I’m sorry to just come over, without calling or anything, but I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I tried the hotel, but everyone was … gone, and I couldn’t stay in Sunnydale, and you’re the only other guy I know in L.A., so I’m kinda hoping you’ll let me stay here.”


“I forgot to say hi, didn’t I?”

Wesley ran a hand through his hair, and absently rubbed his unshaven chin. “Just … come in.”

Xander stepped through the doorway, dragging a battered duffel with him. He looked about as unkempt as Wesley did, and Wesley thought to himself that Xander Harris hadn’t changed at all from eighteen.

Xander fidgeted nervously as Wesley closed the door, playing with the edge of his rather frayed shirt and watching Wesley with shadowed eyes. Wesley knew he couldn’t deal with this right now, so he pointed at the living room and said, “I don’t have a spare room, or a futon… I suppose you’ll have to manage with the couch. There should be some food in the refrigerator. I’m going to bed.”

Xander nodded at Wesley’s retreating back; he could deal with the lumpy couch and leftovers.

He’d had worse. But then again, he’d had better too.


The night segued into day with surprising ease, and Wesley padded in to the kitchen around ten in the morning to find Xander still flopped on the couch in sleep. He hadn’t known what he’d expected – maybe only to find him awake, at least. Wesley put the coffee on and rummaged through the refrigerator for eggs and cheese, wincing as he discovered unsightly mold growing rampant on his cheddar.

He turned around to find Xander looking all of nine in brightly colored pajamas with spots on them. “Big with the skeezy cheeses, arentcha Wes?” Xander seemed to darken as his own words ran through his mind, and his sobering was palpable. Wesley didn’t pretend to understand, simply tossed the cheese out and looked back at Xander.

“Do you want to go out?”

Xander shuffled his feet, let out a sigh. “Yeah. Lemme get some clothes on, we can do IHOP.”

Wesley nodded.

Shortly after, the unlikely pair found themselves being catered to strawberry pancakes with whipped cream (Xander) and maple pancakes with a poached egg as a side (Wesley) by a striking transvestite by the name of Ginger. Xander tried not to stare; Wesley didn’t bother to look.

“I thought you had a job?” Wesley asked as their food was being prepared.

“I, uh, took a hiatus,” Xander said, and there was the fidgeting again.

“I see. Exactly how long are you planning on staying in Los Angeles?”

Xander shrugged. “As long as you’ll let me, I guess.” He waved a fly from the table and stared into his coffee mug. “Um, I don’t want to pry or anything, but shouldn’t you be with Deadboy?”

Wesley gave a short, “No,” and hoped Xander would simply drop it.

Amazingly, he did.

Wesley gave his own inquiry: “I thought you were marrying Anya?”


Well, that’s that, Wesley thought. He had never been so glad to see a transvestite in his life when Ginger sauntered over to their table and laid down their respective plates. “Eat up, boys,” she said sagely. “Need to keep you strong and … healthy,” she said with a bit of a leer.

Xander gave a half-hearted smile before digging into his pancakes, and Wesley kept his eyes trained on his plate, muttering “thank you” as Ginger receded.


When they got home, Wesley went straight for his bedroom, leaving Xander to his own devices.

He looked around the living room, taking it all in. Bookcases everywhere. There was a desk, with papers scattered on it and a laptop closed on a stack of files. A TV sat in the corner, and there Xander found it: the Playstation. This was good. This was very good.

He sat in front of the television and flipped through Wesley’s games until he found it. The game he just knew would be there. Zelda.

Xander didn’t look up from the TV for about five hours, and then only when Wesley came within his line of sight. “Having fun?” the former Watcher asked dryly.

“Um, yeah,” Xander said, putting down the game control and standing up, his joints popping in the process.

Wesley went over to the desk, reaching for his computer and a few random papers. He glanced at Xander once again, before withdrawing back to his bedroom. Xander started to wonder what was so exciting about that room, anyway. He sat down on the couch, rummaging through his stuff until he found his battered Jack Kerouac novels. He’d never left Sunnydale without them. He flipped to the first page of his favorite book, and fell into the words.

Wesley, in the other room, tapped away at his computer. He was playing around on the Internet – something he’d never be let known outside of his apartment – and noted that the noise level in the living room had gone down considerably.

Wandering in, hours later, Wesley discovered that Xander had fallen asleep, book in hand. He reached for one of the blankets he kept in the house, intending to cover Xander with it, but as he was doing so Xander turned himself over and mumbled something into the pillow.

He couldn’t hear.

Wesley knew he shouldn’t do it, but he leaned in closer to hear more clearly and was quite surprised when Xander snagged his hand, bringing it to his face and saying in one long rush, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, I love you, I’m sorry…”

Wesley was at something of a loss. This, perhaps, explained why Xander acted like an animal in a locked cage when he first arrived. He tried to disentangle his hand, but Xander only gripped it more tightly. Wesley sat on the side of the couch, wondering what to do next. He was spared having to answer the awkward question when Xander peeked through sleepy eyelashes to find him sitting there.

“Wes?” he said, and sounded every bit as lonely and in pain as Wesley felt.

“Yes?” Wesley answered, unable to keep the rasp out of his voice.

“Can you make me … forget? For just a while? Or maybe forever?”

“… no.”


“Well, maybe.”

And Wesley hauled Xander to him, forcing their mouths together. In that kiss, Wesley felt more than the pain. He felt desperation, fear, hunger – every emotion mirrored to his own. This is solace, he thought.

Xander picked up the initiative, grinding their bodies together urgently, giving much-needed friction Wesley’s surprisingly hard dick. Hands fumbled with frustratingly difficult buttons and zippers, frantically pushing denim and cotton away with the overwhelming need to touch, to sear flushed skin against skin.

The two men’s gasps and moans intermingled with each other, and when their cocks touched, it was simply adding fuel to the fire. Wesley pinched and tweaked Xander’s nipples, eliciting a keening cry that begged for more. Hands roamed endlessly on the vast planes of sweat-covered skin, muscles skimmed and scars mapped.

Xander thrust helplessly against the weighted body above him, blindly seeking release, the oblivion he craved. Wesley bit down on his shoulder, leaving a reddening mark that would most certainly be there in the morning. Xander sucked wetly on the two fingers he found shoved in his mouth, and screamed soundlessly when he was breached swiftly.

The world shrank to those fingers and Xander’s reaction. Wesley laid his other hand on Xander’s cock, jerking upwards, squeezing the tip, and Xander bucked madly. Wesley’s fingers twisted, and he took perverse pressure in rendering Xander speechless.

The pleasure was useless a moment later when he heard Xander chanting under his breath, “Do it, do it, do it, do it…”

Wesley flipped Xander onto his stomach, watching him bury his face in the dark brown pillow. He smeared precome, both his and Xander’s, over the head of his cock as much as he could, regretting the lack of lubrication – but he sincerely doubted either of them had planned on any situation that would have called for it. Positioning himself at the very edge of Xander’s asshole, he took a deep breath and sank in.

It was tight, and hot, and exactly what he wanted. Xander was struggling to hold still, and Wesley was struggling to hold back. It suddenly occurred to both of them that there was no reason for hesitation, and just as Xander lifted his ass, Wesley shoved downwards.

Xander could have sworn there were bright white sparks obliterating his sight. He was filled, violated, impaled – and some part of his mind told him that was what he deserved, to be impaled, because he always hurt the women he loved. A fitting end.

But then there was movement – in and out, in and out, an erratic rhythm with only one goal. Each time Wesley brushed Xander’s prostate, Xander would yell; and each time Xander squeezed back on the invading cock, Wesley would do the same.

It seemed to last forever – for Xander. For Wesley it was over far too quickly, and he came, rearing back his head and shouting at the ceiling. Xander followed soon after, and that always prudent part of Wesley wondered if he’d have to get his couch cleaned once this was all over, which was bad because he didn’t really have the money for it.

Wesley pulled out slowly, Xander lifting his ass in response. He just lay there, prone atop Xander’s back, too spent to move despite the thought that he might be crushing Xander.

He felt Xander shake as the tears poured from his eyes. Solace, indeed, thought Wes. I wonder if I found any?

All too soon, he pulled from that prone, aching body, leaving his clothes in a haphazard pile on the floor and going back to his room.

He didn’t miss the quiet, “Thanks, Wes,” as he shut the door.


In the morning, Wesley knew what he expected to find.

Instead, his clothes were neatly folded on the coffee table and his couch smelled of Febreze. The book Xander had been reading was on the coffee table as well, and Wesley was compelled to pick up the well-read paperback and look inside.

On the inside flap, there was, of course, a note.


Thanks for letting me stay here. And thanks for last night. I guess everybody has to grow up sometime.

The open road calls…


Wesley put the book down, and went back to bed.

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