Fic: The Only One Who Knows

The Only One Who Knows

Fandom: Buffy
Pairing: Angel/Xander
Rating: R
Setting: BtVS season 3
Word count: 1,815

Summary: I imagined Angel carefully mentioning the time when Faith was doing her damnedest to choke the life out of Xander, perhaps extending the proverbial olive branch, and Xander's instant gut reaction. This is the result.


Xander tries not to think about it, but it's with him constantly. He can't help but remember how Faith had wrapped her bare hands around his throat and tried to squeeze the life out of him. He had gone to her offering help and friendship, thinking that they had some kind of connection, and she had tossed him around like a rag doll. She had looked him in the eyes, wanting to see for herself that all-important moment when the lights went out. She had ground herself down on his embarrassing hard on, making little girlish happy sounds the whole time.

Angel's the only one who knows.

The others know that there was badness, sure. They saw his bruises. They heard the husk of his voice. But Angel's the only one who saw. He knows what happened. He knows exactly. He knows how sick it was. He witnessed the whole damn thing. And then he saved Xander's sorry behind.

Xander can't let it go.

There had been a Scooby meeting a few days later, and they'd had an argument -- or rather, an "animated discussion" -- about how to deal with Faith and the Mayor. A few clever insults were bandied about. No big deal. Then somehow Angel and Xander had been left alone together. It couldn't have been more than a minute. Two, tops. There had been silence. Long, stretched out, uncomfortable silence.

Then Angel saying quietly, "Listen, Xander, if this is about what Faith did to you, you know that I--"

"Fuck off," Xander had said, and walked away.

Now they're in the library, and it's quiet, as libraries are inclined to be. Xander can feel his heart thump in his chest as he leans forward.

"That time I told you to fuck off..."

Anyone else might have thrown back a witty retort. Something snarky and wise-assed. It's all in the way that Xander poses the not-question. The way he just lets it trail off. Like it's nothing too important. Like he admits to nothing, but is just creating an opening for pre-approved dialogue. The tone of his voice. The off-handedness of the whole damn thing. He sets it up perfectly. It'd be so easy for someone to toss back an easy little "Hey, forget about it. We're on the same page, buddy. No big deal."

Not Angel. His expression doesn't waver. He just looks up from the book he's reading, all the way across the library table. Waits for a moment before answering. Like maybe the snark is so deep, so very out of Xander's league, that it's simply implied.

"Which time?" he asks evenly.

"The, uh, the last time."

"Oh." Again, no change of expression, but Xander can feel the moment he's referring to being zoned in on with the precision of a laser beam. It's there, because it happened. It happened to Xander, and his only witness is this big, stupid vampire who's just too cool for school. "What about it?"

Xander hates him. Hates him so much. "I didn't mean it."

"I didn't think you did."

"Yeah, but you might not have known. I haven't exactly been front and centre in your cheering section."

"You don't owe me anything, Xander."

"I know that," Xander says too quickly. Angel goes back to his research. Xander tries to count to sixty before speaking again. He caves at fifty-eight. "'Cept maybe a thank you."

"You're welcome."

The fact that Angel doesn't look up coils something tight in Xander's stomach. "I only said 'maybe'."

"You're still welcome."

"Fine."

Giles appears to check on their progress, a book in each hand, glasses perched on the end of his nose, and the moment passes.

Angel's the only one who knows. Xander can't seem to let it go. Their fight against the Mayor intensifies and both life and unlife carry on regardless in Sunnydale, but Xander finds he's living in the past. One specific moment in the past, and he just can't let go.

When the group patrols, Xander finds excuses to stay behind, or makes sure that he's not in Angel's party. Of course, this can't last forever, and one night Buffy decrees that Xander and Angel should patrol alone together. She has to make a trip to the desert with Giles and Willow to take down some sand demon that's making its bi-millennia appearance and somebody needs to keep the home fires burning. Xander wants to complain, but only smiles through gritted teeth. He quips like it's going out of style and he has to off-load his supply of wisecracks before the slump hits the market. He's the Xand-man. He's her backup. He does the necessary. It's an unspoken promise, but it's one Buffy relies on, and one he's not about to break.

Angel and Xander walk through town, purposefully not talking to one another. In downtown Sunnydale, people throng, doing a little night-shopping, eating a little late dinner. They snack on ice cream and sip brand-name coffees. They live their lives in blissful ignorance of what's going on all around them. Shops and cafés give way to rows of strategically placed houses that give way to cemeteries. Xander slips a stake into his hand. He's being trusted to kill evil things. He's walking side by side with the world's only vampire with a soul. The moonlight and the crickets mock his every step.

Vampires appear. Xander freaks, holds his own, and stakes maybe one vampire for every four or five of Angel's. He knows he shouldn't compare tallies, knows he should be damn proud that he's still walking tall, but he can't help but blow on the nagging little hot coal of resentment in the pit of his stomach until it catches flame.

"That time."

Angel watches him with fathomless eyes. "I thought we'd been over this."

"You watched." It's an accusation with a capital A.

For the first time, Angel seems genuinely shocked. "No, I--"

"You waited 'til the last possible moment. You watched her do that to me. You probably got off on it."

This is how Xander likes Angel. When he's beaten down like this. No more holier than thou, older than god vampire, but like this. Awkward. Guilt ridden. Worthless.

Less, even, than Xander.

"I didn't. I would never. I'd only just got there. I stopped her as soon as I could. It wasn't... wasn't my intention--"

"Your intention!?" Xander swings before he's even formed the thought. He's hyped up on slaying and full to the brim with righteous animosity. He's sure Angel sees it coming, but Angel doesn't flinch. He takes it on the chin.

Angel rolls with it, but it still feels like punching concrete.

"Stop it," Angel says, and Xander is left searching for any hint of anger. "Faith is a Slayer. She's stronger than me. Faster. That's how it works. The only thing I've got on her is old age and lots of practice."

"You mean you've got blood on your hands."

"Yes. I do. And a lot of it. But so does she." Xander doesn't want to hear this. The last thing he wants is to hear this. "I had to be careful," Angels tells him, sounding so damn sincere Xander could just puke. "I could have made things worse if I'd moved too soon. I haven't told anyone if that's what you're worried about."

Wilfully, Xander swings again, but this time Angel catches his fist, snatching it right out of the air like they're in some clichéd martial arts movie. They're nose to nose now. Xander's sloppy swing has brought him right up into Angel's personal space.

Angel looks him right in the eye and says, "You only get one for free."

Xander's fury carries him; his heart beating wildly, like it wants to leap right out of his chest. He hooks his hand around the back of Angel's neck and kisses him, hard. Just like that. No prelude, no warning, no turning back. Not ever. He's never kissed anyone like this before. No getting to know you niceties. There's very little thought of any kind involved here. Angel freezes for a second -- and in that second, the coolness of Angel's lips, his skin, the tenseness of the solid muscle under Xander's palm, it's like kissing a statue -- and then the hell of it is that Angel comes to life under his hands and moves against him, kissing him back.

It's everything Xander hoped it might be all those times he tried to stop himself from thinking of it at all. It doesn't last long, but it's good. It's far, far too good.

Xander breaks away first, gasping for air. "How much is that going to cost me?"

Angel doesn't seem to have an answer for this. He's too busy staring at Xander, his mouth hanging open in shock. Xander finds this wildly amusing and lets out a high-pitched little giggle. Angel grabs the front of Xander's shirt and his hands flex there, making the shirt cut sharply into Xander's back. Suddenly it's not funny anymore.

"Why did you do that?" Angel asks, his voice soft and just a little bit scary.

"Don't know," Xander says truthfully, the words tumbling out. "Don't know."

"Are you trying to play me?"

Xander can only shake his head, the small part of his brain that's still functioning wondering at words like "play me" coming out of Angel's mouth. Angel's mouth. Oh god.

"Then what? What are you trying to prove?"

Xander realises he's trembling. "It's... it's nothing. It's just... nothing."

Angel pulls him closer, making Xander stand on tiptoe. "Didn't feel like nothing to me."

Xander starts to struggle. He wants to be away. He hates Angel, hates him, hates him, that doesn't change. It can't.

Angel holds him there so easily, watching intently as Xander twists and turns and claws ineffectually at Angel's hands. It doesn't do a damned bit of good until Angel decides that enough is enough and simply... opens his hands. Xander stumbles back several paces and falls right on his ass. There is a long drawn out moment of awfulness, where Xander can only sit there stupidly, looking up and up, and feeling so incredibly foolish.

He scrambles to his feet and runs all the way home. He closes the front door behind him and rests his back on it for a moment, letting the relative safety of home seep into his bones, too aware of his breathing, of his skin, of the way the crappy finish of the door feels under his palms. He steals a beer from the kitchen on the way to his room, locks his bedroom door, stands in the middle of the room and drinks the beer down in one long, desperate swallow. He crawls under the covers and doesn't sleep. And if he cries, just a little bit, nobody hears him.




-end-


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