Spoiler Warning: season 4 general plus The Yoko Factor in particular.

Summary: Post Yoko Factor fic.  After the thing with Buffy and Willow, Xander stays to
tidy up chez Giles.

Rating: NC-17 for slashy m/m content, angst, churlishness and misuse of a fine single malt beverage.

Disclaimer:  "The characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Productions, 20th Century Fox, WB Network, and whoever else may have a hold on them.  The situation is totally mine, and I do not mean to infringe upon any copyrights."  What she said.

Feedback: oh yes.

Notes:  to Laura for asking and betaing and betaing and Te for inspiring and audiencing,  And still, all errors and omissions and misinterpretations are my own dang fault.

          ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

          "Four Dicks"
          by Spike
          06/00
 
          //Giles is a drunk.//

          Weird to think of it that way and Xander never has before because while he has a lot of experience with drunks of one particular stripe and color -- that being the 'drink beer all day every day' stripe of drunk that is both dad and Uncle Rory and the 'drink vodka and cry on the weekend' color of drunk that is mom -- the way Giles drinks has kind of slipped in under his radar.  His 'drunk-dar', thank you very much.  And that bothers him.  Pisses him off actually -- okay, well, he's already pretty pissed off.  But that's why he's still wandering around Giles' living room after all of his, oh yes, let's use the ironic word of the evening, 'friends' have taken off.

          Buffy storming off to be with Gomer Pyle.

          Willow packing up her laptop way too carefully and slowly and forgetting it anyway -- Xander runs his fingers over the cool plastic -- when Tara the brand new shiny lesbian girlfriend--

          //*Girlfriend!!!*  And where the hellmouth had that come from?  Some extra-left-of-left-field field apparently?  But okay, anyway -- //

          girlfriend

          //Dealing now//

          came out of the bathroom looking all bruised and protective and ushered her out.

          Like Willow needed protection from *him*.  Yeah, right.  Willow the big brick wall that's been hitting him in the head for like a year now.  //'oooh, you live in a basement boo hoo hoo.'  'Oooh, you're a demon magnet, wah wah wah'//
 
          Things that still hurt.  And oh yeah, he sure is Mean Guy that people need protection from.

          Well, maybe a little.  Maybe Anya.  Which is exactly why he sent her home, because she *didn't* understand this kind of shit and he didn't want to yell at her about it but he knew he was going to yell at someone and if she stayed it was going to be her.  And maybe this would be the time he'd say the thing and he didn't -- doesn't -- even know what it would be, but there always was one thing, one magic hurt word that he could always find that would stake a loved one right through the heart.  He could watch the dust of them settle into a look in their eyes.  A look that lacked muchly of things loving.  And he didn't particularly want to see that look in Anya's eyes tonight.  Ever.  Ever ever.  He hated that fucking look.

          And anyway... Anyway...

          So he'd sent her home, which left him alone in Giles' house -- well 'alone' except for his brand new friend Giles-the-Drunk passed out and snoring somewhere upstairs, which is what Xander wanted for some reason.  Wants.  To be here.  So here he is, pretending to tidy up, but really more just picking up Giles' things, staring at them, putting them down again a little less than gently.  Being pissed off.

          All these *things* here.  Nice, weird, interesting things.  Giles' sweater on the floor.  Giles'  books.  Giles' little African statue thingies. Giles' crystal tumbler half full of warm, stale scotch.  It sits heavy in Xander's hand and he thinks about how good it might feel to throw it really hard at something Giles really likes.   That Tiffany lamp thing.

          Or the 'orary'.  Imagining how Giles would come down the next morning all hung over and see it broken and see the broken glass and spilled Scotch staining the floor, stinking up the house and how shitty Giles would feel.  How Giles would still just have to take it.  Would just know it was his own fault for getting drunk in the first place.

          Makes Xander feel good to think that in a mean kind of way he's apparently needing tonight and he holds the glass up, hefts it and

          //Shit!//

          scotch slops out over his hand.  Sleeve.  The sour-sweet grain smell makes Xander's stomach do a little lurch.   Okay, so *not* throwing scotch.  Instead he takes it to the sink, pours it down, runs water after it.  Squirts some dishsoap on his hands.  Lemony. Decides to run his sleeve under the water too, which is a horrible mistake -- cold, soapy water soaking the cuff of his new sweater, traveling halfway up to his elbow.  He turns off the water, tries squeezing it out, then gives up, takes the sweater off and tosses it on the counter.  Rolls up the sleeve of his shirt.

          And now he's standing there, wet, in Giles' kitchen and all the lights in the nearly silent house seem to be buzzing.  He drums a little on the countertop, hoists himself up so he's sitting on the counter and drums a little harder to make some noise.  Which is fucking useless.  Scratches his just-getting-stubble-y jaw.  Drums his heels against the cupboard doors a few times and then jumps back off the counter.

          Standing in the middle of Giles' too bright kitchenette.  Suddenly pissed again:

          //Four dicks.//  Four *dicks*.  How fucking lame was that?

          For God's sake -- at least laugh at my pain with some modicum of dignity, Giles.  At least be *funny*.  Otherwise you're no better than all the Larrys and Rodney Munsons  and Jack O'Tooles and why the fuck should I waste my *time*...

          And he's not exactly sure what he means by that, only that his face is hot with rage and a wierd embarassment and so much nervous energy he's jumping out of his skin and it's time to go *home*, Xander.  Christ.  He'll just make sure Happy Fun Giles isn't aspirating in a puddle of his own vomit...

          Up the stairs in about three strides and, hey, he's never been up in Giles' bedroom loft before.  Definitely not with Giles asleep in it.  Which he is.  Lying on his back with his legs hanging off the side of his nice, big, comfy looking bed.  Still dressed in his  white T-shirt and jeans. Shoes on.  Watch on.  Glasses in his loosely curled hand.  Snoring a little and breathing little clouds of the acetone-y smelling breath.    Xander sighs.   Passed out drunks -- the ranks of whom Giles has now officially joined -- have this flushed, sweaty, innocent look to them, like cranky babies, that fills Xander with a combination of irritation and the desire to tuck.

          "Okay, Mr. Giles-man," he says, giving Giles' shoulder a solid shake.  "Wakey-wakey.  Time to impress me with your self-propulsion skills."  Nothing.  Not even a scowl.  He briefly considers cruelty -- cold water, major shakage.  Big Russian face slaps.  Settles for brushing sweaty hair off of Giles' forehead.

          "Come on, big G," he says.  "Don't make this harder than it needs to be."  Giles smiles in his sleep, mutters something, sort of pushes his damp forehead against Xander's hand.

          Xander, who is utterly frozen for a second, because what he thinks he hears Giles mutter all cozy and low, is:  '...want you hard...' Which is... whoahhhh.  But... nahhhh.

          Definitely 'nah'.  He shakes it off.  And Giles is back in La La Land anyway.  Snoring.

          And right, Xander knows this drill.

          "Upsy-daisy," he says, sort of straddling Giles so he can get his arms under Giles' armpits.  Get some leverage.  He lifts, tugs.  Moves Giles maybe two inches farther onto the bed.  Trouble is, Giles is actually taller than Xander, and ridiculously heavy and his legs are sort of anchoring him.  All of which means that the best Xander can manage in this position is basically a Grade A hump of his former high school librarian.  Which is a lot less disturbing than it should be.  Particularly the part where it's starting to feel good.  Or the part where he can tell Giles thinks so too.

          Although maybe the phrase *Giles thinks* is pushing it.

          And maybe the part where he hasn't stopped moving yet *is* kind of disturbing.  He stops.  With effort.  Takes a deep breath and let's the air out slowly through tightly pursed lips.  His heart is hammering way harder than the physical effort would account for and he knows his face is red.  Giles' head is thrown back a little, his mouth fallen just a little bit open.  Soft looking mouth.  Pink. Still snoring softly.  Xander swallows.

          "You're not just faking this whole drooling and comatose thing, right?" he asks.  "'Cause this whole accidental frottage incident could be a walk deep into woods of traumatic humiliation."

          Giles doesn't stir.

          "Hey, look! Adam!"  Nothing.  "With pizza!"  Which gets him more nothing and a fairly disgusting sounding snort.

          "You're good."  Xander says, shaking his head ruefully.  Still doesn't move, just kind of sits there on Giles, looking down on him in a way that seems suddenly awfully intimate.

          Intimate.  If Giles opened his eyes right now...

          //then what?//

          Then *nothing* Sexual Confusion Boy.

          //Hey, if Willow can...//  Willow's different, okay?  Different. //Different how?//  But he shuts the little voice up because he's not going to think about this now -- about him and Giles and mutual nail-pounders and what it might be like to...

          No.  Not thinking about it at all, thank you muchly.  And not thinking either about Anya who is probably waiting for him, in his bed.   Who is in *love* with him, who said so and the awful, grateful, shameful way that makes him feel because he doesn't love her back...

          Nope, no thinking here.  No siree.

          And he takes the stupid hard-on with him and unstraddles Giles.  Goes around to the other side of the bed.  From here the leverage is way better.  He gets a good hold on Giles and heaves backward with excellent results.  Gets Giles right up on the bed, then heaves sideways to straighten him out head to toe.  Damn easy actually.  One.  Two.   There we go.

          Sometimes he's actually kind of amazed by his own strength.  Now there's something he's improved at over the years.  He remembers how hard it used to be to shift an old drunk guy...

          Also how he always used to crawl into bed beside said drunk guy, 'cause hell, a hug was a hug.

          "Good times, good times..." he says, straightening Giles' rucked up shirt and at a certain point he realizes that's not exactly what he's doing.  And it's a physical effort to unclench his white-knuckled fists from the material, let Giles back down on the bed.  Walk away.

          Angry.

          So angry he's shaking.  So angry he's going to fucking bawl in a second and wouldn't that just be the perfect fucking capper to the perfect fucking evening.  Maybe Buffy could bring Gomer by to watch.  Maybe Willow...

          And maybe he's never going to see Buffy or Willow ever again.  Huh?  How about *that* one for a kicker?

          //Bet you saw it coming though, right Giles?  Pretty much par for the course for this boy.//

          And it *so* was.

          //For both of us, maybe...//

          Buffy storming out already a semi-familiar thing -- okay, it was bad but he hadn't thought it was worse than bad fights they'd already had.  People fought.  That's what they did, fought and said terrible things to each other and then it was over.  Mostly.   Good enough.   He'd already started forgiving them and Buffy -- well, he'd already gotten the ashy look over Angel and learned to live with what was left.   And hell, maybe he had an ash or two of his own, left over from the 'Let's save Faith' campaign of 1999.    Yeah, okay the friendship was maybe missing a limb or two but all the vital organs were still intact.  Probably.  Maybe, but Willow.

          No, he actually hadn't seen that one coming.

          Had already turned to her, his mouth open to say something to bridge the sudden silence, but caught between smartass and sorry he'd hesitated.  And whoosh! the entry window slid away  -- Tara and Anya coming into the room and the space between them suddenly so wide there were no words good enough or smart enough or funny enough to carry him across.  Couldn't even look -- dropping his gaze too soon, because he didn't want to see her eyes turn cold and then he *had* to know but by the time he got his eyes up Willow had just turned away, started with the laptop.  Anya suddenly before him, saying something but Xander had missed it, too intent on trying to hear what Tara was saying into Willow's ear, their bowed heads nearly touching.

          It made him want to growl, get between them.  But Anya was right there, getting his attention, cranky, wanting to go home and they'd argued and he'd looked up at the sound of the door opening but their backs had been to him and no one had even said anything as warming as 'goodbye'.

          //alone//

          He's at the stairs now, arms wrapped so tight around himself that he has to wrench one hand free so he can dash ruthlessly at his wet eyes.

          "I should just let you die, you know," he says over his shoulder.  Half expects an answer -- the moment Giles would *have* to pick to wake up.  Ask him what the *hell* he's still doing here.  Maybe call the police.  //'Um, yes, officer, one of my former not-quite students was tucking my drunken arse into bed when he began molesting and/or murdering me.... No, no he doesn't know either, thanks...//  But there's no response from the bed, just the gentle burr of Giles' almost-snore.

          And Xander has time to wonder what exactly he meant by that anyway.  And Christ he's tired.  Wants nothing more than to just throw himself into bed and sleep for about 10 years.  Really time to finish up and go the hell home.  Maybe Anya will be there, yes?  Maybe.  Not an entirely horrifying thought and if she wasn't... whatever... she was definitely *there* and hell, a hug is *still* a goddamn hug.  So, back to work.

          He slips Giles' shoes off him, sets them down beside the bed.  Spots the glasses that Giles had let go of and puts them on the nightstand.  Turns on the bedside lamp and flicks off the switch that turns off the big chandelier in the living room downstairs.  The sudden loss of light is a cool relief.  Everything dark but a pool of white light from the kitchen downstairs, a warmer smaller pool from the bedside lamp, spotlighting Giles artistically.

          Giles is still wearing his watch and Xander fiddles with the clasp.  One of those complicated expensive jobbies, impossible to jimmy.  He nudges Giles over with his hip, sits down on the bed so he can get a better angle, better light.  Takes the hand and rests it on his lap while he figures it out.  Or at least that's the plan, but suddenly he realizes:  this is  'the hand'.   *The* hand.

          The one that Angel mangled.  The one Xander saw bloody white bone-shards gleaming in when he untied Giles' hands from that chair and never saw after the ambulance took Giles  away.  That ever since always seemed to be in Giles' pocket or turned so that he couldn't see it and now here it is.  in his hands.  In his lap.  Unprotected.

          Xander turns it palm up on his leg, studies it from all sides.

          It's a big hand.  Warm, dry, a little rough.  Callused.  From playing the guitar maybe.  Or fencing.  The nails are neatly cut, really clean.  Everything perfectly perfect except for those scars.  That nub of a half-a-middle-finger, the skin all thin-looking and shiny at the end like it's been polished.  Every day, like Giles' glasses.  Xander runs his thumb over its dry slickness.

          Jumps at Giles' sudden sharp exhalation.  Giles, who is actually scowling a little in his sleep, twisting his head vaguely against the pillow like he's trying to get away.

          Such a strange feeling runs through Xander -- something light and electric and a little cold.   It keeps him still long enough for Giles face to settle back into calm and the instant it does, Xander runs his thumb back the  other way.

          And

          //Oh *god*//  because this time Giles moans.  Low and helpless and deep in his throat.

          And fuck it makes him feel guilty.   And fuck it turns him on.  And just like that he can see two futures splitting off from each other right here, right now.

          One where he shakes this off and the watch turns out to be easily undone and peels away from Giles' wrist to reveal a slightly sweaty, pale band of flesh and he puts the watch on the bedside table, puts the hand back down on the bed and goes home.

          And the other,

          //now...//

          where he lifts Giles hand to his mouth like this, presses his tongue against the too-thin skin over that abridged knuckle, the ridge of scar.  Where he lets his lips close around the half-finger.  Tightens his grip on Giles' hand when he tries to pull away.

          Sucks.  Giles head whipping to the side away from him.  Giles moaning.  Giles hips arching up.

          //oh now...//

          It's like making a storm happen.  Scary and powerful and he knows that any second now Giles is going to open his eyes and catch him and he should let it go.  Cut his losses here and let it go.  Let it *go*.

          And it's him that's making noises now, whimpering around the slippery knob of knuckle in his mouth. sucking hard and frantic, eyes locked on Giles' face.

          Still not prepared for the wash of fear that stops him breathing when Giles' eyes open.  Sightless at first, blind with memory.  Blinking as awareness fills in, the frown of realization beginning.

          "Xande--"  And Xander sucks again.  Hard.  Watches Giles face go soft when the feeling hits him -- eyes losing focus, rolling slightly in his head.

          "Xa-xander, please..." it comes out strangled and painful and Xander finds that he's ignoring the possibility -- probability --  that Giles wants him to stop.  His tongue moving over and around the knuckle in his mouth while the rest of him moves until he's up over Giles, all his weight on one arm  and his knees.  Giles' hand still in his mouth, Giles head turned away.  He stays like that, sucking and licking that tiny stump, feeling the heat pulsing between where their bodies don't quite touch until Giles *has* to look at him and then he lets the finger fall out of his mouth, still slick with his drool and doesn't give Giles a second to say anything before he brings his mouth down on Giles' mouth.

          Giles' mouth that is so soft and tastes so acetone-y and sweet.  That he's kissing.  That's kissing him //ohgodplease// back.  Body writhing up under him.  Xander groans into the kiss, surges into the pressure and heat of Giles arching hips.  Giles arms coming up under his arms, sliding around his back.

          Gripping Xander painfully hard for a second, reminding him that Giles is probably as strong as he is, maybe stronger //could flip me, strip me...oh god // Pre-cum shooting down Xander's cock in palpable shots.

          And then Giles lets him go, twists his head, trying to get his mouth free and Xander feels a wave of panic, knows exactly what's going to happen if he does and no way, no *way* he's going to let it trail off into embarrassed silence, apologies, fucking *lectures* and all he can do is press his advantage. Refusing to let the kiss break, following Giles' mouth wet and messy and hard.  Slipping a hand between them to find the source of all that heat.  Giles cock, trapped and solid under molded denim.  He palms it, rides it with the heel of his hand.  Gratified when Giles gasps into his mouth.  Arches up so helplessly.

          //ohgodhelplessohgod//

          And Xander still almost has it in control again, on top, in hand.  And then he shifts his weight and the smell hits him:  just like Giles' sweater falling on his head -- sweat and alcohol and the almost-chemical funk of need.  Giles is close.  Giles is going to *come*.  For *him*.  At *his* touch... and that's all Xander can do, that's all he can take.  His own hips drag him down to the rhythm of his thoughts to grind against Giles' cock.  His eyes flutter, try to close when they  touch.  Fly open when Giles cries out guttural and wild into his mouth and warmth spreads between them and then in a long, slow, buzzing white-out shudder, Xander comes.

          And falls asleep apparently, coming to this realization as he surfaces.  He's still lying on top of Giles, listening to Giles' heart pound scary hard in his ear.  They're still breathing hard.  It must only have been for a second or two.  And then Giles is shifting under him, turning him, turning them both over so they're lying not quite spooned, with Giles behind him.

          //Whatever you do, don't say anything.  Please, Giles?  Please?//  And Giles doesn't but he draws a breath as though he might.  And Xander just reaches behind him, grabs the hand, whichever hand and pulls it over himself.  Holds it tight.

          Is more than relieved to hear Giles let the words-that-might-have-been just breathe out as air.  A sigh that Xander works really hard at not getting any meaning from.  That sooner than Xander expects evens out into that gently comforting snore.

          And lying in the dark, wet and sticky and still thrumming at the feel of Giles' warmth at his back, he wonders how things got so twisted.  How things got so so so tangled up between them all -- swallowed anger and sadness and fear like a clenched knot he's known all year as something hard and cancer-y and numb just under his breastbone that's probably going to kill him now.  Or maybe he just wishes because however bad it was before today, tomorrow will be so much worse.

          Unless he's lucky and Adam ends the world.

          He shudders wishing that he could work up something besides sick relief at the thought.  But he can't.   And he can't relax and he can't just let go and give up because he knows that any second now he's going to feel this:  the whole damn day //month, year, nineteen fucking years of wasted wasted time // -- is going to roll over him, drown him in a backwash of shame and regret and the need to be

          //punished for this//

          *exactly* where he is.  And maybe... oh god, maybe Giles will just *forget* or put it down to bad dreams, a bit of undigested Scotch and really he should go now, get up and get out before it's too late and go home -- back to the basement and maybe-Anya and no Willow and maybe no one ever ever again and alone.  And he *will* he knows, he *has* to -- get up and go because that's the only safety.  Giles won't stay asleep and hugging him forever and so he better go now.  Get up and go now.

          Go.

          And any second now, he swears, he will.

          END

          ***
          Feed The Spike, tuppence a bag

          Author's note:  In case this is puzzling the hell out of you, the title comes from the bit of dialogue during the argument in the Yoko Factor:

          Xander: (to Willow) uh-huh and maybe that all changes when I'm doing sit-ups over at Fort Dix
          Giles: (nearly choking on his drink) Four dicks? (bursts out laughing)

          Or maybe that's not what he says, but that's what Xander hears in my story, 'kay?