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Title: Limits
Author: Benaresq
 Pairing: Angel/Xander.
Rating: R
Setting: BtVS
A/N: Sequel to For Giving, but can be read as a stand alone.
 

It's been maybe a month.

A long month, because in that time Xander has learned things:

that Angel is hard and cold like a rock; Xander could be dashed to pieces on
him.

that Angel is strong and solid like a rock; he offers Xander shelter.

He has learned that when Angel comes, he has no  more control than Xander
has: these moments fill Xander with glee and pride (and, yes, often spunk.)
that pain can be a useful way of remembering where your skin is,
and that he needs Angel.

And in this time Angel has learned:

that Xander has the greediest, neediest skin that Angel has ever, uh, come
across

and hence that to touch Xander is to control him, even if he doesn't know it

and more importantly  that the divide between "feeling human" and "feeling a human" which is such
a vast chasm in theory, is in practice hairline-thin

but  that perfect happiness is an illusion, and that is how it steals your
soul...

and incidentally that his demon and soul are joined together at the root

and more than this:
that when he can hurt Xander he doesn't need to hurt anyone else.
 

*

Angel isn't vain.

Every morning, conscientiously fixing his hair into an
I-spit-upon-your-gravity defiance of natural law, perfect concentration
needed to get it right without a mirror, he thinks that.

//I'm not vain. It's just ritual.// is how the regular, ritual, thought
goes.

And the ritual is at least part of it. It's calming, soothing just to touch.
He's spent so many days without being touched by anyone but his demonic--
assailants? victims? Fight partners. And these days even demons run away
when they see him coming.

So Angel is now careful about his hair. His fingers have long since acquired
the deft assurance of practice: he could do it in two minutes if he wanted,
but he doesn't want. Likes the cold gel on his fingers, the repetitive
strokes on his head. There's comfort there.

Something else there too: a slightly shameful pleasure in knowing that
people will look at him today, and think...

Angel isn't vain. How can he be? he doesn't know his own appearance.

But he knows how he looks. Sees it reflected in the eyes of women who pass
him in the street. Women, and often men, and in their eyes is desire for
him. Speculation. Promise, almost. The look that says: something could
happen. If I weren't married, or shy, or in a hurry, or just, goddammit, not
in the habit of propositioning delicious strangers on the street, think of
all the wonderful times we could have.

Angelus used to get a kick out of that. A wolf who wore sheepskin just too
damn well. So ironic, the desire for the thing that would kill them. Angelus
loved irony, and often he'd follow someone who gave him the look, drag them
into an alley, and show them his idea of a wonderful time.

Angel wouldn't do that. Angel could spend weeks and months and years making
lists of all the things he wouldn't do, but he still likes the looks. Just
knowing that people can't tell, that his deformity can be disguised. And he
knows that lustful looks are not love, are not acceptance, shouldn't count
as human contact in any way at all. But he has so little of it, and every
stare is a temporary reassurance.

When he sees the if and the slight regret in someone else's eyes, he doesn't
have to think his own. If I weren't a vampire. Then we could.

*

Xander watches Angel from the bed, pretending he's still sleeping. He's not
sure why the pretence: one thing about Angel, he likes to be watched. Vain
bastard, but then he has reason to be. And when Angel *doesn't* want to be
seen, he can just... disappear. Fuck off into the ether, the
multidimensional Angelspace where his outsized head is kept most of the time
anyway. And since Angel hasn't disappeared, Xander must be allowed to watch
him.

But still, this seems so private.

Angel is rapt, utterly absorbed in what he's doing. Xander doesn't often get
to observe the arcane mysteries of Angel's haircare regime

//and how *do* cool guys always know how to do stuff with their hair anyway?
Is it innate, programmed onto that Cool Gene I missed out on? Or does
someone take them aside on their thirteenth birthday and say: you have been
selected to join the Cool Guy club. Haircare 101 begins next week, and then
we'll move on to How To Impress Girls. Now you must solemnly swear by James
Dean that you will never reveal our secrets to an outsider, on pain of
having your mojo cut out...//

because he doesn't often wake up in Angel's bed, doesn't often sleep with
him. Fuck him occasionally: yes; get fucked by him: much more often; get
chained down and beaten and whipped and suck him off and be sucked off and
cry out in pain, pleasure and sometimes real fear: well yes, all that. But
he doesn't often sleep with him. Angel likes his space.

And Xander looking at Angel now can see why. Because this, hair-fixing
Angel, is private Angel. Angel without his walls up. And he is so
vulnerable. Not indifferent to Xander's watching presence, but not objecting
to it. Like it's Xander he's fixing himself up for, Xander he's making
himself all pretty for, and Xander knows that's not true so he just turns
away from Angel with a small moan: if it was for him, he might just seize
Angel, might go insane and oral like he keeps wanting to and cover Angel's
whole body with small greedy kisses. Or he might thump Angel down to the
bed, chain him there, take advantage of new, surprising, suddenly-hurtable
Angel to become the master in their pain games.

And Angel would laugh if he knew what Xander was thinking, would probably
laugh so hard that--ew-- blood would spurt out of his nose, if he'd just
drunk blood. Because whatever makes him look lost and vulnerable when he's
just woken up, whoever he thinks about when he's fixing his hair, it isn't
Xander, and Xander knows it.

*

"Where did the pheromones come from, Xander?" Angel's finished, he's looking
at Xander now. Both of them stopped pretending he's asleep. "What are you
thinking?"

And you can't hide anything from a vampire, or not from this one: Xander
knows that. Because Angel likes to mine Xander's fantasies from him: it's
one of his subtler forms of sadism. And Xander likes the bareness, the raw
nothingness of having no secrets. Even more, he just likes the attention, so
he always gives Angel what he wants, even when he's cringing as he does.
Even when it's the Goldilocks fantasy that he had when he was six. The one
that  recurred in less frightening form after the blonde wig and fratboys
incident.

Xander's flushing, and not really at the thought of Angel's smirk when he
confessed that. More at the thought of Angel's smirk when he confesses
this...

"I was thinking of being the one to chain *you* to the bed, Deadboy."

Insults put a distance between them, lessen the intimate humiliation of
telling. Like Angel would let him do that. Like he'd be a convincing master,
still covered in lashmarks like he is.

And Angel's smirk is delivered bang on cue. But it's strange, no laughter
there. And then he says, "Do you really think you could hurt me enough to
make it worthwhile?"

He's being at least ten percent non-rhetorical, which startles Xander so
much he can't answer, just swallow.

Angel says "Neither do I. But you're welcome to try."

There are manacles attached to four corners of this bed. This is only one of
the bedrooms Angel uses, and Xander's willing to bet Buffy never saw the
inside of this one. And Angel is-- Christ, Angel is chaining himself to the
bed as Xander watches with his mouth open.

He's being slow and deliberate, ankles first, spread out at a distance  that
probably isn't too uncomfortable for someone as big as Angel, and then his
left hand, and then he slides his right hand inside and Xander clicks that
one closed himself.

And then Xander just stands there like a big dumb stick.

Angel smiles up at him almost warmly.

"Go on, Xander. Make me beg for mercy."

And Xander, because he is a masochist, just has to ask. "What happens if I
can't?"

Angel grins hugely as something occurs to him. "We act out your Goldilocks
fantasy."

Xander barely represses an unmasterly squeak. Wants desperately to ask if
Angel means the six or the sixteen year old's version of that fantasy, but
has just sense enough to restrain himself.

He walks over to the closet instead, pulls out the bullwhip Angel used on
him three nights ago. (Angelus smile and relentless savage please, please
stop now cracks and "Mmm... I love the taste of freshly whipped blood.")
Angel was quieter and broodier than ever after that: made Xander want to
slap him hard, and also hug him and tell him it was OK, that Xander forgave
him. Demon, human, godknowswhich: the balancing act is thrilling to Xander.
It's like watching someone juggle sharp knives. Lying down watching them and
they stand on top of you juggling knives.

And he doesn't know who's there now, what it is there on the bed chained up
and awaiting Xander's pain. Angel's eyes are dark, frightening and entirely
unreadable.

But he smirks when Xander takes out the whip, a cocky grin. And of course.
Vampire, two hundred years old, been in Hell, used to pain. Vampire and
oh-so-much more of a man than Xander Harris could ever hope to be. And
Xander looks in the not-really-a-closet, and oh-- there are things in there
that should never be used on any human being. All neatly and tidily arranged
in what might well be alphabetical order, if Xander knew what most of them
were called. Angel is a good vampire who puts his toys away neatly after
he's used them: it's frightened Xander before when he's bleeding messily on
the sheets and Angel is... folding his socks.

Although that, the sockfolding only happened once, and Xander thinks it
might have been a tease, that Angel knew it scared him. And it was nowhere
near as scary as this closet.

Xander feels sick. He can't do it, would rather Angel used those things on
him even though scars branded into his living skin will never fade, even
though he could do those things to Angel and Angel might not even scream.

Even though he really wants to hear Angel scream.

And he knows it's not going to work but he stalks over to Angel with the
bullwhip anyway. Angel might not scream, but he can probably get him to
flinch.

And Angel does flinch, at every stroke. Flinch, and pant, and then open his
eyes wide and laugh at Xander.

"*This* is the best you can do? You've got the Scourge of Europe tied to a
bed and you're hitting him with the Scourge of Wussiness, you're fucking
swatting flies off his chest--ow! ah! and that was better, but still
pathetic. Come off it, Xander. You couldn't dominate Betty Boop."

And Xander wants badly to gag Angel, but then he couldn't beg so it would be
against the rules. But Angel isn't going to beg, all Xander gets from him
are the tiny flinches of pain and then the scorn again. Xander's own arm is
going to beg for mercy first.

Xander doesn't even know why it's important, it just really really is, that
he get Angel to beg, to submit to him.  Even aside from the Goldilocks thing
it matters.

*crack* and *whimper* and, yes, that's good. But--

"And again with the fly-swatting, Xander."

"Angel, I'm not swatting flies, I'm swatting *skin* off your chest."

Xander suddenly feels like crying: he can't win this, doesn't want to.
Doesn't know what strange dark place Angel is lost in and he doesn't want to
go there with him: this is violent and real and serious and Xander doesn't
like it at all.

He drops the whip.

Angel smiles at him, tight and cold. *I told you so.*

But Xander doesn't say anything, just disappears from the room, to the
bathroom down the hall.

"I can get you to beg, Deadboy," he says, dropping some things on the
dressing table and holding up a big pair of scissors.

*

Scissors? Xander's going to stab him with scissors? Something so
elementary-school about that, Angel thinks, and has to grin. Anyway, it
isn't going to work.

Or maybe he's going to cut Angels' fingers off. Angel considers that
unlikely. Although that would be inconvenient enough to make him beg: this
is only a game after all, he hasn't entirely forgotten that. And fingers
grow back very slowly.

But Xander wouldn't do it. What the fuck *was* the boy playing at?

Xander leans over and snips Angel's hair.

"Gosh, ruined your style, look at that."

Snip. Snip.

"Starting to look a little silly now, Angel."

Snip.

"I got one of your big spikes there, Angel," and he drops a tuft of hair,
still gelled into stiffness, onto Angel's chest.

"Xander..." Angel growls. This is cheating. Angel *knows* it's cheating. But
he didn't name any rules. But this is still against them.

Little known fact about vampire physiology: hair grows back even slower than
fingers.

"Xander..." he growls again.

Xander stops with the snipping, looks at Angel inquiringly.

"Was there something?"

"Fucking well stop that."

"You know, that sounded like an order to me, Deadboy. Weren't you supposed
to beg?"

And this is just *stupid*. This is exactly the sort of thing Xander would
think of. And there is no way it's going to work. Angel isn't some kind of
Biblical comic-book hero whose strength lies in his hair. Angel can fight
evil just as well if he's... bald. Hairless. A pointyhead. A cue ball. He
can be a big ugly bald guy who fights evil.

Xander wanders off to the dressing-table, comes back with an electric razor.

Switches it on and waves it menacingly. "You know, I think the Jean-Luc look
could be *very* you."

Angel really doesn't like this. And what, exactly, was he trying to prove
with his whole no-surrender thing?

He thinks it might have been something deep and meaningful and incredibly
vague. Something to do with years in hell and having drowned in black oceans
of pain. Of having been forged anew and unafraid in the searing fires of
hell, that his self is dead, his fear is dead and he is now merely a
will-less weapon in the hands of some greater power.

Something like that, anyway: he can't quite remember now. Was it worth...

Xander talking. "And honestly, Angel, it's not like you ever *use* those
oh-so-devastating good looks of yours, to pick up chicks or anything. I
think you should go bald in penance for your sins. Like monks used to."

And suddenly Angel can't bear it: can't bear that he should be ugly inside
and out, can't bear to lose the only moments he has of being wanted, of
feeling even briefly like a part of the world he's trying to save. And if
people don't see sex in him will they start to see the truth? And private
pain is such a different thing from public penance. And Xander is waving the
razor in passes above his head. And...

"Xander, please don't do this."

"HAH!" Xander positively yells in triumph, thrusting the razor in the air to
celebrate his victory. He looks like he's about to do a dance.

"That would be Master to you, hedgehog head," he grins. "Now beg me
properly."

And how long since Angel was lost in black horror-filled pits of memory,
wanting Xander to flay the skin off his chest? And now he's-- smiling and
playing a game.

"Please, Master, I beg you not to shave my head."

"There's a good vampire." Xander pats him solemnly.

*

And Xander looks at Angel, big huge hunk of Angel spread out naked for his,
Xander's pleasure, and more than that, more than naked, wearing that look of
lost innocence that Xander saw on him earlier, that made him want to do this
in the first place.

He doesn't really believe it: knows it's too good to be true. But he
remembers what else that look made him want to do,

and since Angel is chained up and unable to stop him, he does it. Leans over
and covers Angel with tiny,nibbling kisses, gentle caresses, all over except
the whip wounds which receive only a few of the gentlest possible brushes of
Xander's lips.

Strokes Angels' face and can't stop thinking how beautiful he is, too
beautiful for Xander to touch, but Angel's still letting him, and Angel's
getting hard, and because Xander knows this can't last he takes advantage of
it, teases Angel with his tongue until his cock stands up and begs, till he
can hear a growl beginning in Angels' chest and then he takes Angel as deep
into his mouth as he can and sucks and squeezes and teases and makes Angel
give him everything, swallows it all.

And he knows what he wants next but doesn't dare reach for it, doesn't want
this to be over too soon. Because he's fucked Angel before but he's never
really been the top: he didn't even like it, it made him nervous of being no
good and it was simpler, always, to lie back and let Angel control
everything. But he knows that today Angel won't be judging him and it's too
good to last, but he wants it to last and he remembers an ambition.

"Scream for your master, slave."

*

Angel looks at Xander incredulously. "You want me to *scream*?"

Xander eyes him sternly. "You heard me. Scream."

Angel makes a short, gaspy, "Aah!" noise.

And it's Xander's turn to look incredulous. "What kind of a scream was
that?" He assumes a monotone. "Help, help, there's a doctor trying to look
down my throat...." Dropping the impersonation but he sounds angry. "Don't
you ever feel anything, Angel? Can't you fucking *pretend*? Scream like a
girl for me. I want you to *scream*!"

But Angel feels. Slightly amused, slightly bemused, mused all the way
through the goddamn alphabet.

And also, he feels: stormdark seas of rage boiling under his skin, blood of
Xander pumping close to him in dark red fury, eternal and terrible battle in
him between darkness and dailyness, between poetic death and prosaic life...

But this is Xander's game, and he's playing by Xander's rules. So he shrugs,
and lets out whatever wants out in a scream,

"Aiiiiieeeeaaaaaaaah!";

deliberately high-pitched in a way that he knows will gratify Xander, who
*has* just given him a blowjob after all.

And he is rewarded by the look of intense happiness that spreads across
Xander's face at that.

"I made you scream," Xander mutters reverently, and reaches to undo Angel's
chains.

*

And Xander maintains a solemn silence as he places a cushion under Angel's
awe-inspiringly magnificent ass, lifts and spreads the (cold carved marble
monument) big legs. He anoints himself, anoints Angel, strokes and prepares
with all the reverence of holy ritual. Slow, careful, concentrated, because
it feels important. He isn't sure why.

And he enters Angels' body with the same kind of awe that is traditionally
felt on entering a cathedral.

Although obviously Angel is *considerably* tighter than that implies.

*

And then it happens in the afterglow. At least, Xander's glowing, Angel's
just slightly shinier than usual.

And Xander's holding him, cuddling up to him and admiring him with his hands
and eyes, and he kisses Angel once on his broad back.

Then he says,

"I hurt you once before, you know, Angel."

*

More than once, Angel thinks remembering countless barbs and insults: but
maybe Xander hadn't known the shafts hit home, hadn't believed they could.

And suddenly he's tense, wondering what exactly the fuck was bad enough for
Xander to count it as really hurting him.

Xander continues, blithe and casual, still stroking Angel.

"I was the one who sent you to Hell."

Angel's angry, but not because he believes it. Because it hurts when someone
talks about that time. Because Xander is playing some game he doesn't
understand. And because Xander is taking in vain the name of things he
considers holy.

"Buffy." says Angel hoarsely. "That was Buffy, not you."

"Oh no, Angel, it was me. It was my fault. " Xander suddenly removes his
hand from Angel's body, contracts tensely into his own space. "Buffy didn't
know that Willow was working her soul mojo on you. I was supposed to tell
her."

Angel's on top of Xander before the mortal's heart can even *beat*. Pinning
him down and furious kill him kill him now he deserves it five hundred years
he deserves it he wants it need to kill him...

Wants it. Excitement and desire in Xander, far more than fear: the usually
liquid dark eyes are glittering with something that is strange and
dangerous, at least to Xander himself.

But the voice is matter-of-fact when Xander says "Are you going to kill me
now?"

*no*

and Angel is suddenly astonished at Xander's ability to defuse him. Cos now
he's still angry but *sane* and he rolls off Xander, turns his back to him,
says with controlled fury

"Why did you tell me?"

*

Because.

Because it seemed like Angel almost liked him, and that was just

//-hey xander, do you have to fuck up *everything* as soon as you feel safe?
-yes//

wrong.

"Because I can't ever tell what you're thinking, Angel, it's like you're
made of fucking *stone.*"

which is nearly the truth, if stone smiles sometimes.

//-well why? for the love of fuck, *why* do you do that?
-because. that's when it gets *dangerous.* and feel free to fuck off now.//

"At least when you hate me," Xander tells Angel, "I know what you're
thinking."

"That was," Angel pauses, seems to be searching for a word, "underhand."

//-that was fucking *moronic*
-i think i told you to fuck off. it wouldn't have lasted. //

*

Angel wishes he knew what to say here. Can see what's going on, but has no
fucking clue how to fix it. And he feels a thin resurgence of despair,
robbed of the near-contentment he'd been enjoying a few moments ago.

Xander's insecurities are, to him, insurmountable.

And he can't quite bring himself to touch Xander, feeling betrayed by
Xander's earlier lie //did it make a difference? maybe it saved the world?//
Even more betrayed by Xander's casual shattering of-- whatever the thing was
that had just happened between them.

Yet he doesn't want to be apart from him either. Feels lonely, so he lies on
his back beside the boy, not quite touching him, awkward in his space.

Looks at Xander and wonders: is Xander only ever attracted to the dangerous,
the forbidden, the new? Does he want any part of Angel other than his demon?
Does he want...

"Xander." Turns to face the boy, who looks tiredly back at him.

"Is it always about hate? Would you even believe me if I said I felt--
anything else?"

"No." The answer is sad, strong, definite; it comes without hesitation.

"Well then." Angel rolls onto his back again and stares at the ceiling.

*

Angel and Xander lie together a while longer, almost touching.

-END


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