Title: "Chasing Andrew"

Author: Willa

Genre: Slash, epic

Spoilers: Canon through and spoilers for the end of S7, AU after that

Pairing: Xander/Andrew

Rating: R/NC-17

Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own 'em.

Soundtrack: Evanescence, "Fallen"; in particular "Going Under" for this chapter.

Summary: Heartbroken by rejection, Andrew makes a wish - and finds himself carried away to a dimension where his dreams of Xander can come true. But is that what he really wants, after all?

Dedication: Forever and always to "Spike's Heart".

Chasing Andrew

By Willa

Sweat from the over-warm California night running down his cheeks and his back, bare of any shirt, Andrew Wells sat with his eyes closed and considered his life. Sat on the back stoop of the tiny, run-down bungalow that he shared with a handful of minty-fresh Slayers, occasionally Giles, and - him - and took stock of himself: who he was, where, and why.

He had nothing else to do. Except this. Which he had to do. And now was as good as any time, right?

Now that it was all over for good. Now that he knew he could never enjoy any daydreams about - him - again, because he knew they would never come true.

So he went over the checklist inside his head. Making sure it was all ready. All correct and accounted for.

Andrew liked to be sure of what he was doing, because he'd messed up so much in the past. And when you did this kind of thing, you had to do it right. He'd never... Well, he hadn't had a chance with Warren, you know, because he'd been on the lam. A Wanted Man. Then it was... different, with Jonathan. And he hadn't thought to find and keep anything of Spike's before Sunnydale disappeared.

Maybe all of that was why - this - had turned out so badly. He wasn't used to the way closure was supposed to work. He didn't know how to read the signs.

He didn't know how to end, and he didn't know how to begin.

If he'd done it right before, maybe he would have known what to do different this time around.

And he wouldn't be here in the first place. He'd be inside. Snuggled inside warm, strong arms that pinned him tight, flesh to flesh, soft snores muffled against his hair, head tucked beneath - his - chin. A heated, callused hand resting against his hip. The way he'd dreamed it. Andrew figured he should have gotten at least a toe-hold on reality by now, because stuff like that just didn't happen to him. Not with the people he wanted, the people who mattered.

"Screw dreams," Andrew muttered, quiet just in case someone heard him and came to investigate, and that would be just way too embarrassing. He didn't want to have to explain. No one - especially - him - would want that.

He had to do this, but he didn't want any questions. Didn't want any laughter at Andrew, the freak, the - queer. How come when Willow came out of the closet it was all sunshine and puppies, but let him peek out through the doors and suddenly it was like he had leprosy?

He needed some closure. Needed to do this to hold himself together, all the cracked parts Crazy-Glued together in a wild, mazed design, so he could face another day. Besides, Cosmo said this was very therapeutic.

So.

He ticked off the proper elements on his fingers.

Privacy?

Check. A good, deep-dark night, with only a star or two to be seen in the sullen sky.

Bonfire?

Check. A smallish bonfire, anyway. More of a campfire if you wanted to be really precise. Mostly wood right now, but next to it he had the stack of stuff he wanted to burn, all ready to toss in. Video diaries, mix tapes, photographs, the odd note scribbled to him, all just waiting for a touch of the flame.

Burn cream?

Check. He hadn't realized natural fibers were that flammable. He wouldn't have used the soft, battered old T-shirt of - his - as tinder, if he'd known how fast it would go up.

Frosty-cold Zima?

No check. Someone had drunk it all, and that someone wasn't him (so bad mood enhancement, check). He'd stolen a bottle of the Glenfinnan Giles kept hidden in the bottom of his file cabinet, to drink in its place. It made him choke a little every time he swallowed; he wasn't used to strong whiskey.

It was a little embarassing to admit that he couldn't handle and didn't really like anything but the kind of "girly drinks" that the others scoffed at (even though they were mostly girls themselves). As he swallowed grimly, he figured from the deep burn in his throat after each swig that Glenfinnan was definitely a man's drink.

OK. Fire, whiskey, courage. He was ready. He could do this now.

Almost.

He fished the note out of his pocket. One last time. He'd read it one last time. To make sure he'd understood it. That it was over. Even though it had never really begun.

/Andrew,/

Not 'Dear Andrew', just 'Andrew'. Funny how that hurt almost as much as the rest of it.

/You're going to think I'm nuts, but I've got to get this out before things go any further. The girls are noticing. Giles is asking me strange questions.

I know that you - well, that you think you like me 'that way'. I may not be the brightest guy in the world, but I've noticed what's going on. The way you're always there to meet me when I come home. The way you cook my favorite foods every night, even if you say it's crap that's going to plug my arteries before I reach 30, or stuff the Slayers won't touch because they might get a pimple from the grease, god forbid. It's the nicest thing anyone's done for me in a long time.

And that's why it's got to stop. I'm not ready yet. And I don't think I'd ever be ready for - well - for what you want. And Andrew, you're not Anya. I know she was your friend and all, but you're not her, you're not going to replace her, and you have to stop hoping and playing all these little games to worm your way into my heart.

You're a nice kid, but that's it. I don't see you that way. I do care about you but not - it's just - I'm not - I don't, that's all.

I don't want to break your heart, so that's why I think I just need to go ahead and let you know - don't hope. There'll be someone out there who'll soak up every bit of what you have to give, and you just have to find her or him. But it won't be me.

I'm sorry. But this thing has to be over. Now.

Xander./

Andrew sniffed hard, trying to ignore the stupid tears that had started to fall - again - while he read the note, already crumpled and splotchy from the times he'd read it before. He wished he could think of something really good to call Xander. Some really evil villain's name.

But he knew already that calling names didn't work. It didn't make him feel any better.

Time to start burning. Maybe he could burn out the pain of being rejected - again. Not wanted for who or what he was - again.

The video diaries and the mix tapes went first, tossed in one at a time. Thick, greasy billows of truly foul smoke puffed up, and he really should have remembered how nasty melting plastic smelled. It would probably wake up one or two of the women in the house, and then they'd be out here, and there'd be laughter at his expense and scornful darts aimed at his heart, and maybe even Xander himself, hanging back with his arms crossed over his chest, looking disgusted and maybe even repulsed.

Then again, he didn't guess he cared anymore. Let them come.

The pictures he burned last. There weren't many. Xander didn't like having his picture taken after he lost the eye, and he was always careful to put his good side forward. You had to catch him in a candid moment if you wanted a decent shot. And then you had to protect your film and your negatives if you wanted them to survive long enough to be printed.

One of them sitting inside the lobby of the Hyperion, where they'd gone the first night after - after Sunnydale. After Anya. Xander had been so tired that he'd fallen asleep on one of the really uncomfortable lobby couches, and Andrew had decided to find a blanket and just tuck him in where he lay. He needed the rest. Dawn had snapped that picture, he thought. At least she'd been the one he stole it from. It was nice, peaceful, just him bending over, smoothing a soft, pale-green blanket down around Xander's shoulders, under his chin.

Into the fire.

One of them loading up the bus the next morning. Xander's hand brushing Andrew's as he passed the slighter boy a heavy knapsack. It looked as if their eyes were meeting, as if they were passing a slightly amusing secret between them. They hadn't been. Just a nice trick of the light and angle.

Into the fire.

The pair of them goofing off, wrestling the "For Sale - S O L D" sign out of the lawn in front of their new bungalow home. Giles, being pretty much de facto *the* Council of Watchers himself, had decided the least he/they could do would be to dip into some pretty darn vast coffers and set up the newly homeless with places to stay. That had been a good day, a fun moment. Both he and Xander liked the new place. Xander because it was a fixer-upper and he really did like to work with his hands, showing people his depth perception was just fine, thank you. Andrew liked it because Xander had.

Into the fire.

The two of them hunkered down in front of the X-Box they'd splurged on, playing a racing game. Xander's good eye was alight with excitement and delight; he'd been beating Andrew's butt into the pavement. He'd made a joke about driving and steering around the curves, and there was such an odd tone to his voice when he said that, that Andrew couldn't help but look at him in confusion. Their eyes had met, and it had been really odd until Xander almost visibly shook it off and went back to focusing entirely on the digital car he was crashing through the digital city.

Into the fire.

Only one picture left - his very favorite. His fingers softened as he picked that one up, trying fruitlessly to smoothe out the creases. He wasn't in the shot; he'd been behind the camera. Xander, sitting cross-legged on the short green grass of the lawn, savoring the soft cool of an autumn evening. Eye closed in bliss, in peace. A long-necked Bud held loosely in his hand, fingers stroking the lip of the bottle in a way that had gotten Andrew instantly half-hard, and taken him all the way, engorged so fully that he ached, when Xander took a long, lingering sip of the dark brew and licked his lips with a soft pink tongue. He knew Xander had been celibate for months at that point, but he had the languid, lazy look of someone who'd just been well-fucked, and it had driven Andrew almost crazy with the need to be the person who'd led him into that catlike bliss.

He loved that picture. He'd slept with it under his pillow sometimes. Xander had found it one day when he was changing the sheets. Andrew had had to dig through the trash for it after the lecture - well, one-sided screaming match - was over. Half-understanding and half not why that had made Xander so mad. It was still smeared with gunk and smelled like the banana peels and coffee grounds it had been buried under. He'd held onto it, hidden it better. Hoping. Still hoping.

Not hoping any more.

Into the fire.

"It's not fair," Andrew mumbled. Miserably watching the once-glossy photo edges curl and blacken. Then, louder, not caring who heard: "It's not fair!"

What was so wrong with him, anyway? He knew that if he'd let himself, Xander could have found happiness with him. He was gentle, caring, he looked out for small things, and when he was in love, he lived to make the one he loved happy.

Xander hadn't said anything about that. Or about not swinging on that vine. About not being willing or interested because of the whole gay thing. It was Andrew he didn't want. It was Andrew whose heart he'd decided to break by pretending to avoid breaking it. Because he didn't care.

"It's not fair," Andrew whispered again as his beloved picture dissolved into ash. He poked at the crumpled fragments with a stick. "If he'd let me, I could have been the love of his life. I'd have been good for him. Really I would have."

But he wasn't good enough, after all, was he?

And even though he knew better - he'd been friends with Anya, so come on - his mouth found itself swallowing another burning rush of Glenfinnan, and the words welled up like a sneeze or an orgasm, whether he wanted them to or not: "I wish things were different. I wish that I could find someone who loved me just for me, you know? I wish I was where none of this had ever happened. I wish that I could have a second chance. I don't care where or how. Just a chance to make things right again." Poke, poke with the stick, and then, angrier: "A chance to show him what he's missing out on."

Wish.

A dangerous word for someone who'd grown up in Sunnydale. Because even though Anya wasn't around anymore, some of her friends and not-such-friends were, and they had a habit of listening in.

And answering.

Andrew had half-a-second, perhaps less, to register that the relatively small bonfire was exploding up into a column of flame. Another half-second to realize that the fireball was hurtling itself at him. A fraction less to think "ohshitohshitohshit" while hearing a sibilant, whispered "Done", before it hit him, consumed him, devoured him from the inside out -

And - blink - just like that all the fire, and any traces of it on the lawn, were utterly gone from this world.

And so was one Andrew Wells.

* * * * * * * * * *

Dark.

Night. Dark.

Wet.

Wet? Just a little. How'd he get wet?

And cold. Very, very cold.

That was weird The last thing he remembered was fire - a lot of fire, enough fire that you wouldn't forget it any time fast. Wasn't he burned? Shouldn't he feel - he didn't know - extra-crispy, maybe?

He slotted his eyelids open, just a little, just enough to catch the faintest glimpse of starlight.

Plain old ordinary starlight. He could see the Big Dipper if he squinted.

If that didn't just take the banana! If he had the strength, he decided he'd curse himself seven ways from the two suns of Tatooine for acting like a prime-time slice of jackass. He just had to make the big dramatic gesture, burning everything and severing his links with his past, didn't he?

As if it would have worked, anyway.

He guessed he'd known, even in the midst of his hurt and anger, that it wouldn't work. And it hadn't. It just left him cold and wet and feeling stupid, and he still felt the sharp ache for Xander, the need for the comfort of the carpenter's strong arms holding him tight against all the slams and slanders of the world. He felt the exact same loneliness of knowing his dumb daydreams would have to pack themselves away in the mental memory box of fallen wishes. Exactly the way it had been before he struck the first match to his funereal pyre for a love that could-have-been.

And now he didn't even have anything to cling to in secret.

/"Really bright, Skinny,"/ he could almost hear Warren sneer - and it was Warren as he had been, before the first decided to wear him like a Carnivale mask. /"That has got to go up on the Top 40 countdown of your really big screwups. And I'm talking 'not remembering you're standing under an overhang when you set off your jet-pack' kind of big screwup."/

Eyes closing again against the near-sight/memory of Warren squatting on his haunches beside Andrew, smug smirk painted on his lips. /"You were dumb enough to think he'd ever see you as anything besides a whiny little crybaby in the first place. What do you think he'll think of you when he sees you out here next to a pile of burned pictures and tapes? He'll be so embarassed he'll never even look you in the face again."/

"Shut up," Andrew whispered, helpless-sounding, because he knew he couldn't win an argument with Warren. Not real-Warren, not dream-Warren, not First-Warren.

Not over anything.

That was why his first tentative forays into sexuality, something he'd only ever fantasized about before - vaguely, not really focusing on what parts went where - had been on his knees in front of the older boy. On a dare. A bet. No, an order. Because Warren was bored and he was - lonely - after - after Katrina. Oh, god. So he'd told Andrew to do it to prove he was still part of the group.

He could remember every bit of it. Could still taste the bittersalt in his cheeks.

Trying to take that blunt, glistening *thing* into his mouth, and oh, god, it seemed obscenely large from that angle (although he learned later it was just average). Careful not to graze it with his teeth. Listening to orders grated out from between clenched teeth and hurrying to catch up, to try and understand as Warren began to lose coherency --

His first taste of sperm, thinking that it wasn't so bad - then, almost immediately after, the shock of joy that came from knowing that it was him, his mouth, his tongue, that had brought that much pleasure to someone he nearly worshipped.
He'd swallowed every drop and even laved Warren's cock for the leftovers, nearly crying at the words of praise and encouragement.

He'd gotten good at it after a while. Warren said so. He knew how to use his tongue to stroke up and down the shaft, circle the mushroom head, stab into the slit; how to use his small hands - ladyfingers, Warren had called them - to roll and squeeze the pendulous sac underneath.

If he was really, really good, Warren would get it back up a second time (he had some sort of potion he'd stolen from the Magic Box's cellar) and reward him with...

Andrew squeezed his eyes shut hard. God, he was sad. The saddest part of it all, he'd thought for a long time, was how much he loved it. You can't rape the willing, and apart from his first-time fear and the squiggly nerves Warren inspired in everyone, he'd thrived on his diet of cock-sucking. Gotten some confidence.

He tried to push the memories away-and-back, to the dark corner of his mind where they belonged. So it had been Warren, who hadn't ever really loved him, who showed him what he'd thought back then 'making love' was. He knew now that with Warren it had just been fucking, but he'd looked - he'd learned - and he thought he could figure out now how to make love.

And he'd wanted to make love to Xander.

So much.

To taste and savor, stroke and caress, lave and suck...

And he'd been rejected.

So completely.

Which led him back to his current position, flat on his back - where? Oh, yeah, flat on his back on the back lawn of the bungalow he shared with way too many other people. Fighting away memories.

He concentrated, hard, on everything else, to block them out. Smell. He could smell the wet stench of burning plastic doused with water, uncomfortably close to his nose.

Taste. Like something small and furry had died on his tongue. If that was what drinking whiskey left you with, he'd stick with his flavorful malt beverages, thank you.

Sound. Quiet night-time, grasshoppers chirping sleepily just out of squishing reach. He hated bugs. Always had. Funny that he'd spent a lot of time learning to summon demons that looked awfully insectoid, but there you had it; a lot of stuff he'd done before didn't make much sense.

Touch. He was lying on something strangely soft and comforting, a little like a sleeping bag. When he turned his head slightly to the side, he felt a softprickle, softprickle, and realized that it was the freshly cut grass making his bed.

Memory. A better sense-memory. Xander always cut their grass. It was one of his self-appointed "jobs" around the house. And since he'd gotten home a little earlier than usual that day, he'd dragged out the ancient push-mower. He'd stripped off his shirt, working hard, glistening with sweat in the warm afternoon sun.

Andrew knew all this in perfect detail. He had been in the kitchen, fixing a dinner that the Slayers would later complain about, but his eyes had been firmly glued on Xander in the yard. Probably why there really was too much salt in the beef stew he'd been making - hard to measure accurately while you're ogling.

He hoped no one had looked out those kitchen windows and seen him there, spread-eagled for all the world and god to see, next to his ridiculous ex-bonfire. The last thing he wanted was to be teased over breakfast - the breakfast he would make - about his girly tendencies. How come girls could get away with calling a man effeminate, anyway? Didn't that go against all of their woman power objectives?

Better get all of this cleaned up, before anyone did see, or more saw, either way. He struggled to lift his head, and -

~Oh, stars, look at all the pretty stars~

Okay, so maybe getting up wasn't the best idea just yet. He wrinkled his forehead, trying to figure it out. No searing pain, so it didn't seem like the fireball had toasted him. None of the meaty slurping agony that came with dislocating limbs, or the awful rasping grate of broken bones. He could feel all his toes, bare for some reason, and his fingers, wriggling in the wet grass. So why couldn't he get up?

Hangover? No, he'd seen Giles and Xander and the Slayers on mornings after a bender or one too many after dinner. They seemed pretty mobile, all systems go, especially with screaming and punching the bathroom door down if it was occupied.
It couldn't be that.

He tried again to move, and failed just as spectacularly. The strangest lassitude, a lazy languor, warm and boneless as if he was fresh from a massage, spread through each and every one of his muscles. Contradicting his mind, which was starting to panic, his body argued that it would be happy to stay there forever, soaking up the cool night air and the soft, wet grass.

Wet? Yeah, now he remembered. It wasn't just the grass, he himself was wet.

Wet. Water. Fireball. Water.

Oh. Oh, crud.

Someone had seen him, hadn't they? Dumped a bucket of water on him and now they knew, they knew --

"Just kill me now," he murmured, the sound of his own voice strange to him. "You hear me out there, whoever you are? Just get it done with, would you?"

Sound. Scuff-scuff, scuff-scuff-scuff.

Unable to turn his head more than a smidgeon in the direction of the noise, Andrew cracked his eyelids open again - and found them focusing on ten toes, nicely shaped toes, most probably human, five each attached to a long, masculine foot.

"Andrew?"

The voice was incredulous, for which Andrew couldn't blame it. But - and this was what made him crumple even further in on himself - it was Xander's voice. No other voice like it in the world - warm, smooth tenor, sounding the way spicy sandalwood smelled.

He shut his eyes tightly and shook his head, just a little. ~Go away. Don't notice me. Forget you saw this, Padawan.~

"Andrew, what the hell are you doing out here, like this?"

Damn malfunctioning Jedi powers. His midichlorians were weakened. Or something. He wasn't even making sense to himself any more, and it was starting to flash light and dark behind his eyelids. Could you really die of embarrassment? Was he about to find out?

"Andrew..." The voice hesitated.

And then, the world stopped, or at least Andrew's breathing did, because then Xander was crouching down beside him, the soft cedar musk of his skin wafting over them. One warm, callused hand slid under his head. "Where have you been?"

~I've been to London, to see the queen.

Andrew giggled at himself. He must have giggled out loud, too, sounding a little crazy, because the other Xander-hand was gliding over his head, sifting strands of his hair between gentle fingers, searching for knocks to the noggin.

"Where did you come from?" Xander sounded bewildered.

~Doesn't matter.~

"How about this - you tell me when you're really awake, and not just free-floating in La-La Land, K?"

And then, wonder of wonders, Xander's heated arms were sliding under him at shoulder and knee and he was being lifted - oh, oh, it felt like he was flying - and then he was being held tight, snuggled against that work-hardened chest just like he'd always dreamed.

He had to be dreaming, he decided. No way could reality be this good. And oh, yeah, he didn't ever want to wake up.

But it felt real. Was real. How could it possibly - ?

"Back to the house you go," Xander was murmuring against his scalp, where it nestled close to the older man's chin. "Willow and Tara are going to be chewing and slobbering on their fingers, they get so worked up when I'm away this long. You know how crazy that drives their Auntie Buffy. I don't even want to know what Giles has gotten into. He can't just be a Watcher, he has to play around with alchemy. Five minutes is too long to leave him alone with any kind of household chemicals. And yeah, I'm just chattering to make sure you're awake and listening."

The softest, sweetest kiss was brushed against his forehead. Andrew wanted to wake fully, to cry out, do that again and again and again and could you aim a little lower this time --

"I never thought I'd see you again, sunshine," Xander whispered against his skin. "You don't know how happy I am to have found you here. At last."

Andrew nearly purred like a cat, bewildered and amazed but hey, not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, but then -

Willow - and Tara? Tara was dead.

Slobbering on fingers?

Auntie Buffy?

Alchemist Giles?

The hell?

*Sunshine*?

The double hell?!?

He struggled and fought in Xander's arms, just as fiercely as a half-drowned kitten, and found himself being petted and soothed down like one. "It's OK," Xander crooned. "The fire brought you back to me. And I'm never letting you go again."

Oh.

That was cool.

Andrew could deal with that.

Er... no.

No, actually, he couldn't.

Andrew's eyes rolled back into his head, and for the second time in as many hours, the darkness rose up and swallowed him whole.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It began with a memory...

And it was a good memory, the kind you keep safely tucked away in a comfy corner of your mind, nestled in with care, taken out only when you can really soak it up and savor the deliciousness of it all.

Yet it wasn’t Andrew’s memory. He knew it had never happened.

But he *remembered* it so well...

A fall afternoon. November? Close to early winter. The air had that friendly skittering nip to it that almost gave you goosebumps, but was kind enough to let you enjoy it with a warm sweater on.

He and Xander. Together. In a hammock? A soft net surface that gave beneath their weight but still held them up off the ground; gently rocking, it felt like flying.

Two bodies, twisted and tangled together so closely that it was hard to tell where one began and the other ceased, rocking slowly together at the breeze’s whim. Their bodies and limbs were clad in nicely battered fleece, but it was each other they held onto to warm themselves, and were content.

When they’d rollicked, laughing, into the hammock in the first place, bickering playfully about "it’s my turn", "it is so not; you got it last time", they had collapsed on it as one, grabbed each other, and hugged so hard and fierce that Andrew felt as if he’d melt into Xander, like they were two gooey milk chocolate men melding into one big delicious lump.

As they’d gotten comfortable, every so often they’d spoken to each other – little things, lover’s sweet nothings, joker’s playful gibes.

But in the end, they’d lain quiet for some time. At peace. Content. Exactly where they should be – with one another.

Andrew’s head rested against his lover’s, his chin tucked in the crook of Xander’s neck. "Your eyelashes are tickling me," Xander murmured sleepily.

"Sorry." Andrew pressed a gentle, warm kiss against the maligned skin. "Better?"

"You missed."

Andrew laughed a little as he snuggled more deeply against, into, Xander. That was their running in-joke – any kiss that didn’t end up on the lips, or, well, somewhere else, was a "miss".

He enjoyed hitting the target.

So did Xander. A tingle ran down Andrew’s spine, finishing with a small explosion in his groin, at the thoughts and memories that brought up. If he moved his hand, just a little, or perhaps his calf --

Still -- no, it wasn’t the time. The moment was meant and made for peace and pleasure, just knowing that he was with the one he loved, the one who loved him.

And it was good.

But it wasn’t his memory. He could feel-it-taste-it-smell-it-see-it-touch-it, but it had never happened. Not in his history.

A chill utterly unlike the one he’d just remembered so vividly ran through him and he shuddered.

"Are you cold?" Xander, this-Xander, now-Xander, pulled Andrew a little closer to his chest. "It’s freezing out here. You’re barely dressed. Just a T-shirt and jeans in November; you know better." Warm, callused hands chafed at the parts of his chilled arms that could be reached. "Bet it doesn’t help that you’re soaking. I’ll get you back home and get you dry."

Andrew shook his head with all the strength he could muster – it wasn’t much. "Not my home," he managed to mutter. "It’s not – not right." He tried to force his eyelids open, but the warm blanket of sleepiness pulled them immediately closed again. "Not supposed to be here."

He could almost hear Xander’s jaw tighten. "Yes, you are. You belong with me."

"No," Andrew struggled. Moisture welled up in his closed eyes at the futility of it. "Stop. Cruel. Don’t."

"Am I hurting you? God, Andrew, you’ve got to tell me. I don’t know my strength sometimes. And I’m so much bigger than you—"

The words triggered a --

*Flash*


Another memory – played out vividly as a DVD on the inside of his eyelids:

Snuggling deep into the warmth of a bed that gave beneath him as nothing ever had, breathing in two strong smells at once: the strange birdlike scent of the mattress that billowed around him, and the deep musk of the man that was moving ever so gently above him. Deep, wet kisses searing his throat, his face, his lips. Kisses he returned with all the willing fervor he had in him, each one devouring a little more of the man above him.

Xander. Loving him. Wanting him.

Both men had stripped naked, he could tell; the sheen of sweat on both their bodies had them sliding slickly against one another. The crispness of curling hair on Xander’s chest felt coarse against his smoother skin, but it was a chafing that he adored. Just the friction from that was enough to make him hard, if he hadn’t already been that way, aching for deeper, lower contact.

Xander was teasing him, keeping his hips canted up so that Andrew couldn’t brush against him, find the joining of flesh that he needed. Just then he was busy worshiping Andrew with his mouth, and had no plans to stop anytime soon.

But finally and too soon, the carpenter’s warm, rough hands caressed Andrew’s back as he was held up and away from the goose-down mattress, lifting him back into the cradle of waiting hips and equally eager full flesh, giving him at last the hard contact he found himself nearly desperate for. They twisted and turned until Andrew lay beneath Xander, full-body to full-body. Andrew broke away from their searing mouth-to-mouth contact to tilt his head back in a cry of delight.

Xander always tried to be gentle in this position. Not to crush with his greater height and weight. But just then Andrew burned for the solidness of his lover atop him, moving just like that, just so, ohgodohgodohgod --

"Xander," he breathed, awash in a sea of sensation, of mind-searing please. "Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop."

Hard flesh thrust against hard flesh. "I won’t if you won’t," Xander breathed back to him, bringing his fingers underneath the curves of Andrew’s bottom and bringing him closer, deepening their contact. "Don’t ever leave me."

"Ah – ah – I won’t – I swear I won’t –"

And then –

*Blank*

The memory stopped there. Andrew tossed and twisted a little, murmuring unhappily to himself as he was snapped back to the cold, confusing present.

"It didn’t happen," he mourned in a ragged whisper, all he could manage. "Why do I remember it?"

"Shhh, shhh," this-here-and-now Xander tried to soothe him, snuggling the limp head against his chest. "You’re tired. Maybe sick. I need to get you home. I’ll take care of you."

Andrew could have cried. "Why?" he begged, feeling the tears start to well up again. "After you – after I – it didn’t happen, not to me, not like this."

"It’s OK," Xander soothed. "We’ll be there soon."

"All these things." Andrew fought to swim back up out of the darkness that had a hypnotic pull on him. "They didn’t happen to me. But I remember them like they did."

He could tell Xander didn’t understand him. How could he? Andrew didn’t even understand himself. The two vivid flashbacks had shaken him to the core. They felt so real, but he *knew* they’d never happened.

::Not to you.::

Andrew flinched violently, twisting in Xander’s arms so that he nearly tripped, and tightened his grip instinctively. "Who was that?"

Xander attempted to stroke, to soothe. "No one’s here, Andrew. It’s just you and me. We’re almost at the house. Hold on just a little longer, sunshine. OK?"

Andrew thumped Xander in the chest, weak as a kitten. "Not my house!" he insisted.

::It wasn’t before, but it is now.::

The soft, sibilant voice echoed inside his mind.

"Didn’t you hear that?" he whispered, knowing that Xander hadn’t.

::No. He cannot hear me. Only you can.::

"Why?"

::You don’t need to speak out loud. You’ll only make him think you’ve gone mad, you know.:: It sounded amused now, as if it were laughing at him – not cruelly, but as a parent would at a child learning to walk, forever falling on its padded bottom, learning by its mistakes.

Andrew stilled, stiffened. ~Who are you?~

::Nothing you need to know the name of. For now.::

~I don’t belong here, do I?~

::Of course you do. This is your home.::

"This is not my home!" Andrew cried out, forgetting that he didn’t need to voice his thoughts.

He felt Xander’s carry-grip stiffen. "You still feel that way?" he asked, his tone darkening with a mix between sorrow and anger.

Andrew shook his head. "Don’t know. So confused." He managed to open his eyes at last and stared up at the man holding him. He looked so much like Xander. One warm brown eye, one covered by a black suede patch. Rough, dark stubble. A wide mouth made for smiling and laughing, now turned down in unhappiness.

It was the eye that caught him most, as it met and held a gaze with his own. Xander’s eye, rich brown come-and-hurt-me. Andrew stared back at him, willing him to make some sense out of this all.

Then he realized, and the breath caught in his chest.

It had been Xander’s left eye that Caleb had gouged out.

But this man’s left eye was whole and perfect. He wore his patch over the right eye.

"Your face," Andrew breathed. If only he had the strength to reach out, to touch –

Oh, god. Oh god, oh god, oh god.

Now he knew.

"This isn’t my home! This is the wrong world for me!" He struggled, panicking. "Put me down!"

Xander’s eye narrowed. "No way in hell, Andrew."

"Let me go!" Andrew squirmed in vain. "This isn’t me! You aren’t you. This isn’t my home. Now let go of me!"

::No, it’s not you. And yet, yes, it is you.::

"You’re not making any sense!" he called plaintively. "Why can’t I see you?"

::The time has not yet come.::

"Please, please!" Andrew begged. "Xander, put me down! I’m not who you think I am!"

"Like hell!" Xander gripped him tighter, seemingly no longer caring if he hurt or if he didn’t. "We’re almost to the house. I’ll put you down there."

"In a feather bed that’s not my own." One of the tears he’d been fearing finally broke free of his eyelashes and ran down the line of Andrew’s nose. ~Where someone who wasn’t me once made love to you. But I have that memory. Why?~

::Because you’re him now.::

"What?" Andrew whispered, his eyes losing their focus. His struggles had made him tired again... so tired...

::You’re him,:: the voice slithered in his mind. ::You are him and now he is you.::

"I don’t understand," he said, and even to himself sounded as lost and lonely as a runaway child.

::In time, you will. But for now – until this Xander who is-and-is-not your own has laid you safely to rest in bed – you shall sleep, little one.::

"No," he murmured, fighting the rushing wave. "You can’t make me."

::I don’t need to. Your body has been torn apart and reformed as you passed from that-which-was-reality to this-which-is-reality. You are tired from the change. Rest now. Sleep.::

"I don’t trust you," Andrew almost whimpered, tossing the fraction of an inch that he was capable of.

He felt the shudder run through Xander’s chest. "You will again," he said, sounding as if he hoped for it, prayed for it. "I’ll make it up to you. I swear. I wish that I could—"

The word echoed in Andrew’s mind.

Wish.

"No," he struggled. "No, no, no, no, no!"

"Andrew, please!" Xander begged him. "Please, don’t. Let me take care of you."

"I can’t! I can’t let you." Andrew’s heart ached, cracked, burned. "I’ll hurt you. You’ll hurt me."

"I could never hurt you."

And even though he knew this wasn’t-Xander, Andrew couldn’t stop the words: "You broke my heart."

Xander’s warm mouth dipped to his ear. Andrew shivered, remembering-not-remembering the kisses that had been placed there in the past. "And you broke mine."

He pulled back. "But I still love you. And now you’re - we’re home where we belong. Almost there.

"Buffy! Giles! Come help me – quick!" he called.

"Xander? You’re home early." Giles, clipped and British as ever, responded. Not-his-Giles.

"About time, too. Did you know Willow’s teething?" Ah, yes; that would be the dulcet tones of irritated-Buffy. Not-his-Buffy. "She bit my finger!"

"What have you got there?" Giles sounded intrigued. Eyes yet shut, Andrew could picture the Watcher stepping closer, peering through the dark. "Good lord!"

"He’s home." Xander’s voice broke. Andrew found himself snuggled closer, tighter. "He came back to me."

"Holy god," the Buffy-voice said, stunned. "Is that really -- ?"

"Andrew. He came home. After all this time, he’s really here."

~But I’m not,~ Andrew wailed inside his head. ~I’m not the me you were waiting for...~

He felt the touch of another pair of dry male hands, slightly tainted with chemicals that stung his nose. Alchemy! Andrew wanted to laugh.

Not-Giles pulled back. "He’s fevered. Bring him inside. I’ll make up an infusion of willow bark; that’s good for raised temperatures, I believe. Buffy, get sheets and fix a cot—"

"No!" Xander’s voice rang out clear and strong. "The bed. I’m taking him to my bed."

"Xander, are you—"

"It’s bigger. Softer. Comfortable." Andrew was being held close again. "And it’s my home. I decide what happens here."

Pause. "As you wish," Giles said shortly. "Bring him in, then. And when he’s well, perhaps he’ll feel like telling us why he’s been gone for so long."

~Maybe,~ Andrew thought giddily. ~But that’ll be hard, because I was never really here at all...~

END PART 3