The Night Is Young And We Have Umbrellas In Our Drinks
"So, you two are... together now?" Willow says, gesturing with a green plastic swizzlestick shaped like a cactus.
Xander looks at Oz, and Oz raises an eyebrow.
They have never discussed this, because Oz doesn't discuss things and Xander still occasionally wigs out about having sex with a guy, and having to talk about it makes him do the yammering thing, which he likes to think he's grown out of. But they've been fucking on and off (mostly on) since they found each other in a bar in Nairobi three months ago.
"Sure," Oz says, and she nods. That's good enough for Xander. "And you?" Oz asks.
Willow shrugs, red hair brushing the tops of her shoulders, longer than it was last time Xander saw her. "Kennedy was happy in Brazil and I just wanted to come home."
Xander looks around. They are in New York City, in a bar that is pretending to be Mexico. Neon palm trees line the walls, half-finished frozen margaritas litter the table, and a mariachi band comes on at ten.
He tries not to think about how there is no home anymore, except where they are all together, and how with Anya, Tara and Cordelia gone, they'll never all be together again.
"Home," Oz says, and when he says it, Xander feels it in his chest, a softer warmth than the burn of tequila. He thinks maybe someday it will be all right, sooner than he would have thought possible.
The silence stretches, broken only by the chatter of the crowd in the backroom watching whatever game is on, and bad eighties hair metal that reminds Xander of Anya, though the pain is muted now, and he can go for almost a whole day without remembering her.
It is his birthday, his twenty-third, and he doesn't want to spend it drunk and wallowing, like his father.
"Hey," he says, "the night is young and we have umbrellas in our drinks. Anything could happen."
"The Tick," Willow responds immediately, and the awkwardness dissipates under a pop culture onslaught as they volley quotes back and forth, three sides of a very knowledgeable triangle. Though Oz edges them out in music, Xander and Willow both are more television and movie savvy; Xander and Oz trump Willow with the comics knowledge.
They stumble out of the bar two hours and many margaritas later, and Xander feels better, feels like he could take on the First and win, and not just because of the fruity frozen margarita goodness.
He wraps an arm around Willow's shoulders, drops a kiss on the top of her head, inhaling the scent of Pantene and Willow, that he knows better than he knows himself, and misses more than his eye sometimes.
He pulls Oz close with his other arm, and kisses his head, as well.
They murmur, "Happy birthday," and he feels the warmth in his chest again, the closest thing to happy he's been in forever.
Willow comes back to their hotel room, and bounces on the king-size bed, remote in hand, easily finding the bad soft-core porn Xander pretends doesn't turn him on anymore, because he is With Oz now (officially, as of tonight), even though Oz couldn't care less about that stuff, gets off on it himself sometimes. She blushes but mock-glares at him before he can tease, and he just grins, instead.
The three of them curl up on the bed together, pushing down the ugly comforter to lie on the sheets, which are scratchy and smell of industrial-strength detergent. Xander tries not to think about all the other people who've stayed in this room, and what they may have done on these sheets.
Soon, he finds himself way more interested in the feel of Willow's hair brushing his skin, and the jut of Oz's hip against his, than he is in anything on the TV.
Oz tilts his head and Xander kisses him, tasting margarita and salsa and sweet, warm flesh. When they pull apart, Willow is watching avidly, a question in her eyes.
Xander nods, and she leans across him to press her mouth to Oz's, one hand in Oz's hair, the other clutching Xander's shoulder.
Then she's kissing him and that's even more right, because it's him and it's Willow. Oz grunts in approval and nibbles at his jaw and throat, deft guitarist's fingers already unbuttoning his shirt so he can kiss Xander's chest.
This is the best birthday ever, Xander thinks. The only thing that could make it better is if Buffy were there, but Buffy's always preferred the undead to the living, and no one is more alive than Willow, humming with magic and lust, and Oz, with the wolf tamed and yet always there beneath his skin. Xander's heart is pounding, he can't seem to get enough oxygen, and his dick is hard and aching. He's never been more alive than he is at this moment; he is overwhelmed with it.
They are clumsy and a little drunk, but soon they've managed to strip off their clothes, kissing and touching smooth, exposed skin that seems to glow even in the cheap, yellow light of the hotel room. Willow's is pale and satiny, Oz's dusted with freckles like constellations, and Xander wants to taste it all. He has never done this before, this three-in-a-bed thing, though the thought has crossed his mind a zillion times, but he's not surprised at the ease with which Oz and Willow maneuver him around.
Willow's breasts fit perfectly in his hands, her nipples taut and her skin salty-sweet as she arches into his mouth. Oz's hands are busy, slipping inside Willow's wet heat, then stroking Xander's cock. Xander loves Willow's wicked smile when she pushes a finger inside him, gasps when Oz adds his fingers, stretching and stroking until Xander is begging them to fuck him. He's babbling now, and he doesn't give a good goddamn about it, because his whole body's on fire with need.
He finds himself on his back, Oz's cock pushing slick and hard inside him while Willow straddles his hips, legs spread so she can sink down onto his dick, her hands on Oz's shoulders. She throws her head back and arches like a cat, rolling with the motion of Oz's thrusts, and Xander is mesmerized by the sinuous curve of her spine, the feel of her body clenching around him, as Oz drives him inexorably toward orgasm.
His brain shuts down, his eyes close, everything narrows to the rhythm of their bodies, the slick heat of Oz inside him and Willow surrounding him, the music of their mingled gasps and moans, the creak of the bedsprings, the pulse of blood in his ears and the soft sounds of flesh on flesh as Oz fucks him, uses him to fuck Willow.
Oh god oh god oh god...
Hands fisted in the sweat-dampened sheets, hips bucking, Xander explodes in red-hot bursts of pleasure so intense he actually blacks out for a few seconds. As he drifts back to consciousness, he feels Oz coming inside him and his mouth curves in a goofy smile.
Willow shifts, lies down next to him; he rains kisses on her face before covering her mouth with his, a slow exploration of territory learned and then forgotten. Oz settles between her thighs, licking and sucking until she comes; Xander swallows her moans, cradling her as she shivers and shakes.
They lie quietly for a bit, Xander and Oz sharing languid kisses with Willow and each other, pleased at this final resolution to a long-gone conflict.
"Well," Willow says finally. "That was unexpected."
"Was it?" Oz asks, tracing aimless patterns over Willow's belly, making her giggle.
Xander laughs. "'You gotta ride that wave, you gotta suck that lozenge! 'Cause if you don't, who will?'" He nuzzles Willow's neck, enjoying the scent of all three of them mixed together on her skin.
"The Tick," Willow and Oz say at the same time, and they pounce, fingers seeking his most ticklish spots. The bed creaks under their weight again, and Xander thinks this is all right. He can do this.
This is home.