Title: Ginger Spice

Author: Flannery

Pairing: Andrew/Xander/oven mitt

Rating: hard R / light NC-17

Disclaimer: Everything here belongs to Joss and so on. You know that. I'm not

profiting at all from this.

Distribution: Inner Geekdom, FCFM... anyone else? Just ask.

Feedback: Please! I thrive on it!

Author's notes: Takes place during season seven, circa "Storyteller". PWP.

Thanks oodles to Listener for the beta!

* * *

The house had been in chaos. Nothing escaped the Potentials' teenage fury, and

Xander had needed to repair, replace or readjust one thing after another. It was

a never-ending hell of hormones and broken appliances, windows shattered during

Slayer training, and so on. Then the Bringers came and did real damage, meaning

Xander had to work his ass off through the twenty hours a day he wasn't

sleeping.

And to top it all off, there was Andrew flitting about him, like a mosquito with

a video camera.

To tell the truth, Xander didn't so much mind Andrew when he was calm. He was

another male presence in the house, and Xander was thankful for that. They had

things in common. He was easy to talk to, when he wasn't mooning over Spike or

Anya (depending on which team the boy played for -- Xander simply couldn't

decide). Andrew didn't condescend to him like Giles and he wasn't too busy or

stressed to talk as were Buffy and Willow, and sometimes Andrew was perfectly

happy to sit and read comics with Xander and not say a word.

Xander relished his quiet time.

Like now. He rolled over in bed and looked at the clock: 1:32 in the afternoon.

He smiled and stretched, tangling his bare arms and legs in the sheets. It was

like heaven, sleeping in -- no girls, no Slayer, no vampire or Watcher or

anything. Just Xander, and the soft bed that smelled like Willow's shampoo, and

an entire day to do nothing but soak up the peace.

It crept under the door like fog, slowly rising and filling the room. Xander

sniffed the air; his eyes rolled back and a slow smile spread over his face.

Okay, he decided, so he wasn't as alone as he'd thought, but whoever he wasn't

alone with was baking something divine.

If he'd been in a cartoon, Xander would have been floating through the air

nose-first as he followed the glorious scent down the stairs.

The entire house had become a cookie-scented paradise. Sweet, warm, comforting

baking smells: the classic sugar cookie, perhaps? Or was it a hearty oatmeal?

No, he decided as he grew closer -- the smell was slightly spicy.

Xander was virtually in a trance as he appeared in the kitchen. Nothing was

broken, spilled or burning, noted Xander with relief, but the countertop was

covered in baking ingredients. Standing in front of the oven, holding a tray,

was Andrew.

"Hi, Xander!" And so the mystery was put to rest: "Ginger cookies," Andrew said

with a proud smile. "I really hope you like ginger."

Xander nodded. His mouth was watering. "Ginger, yeah. You made these?" Dumb

question. He added, "They smell amazing."

He colored slightly and set the cookies down. "You're always so sweet, Xander,"

Andrew said, tilting his head in a rather fetching manner. "Are you hungry? I

thought you'd sleep all day. Not that I'm at all surprised, by the way you've

been working around here. If you're not careful, you'll wear yourself out."

"Well," shrugged Xander, "stuff has to be done."

"Yes," said Andrew, "yes it does. Xander -- " Xander liked the way Andrew said

his name, drawing out the last syllable and letting it roll off his tongue --

"You've got to be starving by now. Please let me make you something."

He shook his head. "I ate this morning, when everyone left. Had to be up to help

with cooking." Xander nodded his head toward the recycle bin, which was filled

to the brim with empty Eggo boxes.

"Oh. I was still sleeping," said Andrew. "Except, Giles stepped on me when he

got out of bed, and then he swore a lot. That kinda woke me up." He gave a small

grin, and Xander couldn't help but smile back.

"And then you just decided, oh, what the world needs now is cookies?" Xander

asked.

Andrew shifted his weight from foot to foot, chewed his lip in the way he did

when he was feeling hedgey. "Something like that," he confirmed.

Yes, there was some hedging happening. Whatever. Xander didn't really care *why*

there were cookies, just that there *were* cookies.

Andrew hunched over the countertop and inspected the batch. He looked up when

Xander joined him. "They didn't turn out as well as I'd hoped," he said

mournfully. "They're all a bit... blobby, aren't they?"

Row after row of amoeba-shaped cookies. Two appeared to have merged in baking,

looking especially macabre.

"Just a little bit blobby," Xander reassured him. "And who cares how they look?

So long as they taste -- " He went to pick up a misshapen cookie.

"Don't touch!" Squealed Andrew.

The warning came too late. Xander yelped in pain and jammed his burnt fingers in

his mouth.

"Ooh, Xander!" Andrew scolded, mitted hands on hips. "What were you thinking?

You just watched me take those out of the oven!"

"Mmf," he whined pathetically in response.

Andrew frowned. He removed one of the oven mitts from his hand and gently took

hold of Xander's arm, pulling the burnt hand toward the sink. "Here. You... you

need to run some cold water on that."

"It's okay." The fingers were turning pink under the water. "It isn't that bad.

It hardly even hurts anymore."

"I'm sorry, Xander," said Andrew, lower lip protruding. "Here... here I tried to

do something nice for you, 'cause you've been working so hard, with the... with

the Bringers tearing up the, the house and all..."

"You made these for me?"

"...and, and I end up hurting you with my lousy cookies." He gave a pause.

"Yes," he admitted, "I made them for you."

Xander was somewhat amazed that Andrew had gone through all this work for him --

he could count on his burnt fingers the number of times they'd had actual

bond-worthy conversations. Definitely pleased, though. He smiled warmly at

Andrew and, oddly, felt his cheeks coloring. "That's really nice of you."

"I expected them to turn out better," mumbled the blond as he poked at a blob of

dough with his spatula. "I worked on the shapes all morning."

Xander stared at the tray. Were they *supposed* to be amoebas?

"If you look closely," Andrew gestured at the amoebas, and Xander looked closely

as instructed, "you will notice that the cookies are in the shapes of tools." As

he spoke, the rhythm of his words became more halting and less confident.

Oh. Now that he squinted at them, they did slightly resemble blobby little

hammers and saws.

"I don't know what to say. Except thanks, of course." Xander smiled at him, and

the other man blushed and bashfully ran a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, well, it was nothing," giggled Andrew. He watched as Xander shook

droplets of water from his injured hand. "How is it?" He asked.

"How's what?"

Andrew gestured at the other man's hand.

"Damp," answered Xander.

"Blistering?"

Xander grinned. "It was just a cookie, not boiling oil."

"Oh," said Andrew, "right." He stood awkwardly for a moment, then held out his

mitted hand. "You can dry your hand on my mitt if you like."

Right, thought Xander. Or he could just get a fresh towel out of the linen

closet. Not wanting to hurt Andrew's feelings after all the trouble he went

through, Xander placed his wet hand on Andrew's mitt. "Heh. It's warm," he said,

feeling rather silly.

Andrew grasped Xander's hand in his. It seemed to Xander that they were standing

unnecessarily close to each other... but it was a small kitchen, he

rationalized, and it wasn't like there was anything wrong with what they were

doing.

And just what, said a voice in the back of his mind, is it that you are doing?

Even to himself, Xander had to admit that he didn't know. Nothing, he tried to

say, I'm doing nothing and Andrew doesn't mean anything by all these little

gestures. It's a big nothing that's happening.

Andrew took a sudden step forward, nervousness and resolve written all over his

face. He was still grasping Xander's hand in the thick quilted oven mitt. Xander

wanted to say something, maybe about his hand no longer hurting or the kitchen

floor needing a sweep, but what he managed was, " 's a nice oven glove,"

followed by a juvenile chuckle. Then, he was going to say something

self-deprecating about what a dumb thing he'd just said, but instead: "Bet you

never burn your fingers wearing that."

"You're all red," observed Andrew.

He released Xander's hand, and brushed the mitt over Xander's cheek. It was warm

still from handling the tray, and caused Xander to give a happy purr deep in his

throat. Surprised at his reaction, Xander gave an embarrassed giggle. "That's,

uh, nice," he offered as explanation.

"Mmm." Andrew smiled in agreement. His mitted hand cupped Xander's jaw, then

slid down the side of his neck.

Xander sighed and let his head fall back. "Smells good too." Like ginger cookies

and something uniquely Andrew.

He couldn't recall when his mouth had gone so dry. His tongue was like heavy

cotton in his mouth and when he licked his lips, he found it didn't make a

difference.

Neither could he recall when his eyes had fallen shut. The mitt shifted over his

skin to the back of his neck, and Xander suddenly felt Andrew's moist lips on

his. At first the kiss was tentative, a bit hesitant, as if despite the

sensuality between them, Andrew wasn't certain of Xander's feelings. But when

Xander's mouth opened against his, Andrew fell into the kiss with fury.

It was at once wet and passionate and caused the rest of the world to melt

around him. Xander wouldn't have ever imagined a kiss from Andrew would be so

brilliant -- not, that is to say, that he'd given much thought to kissing

Andrew. Truth be told (because one had to be brutally truthful with oneself when

another man's tongue was in one's mouth and one was finding oneself irrationally

aroused by a soft, warm oven mitt), he had thought about Andrew like that, once

or twice, but it was more a cuddly and unsure type of fantasy, rather than with

the kissing and the tongue and...

...and Andrew's free hand was hooked into the waistband of his jeans, while the

mitt rested against Xander's stomach. Stroking in oblong circles, Xander's

muscles contracting beneath the insulated, quilted fluff, as Xander moaned into

Andrew's talented mouth. His brain was having trouble keeping up; there was

still an element of disbelief that this was Andrew -- cute, geeky Andrew --

molesting him in the kitchen of the Summers house and that he -- handsome and

usually straight Xander -- was immensely enjoying said molestation.

Andrew pulled back a fraction and glanced up at Xander. Andrew's cheeks were red

and his eyes glossy, and his mouth -- Xander almost found himself groaning as he

stared at Andrew's mouth -- was flushed with blood and swollen from exertion,

glazed with saliva. Unable to help himself, he dove back at that beautiful

mouth. He knotted his hands in Andrew's shirt and pulled; thrown off balance,

Andrew mewled softly and crashed against Xander, and Xander in turn crashed

against the oven.

This kiss was even harder than the last. Things were progressing rapidly and

Xander found he didn't feel uneasy, didn't at all want to stop. Against the back

of his thighs, the oven was still warm, the inviting scent of ginger thick in

the air around them. Andrew's bare hand was unfastening Xander's jeans and

trying to push them off, unsuccessfully. Andrew went to remove the mitt, but

Xander's hand closed around his wrist. "Leave it on," he said breathlessly, eyes

boring into Andrew's.

Mutely, Andrew nodded, then a slow smile parted his face.

Jeans pooled around Xander's feet, underpants somewhere about his lower thighs.

Andrew was teasing, still slowly petting his torso with the mitted hand, barely

brushing the cloth against Xander's skin.

"Gahhhd," panted Xander. His eyes were shut, but he heard Andrew's soft

responding giggle.

And then, without any sort of warning, Andrew wrapped his mitt around Xander's

cock and gave a firm stroke. The feeling was warm, terribly warm and cotton-dry,

and Xander tried to say it was too uncomfortable but only managed to make some

sort of soggy gasping noise.

Once again Xander found himself grasping Andrew's wrist, holding it still and

causing Andrew to look up at him with a puzzled expression.

"Change of plans, Andrew. Mitt off," he ordered.

Andrew obeyed, but looked rather flustered. "Was that... I mean, didn't you..."

He really didn't want to say that it felt like, well, like fucking an oven mitt,

so instead Xander told him, "I'd rather feel your hand on me, that's all."

"Oh." Andrew blushed, but smiled.

Xander realized he adored Andrew's smile.

Then his hand was back on Xander's cock, bare this time, skin-on-skin. Xander

released a yowl and subsequently bit down on his lip, censoring himself for an

empty house. One arm wrapped around Andrew's waist, and he dug dull fingernails

into the cloth-covered back. The other hand was clutching the edge of the stove

behind him, bracing him from falling forward -- or from Andrew laying him across

the range-top.

"Good?" The word was warm and wet against Xander's ear and punctuated by a swipe

from Andrew's tongue. Xander didn't answer, and Andrew didn't need him to.

At first the strokes were slow and almost reverent, and Xander's head fell back

as Andrew touched him. Fingertips skated over the skin of his cock until Xander

was nearly mad with anticipation; he writhed against Andrew's body, moaned into

the side of his hair.

Soon, the too-light touches had moved away to his hips, then his upper thighs,

over his soft stomach, and Xander was begging in soft whimpers for more. He had

pulled up Andrew's shirt and was rubbing his skinny back, whispering dirty

promises if only Andrew would touch him, "No not there," gasped Xander, "You

know where I -- "

Then Andrew sunk to his knees on the linoleum floor. As Xander's eyes followed

him down, he was vaguely aware of the oven mitt crumpled on the floor beside

him. Eyes foggy blue with desire, Andrew briefly returned Xander's look and then

plunged downward.

"Shit, Andrew!" Xander hissed through clenched teeth. A defenseless cookie met

its demise under his elbow as he leaned backward, no longer able to support his

complete weight. The pleasure spreading through his lower half and up throughout

the rest of him was rendering his flesh to pudding.

Xander's mouth gaped soundlessly. His hips bucked forward, but Andrew held firm;

his fingers would leave faint bruises on Xander's skin. He'd swallowed Xander's

cock completely -- didn't this boy have a natural gag reflex? -- and worked it

with a proficiency Xander had never imagined would exist. Especially not in

Andrew, innocent little Andrew with the comic books and zip-up hoodies...

Innocent little Andrew swallowed him again and this time, Xander cried out in

pleasure. He could feel warm breath from Andrew's nose against his skin, buried

in the dark pubic curls. For a moment, he let his mouth slide from Xander's

cock. He smiled wickedly up at Xander, lips slick and chin wet, before plunging

downward again.

That look, Xander reflected, it had to have been that look that finished him

off. Warmth, intense and glorious, radiated through Xander as he climaxed. His

eyes shut tightly. He couldn't stop himself from shouting (stars, he thought,

I'm actually seeing stars) and gasping out Andrew's name as he came hard,

thrusting a bit too roughly into Andrew's small mouth. It was spectacular and

quickly over, and Xander felt almost disconnected as he slid down to the floor

beside Andrew.

The other man was coughing softly. His seductive persona had faltered as Xander

came in his mouth -- he'd unceremoniously choked and had been trying to hide his

sporadic coughing. He grabbed the oven mitt off the floor and wiped his

glistening mouth on its back.

Desperate to maintain a fraction of modesty, Xander tugged up his boxers. "That

was..."

Andrew coughed, then grinned. "Yeah. That was."

"Uh." He gestured loosely at the lump in Andrew's jeans. "You want me to..."

Andrew shook his head. "No. No, you don't have to. I mean... yeah, it would be

nice, but..."

Xander cut him off, placing a finger to Andrew's swollen red lips. "Did Giles

fold up the sofa in the den this morning?"

"No," Andrew said, "he left really early and I was still asleep. Um, after I got

stepped on. He couldn't fold it up with me in the way."

"Good." Xander threaded his fingers through Andrew's hair. "Then that's less

work for us. Go in there and wait for me?" He tugged Andrew's face close and

gave him a lingering kiss. "I'll be just a minute."

Breathlessly, Andrew nodded. The action was over, and it seemed incredulity (and

Andrew's natural insecurity) was starting to sink in. "Oh... okay..."

"I'll be right in," Xander said, teasingly giving Andrew's thigh a firm stroke.

"And you might want to be naked," he added.

As Andrew was leaving (with a new bounce to his step, Xander noted), Xander

popped a cookie in his mouth. Tasty, if a bit sugary. Having seen the way Andrew

fixed his iced tea, the overpowering sweetness didn't at all surprise him. It

was soft and moist and left a pleasant ginger-burn at the back of his throat.

He heard Andrew unzipping his jeans from the other room, and Xander began

gathering up his shed clothes. Didn't want to forget to do it later, if he and

Andrew were busy the rest of the day. He glanced around, making certain he was

alone. Then, quickly, snatched up the oven mitt from the floor. It would be

stuffed into his overnight bag before he joined Andrew in the den.

* * *