New Year's Resolutions:
part four
by Josie_h
Notes
Xander Dec 26
Xander woke to the sensation of warm, soft bedding. He rolled, leisurely stretched
then noticed the time. *Holy…* Sleeping for more than six hours straight was
unheard of in his work-world yet here he was at 11am the next day having
achieved a good thirteen hours of undisturbed slumber and body apparently
content to try for more.
A quick shower and in room coffee thanks to the courtesy facilities saw
him ready for what remained of the day inside fifteen minutes. He rang down to
the concierge and ordered a cab. Despite the detailed directions from the tea
vendor of the previous evening, he hardly felt inclined to navigate to the
Harvard district on public transport today. Flowers could be purchased at the
entrance of the cemetery according to the taxi driver.
Xander wandered through the vast graveyard that was the
It seemed fitting that Aunt Agnes’ ‘people’ had been important enough and
possessed enough foresight to reserve her a place in this esteemed Boston
burial ground, albeit she had apparently elected cremation and was therefore…
dust and a plaque. Xander could not help sad thoughts enter as he knelt by the
small brass plate. It was always dust with those he loved. Always
about dust.
“Agnes McAllister
1930 – 1995
Loved & loving mother & wife.
Now in heaven’s
embrace.”
He placed the twelve white roses at the base of the plaque, and quite
unexpectedly felt like his five year old self, wishing dearly for just one more
cuddle in that ample bosom. Kneeling on the snow covered ground, he let warm tears of regret and loss drop,
melting the thin layer with an odd little pattern of dots.
Some half hour or so later, he stood to wander with little interest
through the older sections of the cemetery then continued on the road to
He ambled by the various imposing buildings that made up Harvard
University, admiring the Law building and trying to find ‘Chemistry’ for no
other reason than he had spied it on the campus map. He wondered idly whose job
it was to order the gargoyles or ornate column stonework, on the architectural
team of the day. *Yeah Stan, I’ll have seven of those dragons with their
tongues out, three ugly trolls and a couple of swirly thingys for the bit near
the front* Xander grinned to himself and walked on.
As he passed the library he was struck by the memory of a conversation
with Spike in their last days. They had been talking about school, learning and
regrets. Xander had always wished to be better at school, knowing he was not
‘stupid’, but taking on that mantle as he struggled with a home life that was
less than conducive to academic achievement. Spike, on the other hand, had
divulged that he had indeed been to university. Studying classics had been the
standard for any gentleman of the day, and a trend he was beholden to follow,
though he begged to be allowed to devote his time exclusively to literature. He
admitted to whiling away many an hour in the vaulted halls of the main library
of Cambridge, engrossed in the words of the literary greats despite pressing
study deadlines in other subjects.
Xander wondered whether the Cambridge library looked anything like the
Harvard one, then decided that he really needed to ‘go do something touristy’
and shake out of the growing funk.
Hours later Xander had ‘done’ Bunker Hill, making a point of near jogging
the steps after several other out of towners exited past him with grumbles of
‘how difficult’ the climb had been, how there ‘should be a lift’, and various
other unwarranted comments. He ‘did’ the USS Constitution and when light
started to fade, took the subway back to near the hotel.
As he collected his key from the front desk, Xander was startled by a
young woman nudging his arm as she announced loudly, “You’all by yer self?
‘Cause if y’ are, we’d jes love some extra company. D’yall
like Jazz?”
He spun around in the direction of the voice to see a collection of
rather handsome couples, noting that the Stetsons on the men made the group
appear oddly reminiscent of a scene from the old TV show ‘Dallas’. Xander
smiled in response to the question and at his own thoughts that the notion of
Country and Western dressed Texans seeking out trendy Boston jazz clubs must be
contradictory to at least one of the laws of nature!
“Sure – be down in five. You folks eaten?”
The rangy red head man with black hat sporting a snakeskin band (and
matching boots!) answered first, “Figured on eatin’ Chinese or the like – you
partial?”
“Great! Name’s Xander Harris.” Xander thrust his hand forward and firmly shook hands with the three men
and names were exchanged. He felt strangely naked without a hat to ‘tip’ when
it came to their ‘women-folk’, and opted for a rather embarrassed nod instead.
After a fairly full day of walking, another lengthy hike was hardly welcome,
but Xander did not fancy eating alone tonight, and the prospect of sharing a
night of good music with these amicable southerners was certainly appealing.
The meal was pleasant with food proving unremarkable but the company most
entertaining. Xander noted that eating Chinese out had probably been spoilt forever
by the wonderful Edwin at ‘
The members of his party were all loud and jovial. Xander quickly learned
that the ‘boys’ had been school buddies, all played football, and now shared
business interests in the car and truck industry. The holiday together was an
annual event. The women said little, but when they did Xander had the distinct
impression that given different circumstances, they would easily hold their own
with their rowdy partners both intellectually and in generosity of spirit.
Xander found himself the ‘quiet one’ of the evening but no one seemed to notice
particularly.
At around nine they made their way to Wally’s Café in the south end.
They’d been told it was *the* place for local jazz and blues, was always busy,
and hosted a diverse crowd. Something Xander could only be thankful for as he
and the John Wayne look-alikes (and partners) lined up for entry.
The line had been moving slowly but the atmosphere friendly and relaxed,
so there were no complaints. Xander had just turned to ask one of the
‘girl-friends’ what she did for a living, when he was struck from behind by a
person pushing through the crowd. Xander’s first reaction was to check for his
wallet as he turned to confront the ill mannered queue jumper. He could only
see the back of what he thought looked like a twenty something student heading
toward an ally. He was about to yell after the man when he just made out the
words “Bloody tourists” growled in a distinctly English accent, so remained
mute and opted to stare hard at the retreating figure, the voice and stride
were distinctly familiar but the appearance and situation was wrong.
He stood looking for some time wondering whether his visits to graveyards
and universities had brought on such odd associations. Finally prompted by
impatient fellow music lovers, he moved forward in the queue, saying outloud,
“God that could have been Spike in another life…” The woman behind him looked
puzzled but said nothing, and the evening continued without further incident.
Stumbling into his room around three in the morning, Xander reviewed the
events of the day, concluded that all in all, it had been an excellent
adventure and resolved to ‘do’ the Freedom trail the following day.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Spike 27 Dec
Spike woke too early having been plagued by dreams of dismembered bodies,
headless children and Xander screaming as his eye was pushed out. He opted to
try for some writing to redirect his tumultuous thoughts.
He stared at the correspondence from yesterday now lying beside the
computer and could not shake the thought that he might indeed have be
conversing with Xander. It was incredible if it were true. He read and re read
the words and finally focused on the ‘Sunny Boston’ line. The notion that the
whelp was in the same city *and* chatting online to him seemed altogether too
far fetched, but a part of him desperately wanted to believe it. Waiting for
the computer to reboot, he worried a cuticle and reviewed his own reasons for
not making contact with the boy after he regained his corporeal status in LA.
What would he say to him now if they did happen to meet? What if they had been
living right next door all this time?
Spike now desperately needed to positively identify ‘Xanman’ – otherwise
he was wasting a good worry. He started online with the user group where he
posted his stories, but the user biography for Xanman was empty except for the
gender ‘Male’ and marital status ‘Single’. There was also an Email address, but
Spike already knew that.
He then tried a quick search for “Alexander Lavelle Harris + bio” and
tried to predict just how many hits he would get. The first few returns were
all the same. He clicked on the link and was taken to a construction company’s
website and the section profiling their management team. The whelp had done
well for himself it
seemed, with a number of awards for excellence on large projects listed amongst
his achievements. If anything this site cast doubt on Spike’s ‘Xanman theory’
as he read ‘Head Office, Sacramento’ in the listing for workplace.
Two other things he noticed. The Xander in the photograph at the top of
the profile showed a thinner, older man than Spike remembered, most definitely
older. Spike mentally kicked himself – of course he would be changed, humans
age in eight years. He was looking here at Xander, the upwardly mobile,
‘thirty-something’.
Frustrated that he was getting no closer to Xanman’s identity, he lit a
cigarette, squinted through the smoke and returned the screen to the list of
search results. A quick scan to the bottom of the page produced little more
joy, so he altered the search to read ‘Xanman + Harris + bio’ and hit enter.
The very first entry was for a live journal. Spike took a long drag on
his cigarette and clicked on the link. And there it was.
User Name: Xanman
Nickname: Harris
Age: 32
Marital Status: Very Single
Location:
Occupation: Project manager, construction industry
Spike clicked through a few pages of the journal, just to reassure
himself, but this most definitely had to be right. Websites were recommended,
favorite online authors mentioned (including NonPerson Spike was pleased to
note), and even a surprising account of a one night stand that made it fairly
obvious that Harris, at least occasionally, enjoyed ‘batting for the other
team’.
He was half way through the third page, when the words on screen caused
his stomach to flip. Under the entry ‘Absent friends’, Spike read a loving
description of…. himself. Those last few days in the basement together had
certainly left quite a legacy it seemed. It was the line “I would do anything
to see him again” that had Spike questioning whether to act or not.
If the boy truly was in Boston, Spike just had to see him – even if they
didn’t actually meet, he simply could not be this close without sighting him.
After that he would decide a next step.
He returned to his Email and replied to Xanman:
“Dear X
Taa for the plot bunny
Will see what I can do
If in Boston suggest poetry & blues event, south end Boston Common
tonight, dress warm
NP”
He hit ‘send’ and was surprised to receive an almost instant answer:
“Thanks for the tip
Already planned on going – great minds…
X”
It was that easy. Spike couldn’t help bouncing a little as heated some
blood. He drank it swiftly then headed back to bed to bide his time until he needed
to go. He was feeling truly excited for the first time in years. After five
minutes of agitated wriggling, he decided to rid himself of some energy by
indulging in a little horizontal activity.
He selected from his bottom drawer collection of ‘toys’ to help matters
along. He took out his original butt plug, purchased shortly after arriving in
Boston. It was oft now relegated to a warm up role, as it would be today. He
then took out the real arsenal – a seriously, large, ribbed, multi speed number
and of course, the essential lube (no need for flavour when flying solo)…… he
didn’t mind hurting but essentially sought to feel totally filled today. He
left the rest of the selection in the drawer – and pushed it shut.
Spike looked at the time, noting that there was around an hour until
sundown, he began the familiar pattern. A little ‘light reading’, pour lube,
slick entrance and ‘warm-up’ plug, penetrate, take self in other hand and begin
matched rhythm. Then add more lube, swap toys, find the right angle, add
vibrations, pick up the pace in front, seek more feeling, pinch nipples hard
and continue.
After some minutes he felt tingles start to build, and began to breathe,
but when his arousal subsided a little, he thought of the nights with Xander
all those years ago, then worked for a little more harshness in the mix,
shoving the plug almost painfully against his prostate. Finally with the
artificial stimulus pushed to a maximum, the sensations ramped up just enough.
He panted a few more times then released with a groan. For a few blissful
moments he existed not as himself, but *purely* as his own physical need and
satisfaction – all thoughts and doubts banished.
Spike slipped into a light sleep, waking just after sunset in time to
prepare for his excursion to the Common.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>.
Xander 27 Dec
Xander’s plans to take a leisurely walk around the Freedom Trail the
following day had been changed somewhat when his enthusiastic companions from
the previous night decided to ‘come too’. “Cuz, y’all seem t’ have the day
figured out and we’re kinda at a loose end. So if y’all don’t mind, we’d
appreciate taggin along.” Accompanied by Kathleen’s sweet smile and memories of
the group’s generous inclusion of a solo Californian the previous evening, Xander
hardly felt it fair to refuse.
By the time they had located Paul Revere’s house however, he was having
serious doubts. There were only so many: obligatory references to him as a
‘Yankee, no offence’; lessons in confederate history (apparently far more
riveting than actually appreciating *Boston’s* history as they walked through
it!); and ‘Ooh ain’t that jes the cutest thang’ statements at shop fronts (with
associated half hour of waiting while the souvenir savvy southern ladies made a
purchase), that Xander could stand before, thanks to a fairly heavy downpour,
he was able to convincingly fake a headache, then excuse himself and return to
the hotel.
As he trudged back through narrow streets, he felt a little ungracious,
as they really *were* nice people, but he was sure “Mitchell .K. the third” and
friends would be just fine without him.
It was still raining, so the hotel really was a reasonable option for the
afternoon. He jumped online and was pleased to note a reply to last night’s
epic letter to Willow. Apparently that amount of news from him was “fantastic”
and “well overdue” and “better not stop there buddy”. Xander smiled as he
imagined the redhead delivering the last line whilst standing with hands on her
hips in the ‘grin and glare’ combination of her ‘resolve face’ that only Willow
seemed able to perfect.
He flicked open the writer’s list and read a few of the entries, smiling
at the NonPerson’s response to an enthusiastic post on poetry. Noting the
recommendation, he found the
He was just about to log off when mail landed in his inbox.
“Dear X
Taa for the plot bunny
Will see what I can do
If in Boston suggest poetry & blues event, south end Boston Common
tonight, dress warm
NP”
He marveled at the timing – particularly the suggestion of the Poetry
evening, so shot back a message, then put the laptop on the floor.
As he relaxed back onto the cushions of the window seat, Xander pondered
the idea that this ‘NonPerson’ might well be a Bostonian. It did seem odd for
someone to have knowledge of local events, if they weren’t actually in the
city. His thoughts ran to the storylines and characters favored by NP and,
apart from the latest unusually disturbing contribution to the list, it all
seemed plausibly Hellmouthy. He concluded that if NP was a former Sunnydalite,
the most likely scenario was that they were either one of the potentials (now
slayers), or possibly one of the new watchers flexing his or her ‘history
writing’ muscles in the daytime, whilst doing their nightly slayer minding.
With thoughts of the irrepressible Andrew and the many slayers in the
last weeks at