My response to spikeswilngslav’s challenge. Go read her stuff, yeah?

Pairing: X/S
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Yes, I own them. I am. . . Joss Whedon
Feedback? Or not to Feedback? That is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler to send thy opinions to the author, or to simply read-and-run. . .
Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: All-human AU, brother!kink,
Summary: After touring with his band, Spike suddenly drops back into his brother’s life, only to find that Xander’s changed in unexpected ways.

Two shouts out: the one, the fabulous, the heavily-armed savoytruffle who alternately eggs me on and threatens me with physical, emotional and psychic violence if I don’t add some more brother!kink, like, yesterday.

And: the one, the lovable, the Thin Mint slinging mirasol whose fabu brother!kink fic Catamite paved the way for my brother!kink fic. If any of youse haven’t read it, then go fuckin’ read it, ya bastid!

The True Meaning of Family

by
Beetle

Part One

The loud banging on the door wakes Xander out of a sound sleep.

Grabbing his baseball bat, he shuffles out of his bedroom, into the main room, to his front door. Looks out the peephole.

With a grin, he unlocks the deadbolt, baseball bat falling to the floor, forgotten. He’s just opening the door when it slams inward, nearly taking off his nose. A compact body in leather and denim hurls itself at him enthusiastically.

“You miserable little fucker! How the hell are you?”

“I’m - great, Spike! But for the lack of oxygen, I’m gravy.”

“My big little brother can’t take a simple hug?” Spike lets go of Xander, grinning. “Getting soft, are we? All this easy living spoiled ya, then?”

Xander rolls his eyes. “Yes, living in the Bronx has indeed spoiled me rotten. Now I know how Louis XIV felt.” He looks Spike over. Same pale face that’s all blue eyes, sharp cheekbones and pouty mouth. Same ancient leather duster, tight acid wash jeans and torn band t-shirt. The platinum hair was new, as were the eyebrow ring and - yep, a tongue stud. Facial piercings and platinum hair. . . not for the first time, Xander wonders if there was a look his brother can’t pull off.

“Get in here, man, before the cockroaches try to follow you in.”

Spike grabs his grungy looking duffel bag and guitar case and steps in, looking around. “Y’ last place was nicer.”

“My last place was the one we had together. In case you’d forgotten. Couldn’t afford it by myself.” Xander locks and double-checks the door then steps back into the main room. Spike is already spread out on the couch, duffel on the chipped, secondhand coffee table, guitar case next to it.

“As I remember, Angel was still staying there, at the time. He coulda easily carried my half of the rent.” Spike’s burrowing into the pillows, trying to toe off his Docs, which are still tied. Xander goes over and begins untying them.

“Ta, mate.”

“No prob. And as you may remember, me and Brood-boy? Not so much with the getting along.” One shoe off, showing a holey sock that has seen cleaner days. “You honestly didn’t expect him to want to keep living with his ex-boyfriend’s little brother. I mean - can you say cock-block?”

“And who’s been teaching you such naughty, grown-up words, pet? Not His Brooding Magnificence, surely?” Spike opens tired, amused blue eyes to regard Xander, who’s working on the second shoe. The laces are matted and spliced together.

“Uh - actually, it was you, Spike. Jeez, a little help here, man. Pull your foot out.”

“Tosser.” But Spike pulls his foot out of the shoe. No sock on this one. Xander doesn’t even ask.

“So, why are you back in town? The Slayer dump you?” Xander lifts Spike’s legs and sits on the couch. Spike immediately puts his feet in Xander’s lap.

“Not hardly. I dumped them, I’ll have you know. Bleedin’ chick band. And that Buffy - dunno what her sodding problem is, bossing everyone around. Drummer’s supposed to be in the background, not giving orders like General Stupidbitch.”

“Spike -”

“And Red was no help, always taking her side. Faith - well, good shag, that one, keeps her nose out of the squabbles. Oz - “ Spike frowned. “Guess he’s the strong silent type. Never said peep to anyone but Red.”

“You slept with Faith? I thought you had a thing for Buffy -”

“Fuck no! Pale, skinny blondes are Angel’s thing.”

“Obviously - ouch!” Xander glares at Spike, whose eyes are closed again. The kick to Xander’s chest had been dead on, however.

“Wouldn’t fuck the General for all the money in the world. Looks like she’d put a hurtin’ on your naughties, that one. And Angel never did get over her totally. ‘S what broke us up, you know?”

“I thought it was your sleeping around that did that.” Xander’s grinning. Hasn’t done much of that since Spike left. Feels weird and wonderful to do it now.

“Couldn’t have been; told him I wasn’t the settling down type, didn’t I? Anyway, old news. Tell me something new. What’ve you been up to? Still with that weird girl you were so hot and heavy with?”

Xander snorts bitterly. “She left me when she got a look at my new place. Anya's long gone.”

“Fuck her, then. Can’t see when she’s got herself a quality catch? Then fuck her. Stupid bint. Anybody new?”

Xander blushes, shrugs. “Sort of. Nothing serious, really, just a - convenience thing. Kinda on-again/off-again. Mostly off.”

“Ugh, bad news, that. Never works. Constant sex is the glue of a relationship. That’s my philosophy.”

“That and ‘shoplifting isn’t a real crime’.”

“Never get caught, do I?”

Spike grins so charmingly, despite his disapproval, Xander returns it.

“I’ve missed you a lot, Wil.”

“You, too, Xan. Feels like it’s been longer than a year.”

“It’s been fourteen months, two weeks and. . . three days,” Xander says softly, looking down at Spike’s feet, which he’s been rubbing absently. He stops.

“Don’t stop, felt good.” Spike sighs. “Got magic hands, you do.”

“Sensualist.” But Xander starts rubbing again. “So, how long you in town for?”

“Well. . . I’m sick of travelling for the next little while. Was hoping I could crash with you till I get my own place. Can’t stay with dad, can I?”

“You could.”

“Wouldn’t. I know how you feel about him. Lord knows you got reason. I want to be somewhere you feel comfortable coming to see me.” Xander’s still looking at Spike’s slightly grubby feet, but he can feel his brother’s gaze on his face like warm sunshine.

“Is he still with Ethan?”

“Oh, yeah. And that one hasn’t mellowed with age at all, let me tell you. When the band was in London, I stopped by for supper. Dad asked. Ethan was - Ethan. Dunno if you remember how he was -”

“I remember.”

Now Spike’s gaze feels like a weight.

“Yeah, well, he’s like that times ten. Dunno what dad sees in him, why he chose that blighter over mum, but it’s his life, he’s the one who has to live with his mistake.”

Xander doesn’t agree, but they’ve had this argument before. He doesn’t want to have it again, not when he’s with Spike for the first time in over a year.

“Xan, keep doing that and you’ll never get me off this couch. Christ, I’m tired!”

“Can’t sleep till you’ve had a shower, Stinky. Come on. You’ll feel better and I’ll let you sleep in nice and late tomorrow,” Xander wheedles.

“But I just showered - what’s today?”

“You know, the fact that you need a calendar to figure out the last time you showered says you need another. As does the funky European aroma you’ve got going on. You’ve been on the Continent, too long; forgotten the merits of roll-on deodorant and scented fabric softener.” Xander pushes Spike’s feet off his lap and stands up, stretching.

“Fuck you. Hey, think you could make me a cuppa?”

“As long as you don’t want anything harder than plain old coffee. Can’t make it Irish for you, I’m afraid.”

“If coffee’s all you got, sure. So tired the caffeine won’t keep me up. And how can you not have tea? Even bagged tea, deplorable as that is? You’re a piss-poor Englishman.”

“This is true. Must be due to the fact that I’m not English.” Xander walks into the kitchen partition. “By the time you’re done showering, the coffee should be done.”

“He hinted, none too obliquely.” Spike sits up, stands up. Flops back down tiredly. “Luv, carry me to the bathroom?”

“This apartment is the size of a shoebox, Big Bad. Carry yourself. Oh, and leave your clothes in the hamper. I have to do laundry, anyway. You can wear some of my old stuff in the meantime.”

“Like a bloody mother-hen, you are.” Spike sounds grouchy and pleased. Xander smiles as he rummages through his cabinets for the instant coffee he never used.

“Hey! Don’t leave your wet towels on the floor!” Xander calls, just as the door to the bathroom closes. Whether or not Spike heard is up for debate. Either way, there will be wet towels on the floor.

Yep, Spike is back.

Spike cuddles closer to the warm body he’s been sleeping against. Doesn’t have to open his eyes to know there’s dawnlight streaming in. He’s not at all a morning person.

“Spike,” a sleep-fuzzed voice mumbles, followed by a light snore. Of course. It’s too early to do anything but go back to sleep.

But there’s such lovely warmth to wake up to. Xander feels positively amazing, all heat and muscles and some wonderful scent, like candy. Like chocolate. . . .

Spike’s morning wood is pressing insistently against a firm arse. He grinds into Xander, hoping he’ll take the hint and wake up ready to be fucked stupid.

“Come on, luv. Want you now,” he whispers, burying his face in dark, shaggy, silky hair that smells of some herbal shampoo. Slides his hand down a muscled thigh, then back up. “Please, wake up. I want this so much, pet. I need this.”

Xander moans, rolling toward Spike a little. Blessed encouragement.

“That’s right, luv. Know you’ve been wanting this as much as I have.” Spike’s voice is shaking more than his hand as he reaches for and hopes he’ll find - a hard on that matches his own. A few quick strokes and Xander’s fucking his hand sleepily, murmuring something that sounds like “Wil”.

“You feel so good, luv. That’s it, just like that. . .” No rhyme or reason to the nonsense either of them are moaning and groaning, no rhythm to the grinding and thrusting. Just urgency and heat.

“More, Spike, please.”

“Tell me what you want, little brother.” Biting the nape of Xander’s neck, his ear, his shoulder. Tastes as sweet as he smells, his boy does.

“Want you to fuck me. Fuck me, Wil.”

And Spike’s losing control at the breathy sound of his own name, coming so hard and for so long it hurts. His vision goes black, then he’s sitting up into bright afternoon sunlight, gasping.

Around him Xander’s secondhand livingroom seems to crouch in shame at such direct lighting. The apartment has that empty feel Spike associates with being the only living being in a place.

He’s quite alone and the crotch of the sweatpants Xander’d loaned him are soaked.

“Bugger.” Spike flops back down onto the couch.

The dreams are definitely getting worse.

Part Two

Xander’s key is barely out of his pocket when the door is yanked open and he’s snatched inside.

“What took you so long?” Kisses too deep and intense to talk around, though Xander tries. Finally has to push him away just to speak.

“I - something came up -” Impossible to think when those brown eyes seem to burn at him, devour him; when strong arms pull him close, closer, closest and he feels warm and safe.

“Something came up over here, too. And you’re lucky I didn’t start without you, Xander.” And there goes the nuzzles and nipping bites. Something about having his neck touched drives Xander up the wall, murders his brains cells with lust that burns brighter than a roman candle.

“But -” What? Xander’s damned if he can remember.

“Tell me later. For now, I just wanna fuck you.”

This is what always happens, Xander reflects as he’s dragged relentlessly to the livingroom. On-again/off-again. Sure. Every time I try to make it off-again, I find myself bent over the back of his sofa or some random, waist high piece of furniture and fucked six ways to Sunday.

Yep, Xander’s being bent over the sofa. There go the sweatpants and boxers. And the shoes. And one of his socks.

“What I like about you is that your rough, unromantic shell covers an equally rough and unromantic core.” Xander muses just before he’s spread like Thanksgiving dinner and a large - thankfully lubed - finger is sliding up where the sliding’s good.

“Jesus.” Previous train of thought? Lost. So very lost. . . Lost of the Mohicans. . . .

“Love the way you clench around me. Can’t get enough, can ya?” Arrogance. Shouldn’t be a turn on, but it is. It so. Is.

Two fingers and ouch, sir, may I have some more?

“We can’t keep doing this.” Xander can ignore the fingers tickling him in places the sun will never see. He can ignore the hand stroking him off like stroking-him-off is going out of style. He can even ignore the tingly burn building up in his lower back that means either imminent orgasm or imminent hernia.

“Your mouth says no, but other parts of you -”

What he can’t ignore is all the wicked-dirty things being whispered in his ear, in that wicked-dirty New Yawk accent.

“I hate you, sometimes.”

A soft chuckle. “If you just shut up for a few minutes and promise to be a very bad boy -” near painful bites on his spine, accompanied by something large and hard pressing against his hip for a too brief moment. ”I’ll change your mind.”

The dirty-talk reminds him of Spike. Not that Spike has anything resembling a wicked-dirty New Yawk accent. Not that Xander’s ever heard Spike make with the dirty-talk, but he’s imagined -

“You just got a lot harder. . . what are you thinking about?” Warm breath on his back, moving up to his neck and ear. “Thinking about how good you’re gonna feel with nine inches of Irish cock in you?” A quick sharp thrust-twist of those fingers and hello, Mr. Prostate!

Whoa, I can see time.

Xander thinks he must’ve said this aloud because the dirty nothings have turned into chuckles and wow! He really can see time!

“Ready for me, Xander?” And yep, that’s a full nine inches of Irish cock poised to skewer Xander, but currently brushing against him gently, carefully. As if gentleness or care has ever had any part in their - relationship.

“You’re - you’re very fond of rhetorical questions, aren’t you? Fuck!” One fast, deep push in at, like, Warp Nine or even Warp Nine Point Nine, and Xander’s just panting and pushing back to meet those hard, unsparing thrusts, one leg twined around his lover’s. There’s no thought, no kiss-off speeches, just fucking and being fucked. Strong, huge hands on his hips, holding him up - holding him in place. Hot, harsh breaths in his ear cursing and cursing him, telling him he’s going to be split like a cord of wood.

It’s always like this. Always good like this. Always. Scarily intense, desperately impersonal. Always like this. Nothing ever changes. Coming is like pleasure, pain and relief all rolled into one. It leaves him limp and gasping, unable to resist being carried to bed to be fucked some more.

“Jeez, what are you, the marathon man? Why can’t you come when I do?” Xander gets dropped unceremoniously on the bed, like a sack of potatoes, and brooded over critically. It’s that look that makes Xander feel ashamed, more than the fact that he suspects he’s nothing more than a convenient, if yappy, warm hole to be fucked until he’s too tired to respond.

“Some guys actually like to take their time. Been waiting awhile for this. Not gonna rush it.” That lovely speech, delivered with that infuriating, possessive, arrogant look is enough to make Xander seethe.

“Don’t fucking look at me like that. I swear to God, I’ll walk if you don’t cut it out.”

“No, you won’t.”

“You’re so sure you’ve rocked my world? So sure I’m not gonna walk out of here for good, this time?” Resentment? Lust? Attitude? Xander honestly can’t tell which of those things is coloring his voice, suspects it’s all three.

“Pretty sure.”

Xander’s ready to throw on his sweatpants - God, he’s still wearing his jacket and sweater - and leave, while he still feels shamed enough to do so. Leave before the naughty touches start again.

“I hope you enjoyed that, 'cause I can promise you it’ll never happen again. I’m gone - “ And damn, for a big, hulking bastard he moves fast. He’s on the bed and on Xander like the world’s horniest duvet, turning Xander over and fucking him again before he can make a no doubt witty rejoinder.

Signs you’re in a troubled relationship? Your lover never seems as detached as when he’s just fucked you so hard, you’ll be walking funny the rest of the day.

Signs you’re in a flat-out bad relationship? Not even you take your ‘no’s seriously, anymore.

But instead of a moment of rage that feels like it’ll burn him alive before the reawakened lust kicks in, all Xander feels is calm. In his mind’s eye he can see Spike, the way he’d looked when they’d first reunited three years ago. The leering smile that should’ve set Xander’s teeth on edge, but didn’t. The way Spike had given him the once-over and a friendly: “you’ll do” then thrown an arm around his shoulder.

Taken him in with no questions asked, opening his home and his life to Xander, despite having just moved in with his boyfriend.

Xander’s always been pretty sure the closest he’ll ever come to true love is what he’d felt for Spike after that first hug. What he feels to this day.

Oh, and Xander’s totally not ready to explore the reason Mr. Happy just sat up, like a dog hoping for a treat, at thoughts of Spike’s smile and Spike’s arm around him and Spike, saying wicked-dirty things in a wicked-dirty London accent.

A spot of repression would be smashing, just about now. Or a distraction - oh, yeah! Big, hot hand on my cock, big hard cock in my ass. There’s a distraction. No way that gropey paw could belong to Spike. Spike’s hands are smaller, precise. And he’s probably more creative than grunt-thrust-repeat-for-two-hours-straight-nonstop.

And how pervy is it to think about my brother when I’m about to come? Pretty pervy, yet witness me not stopping -

And there Xander goes, again, a scream ripped out of him along with orgasm the second. In the eternity it takes to recover his wits, he slowly realizes tall, dark and licentious still hasn’t come. Is still fucking him slowly, steadily.

Is obviously in no hurry.

Great. He’s just getting warmed up and I’m already getting bored, not to mention sore. Yeah, walking funny for at least the rest of the day. And that’s the least I deserve for what I’ve done and who I think about when I do it.

I can’t keep doing this. It’s wrong and sneaky and kinda icky. And this whole on-again/off-again back and forth is far from healthy. It’s like this every time. The same sequence of fucking, limited conversation and my increasingly pervy imagination.

With Spike back in town, I have to find a way to end this relationship. For keeps, this time.

But for now, Xander can only pillow his head on his forearms, close his eyes and let himself be fucked.

And try not to pretend it’s Spike doing the fucking.

Riding the subways of New York City is both new and familiar for Spike. Looks like the city blew serious cash on some new trains. Spike, trying to breathe as little as possible with that skanky guy’s armpit in his face, is not terribly impressed.

He feels rather conspicuous in Xander’s loaner gear, the jeans practically hanging off his ass, the hideously patterned sweater bagging on him like the world’s ugliest, hairiest parachute. But after the dream, he also feels a perverse need to be close to Xander, who’d disappeared without leaving a note or calling. If that means wearing these - hideous, yet serviceable clothes, so be it.

Xander’ll pay him back later. In liquor. Right now, it’s more important that Spike take care of something he’d let slip for over a year.

At Union Square, Spike transfers from the subway gratefully, catches the M14 bus, gets off at 3rd St, and cuts into Alphabet City. His feet take him where he’s going, stepping over random piles or children, moving too fast to get talked into buying crappy silver jewelry from the myriad street vendors.

Spike doesn’t really notice his surroundings at all till he’s ringing the buzzer that used to have his name on it, looking expectantly at the small two-way mounted to the wall.

“Who’s there.” Tinny, but familiar voice coming out of the speaker. It tugs on his heartstrings, but only a little.

“‘S me, poofter. Can I come up?” Deja vu, all over again.

The speaker shuts off. A minute later, the door buzzes and Spike goes inside.

Angel’s waiting for him at the landing of the three-storey walk-up, shirtless and rumpled looking. Spike wonders if he’s interrupted something. Feels a bit pleased that he might have.

“You’re back,” Angel says without welcome or anything else in his voice that Spike can interpret. That handsome, cro-magnon face is totally expressionless.

“Like a bad rash, luv. But enough of the pleasantries. Asked you to look after the boy, didn’t I? Come to find he’s living in a roach motel in the Bronx while you’re still living here? Care to explain how the fuck that happened?” Spike can do the unreadable voice, too.

“He’s a big boy, Spike. He doesn’t need me to look after him. Doesn’t want me to look after him. When he turned eighteen, he moved out.”

Spike shakes his head, confused. Realizes he’s still standing in the stairwell, barely halfway up the stairs.

“Know you two weren’t the best of mates, but Xan wouldn’t just leave this place to go live in that ninth-circle-of-hell apartment he’s in now. What did you do?”

Angel merely looks at him, still the playing the expressionless man.

“Are you gonna fucking answer me or stare holes into me?”

“When did you get back?”

“God, you haven’t changed! Just after midnight, not that it’s any of yours, mate. Answer the question. Did you kick my brother out, or do anything to make him uncomfortable enough to leave?”

Angel finally sighs, running a hand through his gelled - When did he start doing that? Spike wonders - hair, leaving it in cowlicks and clumps. “Maybe you should ask your brother why he left.”

“Did, mate. He’s not the type to rat anyone out. Hoped I’d get a more forthright answer from you.” Spike climbs the remaining steps until one more would place him in Angel’s arms. “Never known you to lie to me, luv.”

Angel’s eyes close for a moment. This close, Spike can smell it. Angel had been having sex, hadn’t even showered whoever it was off him. There was a time when that would have made Spike hard. . . and obviously that time hasn’t passed because he’s swaying forward, wanting to smell that intoxicating scent, touch whoever it is smells so fucking good. Maybe a threesome with the ex and his next would be enough to burn the Xander-lust out of his brain and heart.

“Angel.” Spike has no idea what he’s going to say. Is thankful when Angel backs away, hand held up as if to ward Spike off.

“You need to talk about that with Xander.” Spike can’t be totally sure he sees it but a disturbed expression momentarily crosses Angel’s face. “I mean - talk with him about his living situation. Whatever he wants you to know, he’ll tell you. Look, I’m gonna - go. I have company.”

“So I smelled.” Spike’s leering good-naturedly, whatever lust spell he’d been under is broken, now that he can’t smell the scent of whoever Angel had been fucking lingering in the air around him. “Does company have a name I’d recognize?”

But Angel’s already closing the door to his apartment. Spike lingers a moment, waits to hear voices or fucking or something. But there’s nothing. At least nothing loud enough for Spike to hear.

“Well, that went better than I expected,” Spike sighs, as he shuffles down the stairs. By the time he reaches the first floor landing, he’s taking them two at a time.

Angel stands in the doorway of his bedroom, watching Xander, whose shaggy, dark head is still propped up on his arms, sleeping the deep sleep of the thoroughly fucked.

No matter how long he watches, Angel can’t make himself get into bed with him.

After a few minutes, he goes to the kitchen to start dinner.

Part Three

“And where’ve you been, young man? I’ve been worried sick!”

Xander nearly jumps out of his skin. Then steps into the doorway of his bedroom, turning on the lights -

There’s Spike, stretching sleepily on the bed, all wide, blinky-blue eyes and disturbingly sexy bed-head. Wearing Xander's ratty, old bathrobe and apparently nothing else.

“I, uh, was - uh - helping someone. A friend. I was helping a friend move. Upstate. To Schenectady.” Yeah, Xander’s had an hour of travel time to think up decent lies about his seven-hour absence. Perhaps he should have actually spent the hour doing just that instead of meditating on all the places Angel had made him ache.

Spike’s smiling at him fondly, one sandy-colored eyebrow quirked up. “You have got to be the world’s worst liar, Xan. Anyway, are we gonna do something tonight or stay here and veg? M’self? I could go for some fun. After the week I’ve had I feel the need to shake what the good Lord gave me.” Spike wriggles around on the bed in a way that gives Xander an excellent view of the underwear Spike’s not wearing.

Or would give an excellent view if Xander weren’t staring determinedly at Spike’s feet and not one inch higher.

“Uh - going out is good. I h-haven’t been out on a Saturday in awhile. Where, uh, do you wanna go?”

“Where else? The Cock.” Spike is sitting up, looking rumpled and too fuckable. Xander swallows, tries to focus on his current aches and how they’re the result of naughty thoughts.

Naughty thoughts only cause pain in naughty places naughty thoughts only cause pain in naughty places naughty thoughts only cause pain in naughty places -

Okay. Xander’s officially turned on by pain in naughty places caused by naughty!Spike.

“Uh, Spike -”

“Come on, pet, don’t gimme any bollocks about oh, no, not The Cock, Spike, it’s a gay club.” Spike’s American accent is dreadful and he looks suspiciously close to scoffing.

“But Spike, it is a gay club,” Xander says innocently, trying not to grin and failing. He ducks the pillow thrown at his head with a chuckle. “Okay, calm down. I’ve actually been to The Cock before and I wouldn’t mind going again.”

The look on that perfect face is priceless. Couldn’t buy it with ten Mastercards. And the leer it slowly melts into? More than enough to liquefy Xander’s bones into twin puddles of goo.

“Well, well, little brother cruising for cock at The Cock? What alternate universe have I returned home to? Come sit and tell Spikey everything!” Spike pats the bed expectantly.

“I wasn’t - ‘cruising for cock’, Spike.” Xander rolls his eyes but goes to sit on the bed. “I was - I dunno. Curious, I guess. You and Angel used to fight so much about that place -”

“You heard that?” Spike is blushing. Only a little, but it’s the first time Xander has managed to color those pale cheeks.

“Uh, yeah. Boston heard that. All those super-loud fights about your skinny, drunk ass getting into trouble that he had to bail you out of - I just had to see what all the fuss was about.” Xander grins, remembers the apoplectic red Angel would turn after he’d finally managed to drag Spike home from one of those halcyon nights of mayhem. Remembers peeking out at the two of them, hoping he hadn’t cracked his door open so wide he’d be seen. Spike was usually fall-down drunk and singing “Anarchy in the UK” or “EMI” at that point. And climbing Angel like a tree - or trying to - while Angel ranted and half-heartedly pushed him away. By the time things got X-rated, Xander had usually shut his door.

Usually.

“Curious, eh?” Spike’s voice has a laugh in it and Xander wonders how much Spike’s guessed about what he’d just been remembering.

“A little, yeah,” Xander admits, blushing much deeper than Spike had moments ago.

“I'll bet you were.” Spike is moving behind Xander, putting strong hands on his shoulders. “That’s a lot of tension you’ve got stored up, luv,” Spike notes disapprovingly as Xander groans, his muscles loosening so quickly it’s almost painful.

“What’s got you so worked up, Xan? Schenectady?” Spike's voice sounds like a warm, wry smile.

“Whuh?” Thinking bad. Massage good.

“Never mind, pet. Just sit back and enjoy. Regale me with tales of your adventures at The Cock.”

“Uhhhh. . . no adventures, just - me, unsuccessfully mackin’ on cute guys, buckets of flop-sweat and hoping my fake i.d. held out long enough for me to buy some liquid courage.”

“Sounds interesting.” Spike’s voice is right next to Xander’s ear, a soothing purr that curls around Xander’s spine.

“Totally not. Interesting, I mean. The only time I didn’t make a complete idiot of myself was this one night when they held the Bar-Top-Strip-Tease contest and I - nuh-uh, wild horses couldn’t drag the rest of that story out of me. Even if I live to be a million.”

“You did a strip-tease on the bar-top of The Cock?” Those strong hands slow, become almost sensual. Xander shivers, leaning back and oh, wow, Spike’s chest against his back. Sending naughty-signals to Xander’s stupidly amoral naughty-zone.

“Uh - wild horses, Spike. Wild horses.”

“I don’t believe this - my little brother, following in my footsteps - God, I’m so fucking proud of you - hey, what was your song? Mine was ‘Big Balls’.”

“You did a strip-tease at The Cock, too?" Despite the surprise that is not, Xander bursts out laughing. "Wait - to AC/DC? That’s so fucking lame! Ouch!” Xander glares back at Spike, rubbing his head. Spike looks as stern as Xander’s ever seen him.

“Is not! Stupid teeny-bopper - don’t know good music, do ya? You probably listen to that blonde girl - you know, the one with the shit voice and the big fake tits. And that Timberwolf ponce, as well. What do you know about good music?”

“Plenty! The Cars, Culture Club, Rick Astley - but that’s just strippin’ music! For listening, I prefer the vocal stylings of the first lady of country and western, Patsy Cline,” Xander says. Spike makes a rude noise, turns his brother’s head forward again and starts kneading his shoulder muscles.

“There’s no excuse for your musical taste, boy. I raised you better than that. Or thought I did. I blame Angel and his unholy love of the Rat Pack and that Perry Como git. Corrupted you, he has. Barmy poofter.”

Xander can’t even reply to that. Feels it’s safer to let that comment slide on by.

“Alright, out with it, poofter-junior. What did you shake your moneymaker to?”

Xander turns red and mumbles something; he hopes Spike will be content not to push. But he knows better, knows Spike.

“Didn’t quite catch that, luv. Would you mind repeating it in English?”

“I stripped to The Divinyls’ ‘I Touch Myself’.” Xander sighs

“You really are the gayest bloke I’ve ever met,” Spike says thoughtfully. Xander elbows him in the side, earning another slap on the head.

“Stop slapping me!”

“I will, as soon as you stop acting like a git!”

“Don’t hold your breath!” Xander retorts, then frowns. “I mean -”

“I can’t believe you’d dance to that - no, I can. I can see you in my head, gettin’ all jiggy with it. It’s cute, really.”

“Okay, who even says jiggy with it anymore, Captain Behind-the-Times?”

“Maybe more than cute. Maybe hot. You probably are the only one who could make that song sexy. Of course. You are my brother.” Spike actually sounds proud.

“Coming from the guy who stripped to ‘Big Balls’ - I dunno if that’s a compliment. . . but thanks.”

“I’m telling you, that song is a classic! And it’s astonishingly apropos, in my case. . . .”

“Sure it is, Big Willy - ow! Quit slapping me, already!”

“Bet you looked gorgeous up there. Probably not a dry crotch in the house.” Spike’s hands have slowed and gentled so much that they’re more caressing than massaging.

“Me? Nah, I’m not ‘gorgeous’ material. That’s more your forte, Spike.”

“Have you looked in a mirror, lately, pet?” Spike’s voice is in his ear again, curling around his spine, his cock, his anything-hard-enough-to-sit-up-and-take-notice. “Bet you won the contest, didn’t you?”

At Xander’s nod, Spike chuckles. “I swear, if you weren’t m’ brother, I’d -”

Xander snaps out of his pleasant reverie when Spike falls silent and begins massaging Xander’s shoulders so briskly, the muscles tense back up again.

“If I weren’t your brother you’d -?” Xander has a desperate need to hear the end of this sentence. Spike almost certainly wasn’t going to say what Xander wishes he’d say, but Xander can’t help wanting to know what he would’ve said, anyway.

“Well, if you weren’t my brother I’d be trying to set you up with my friends, yeah? Alright, Mr. Stripper, lemme get showered up and you go do some laundry, then we’ll see if we can’t find something salvageable in that disaster of a wardrobe of yours.” Spike is letting go of Xander’s shoulders and sliding past him off the bed. He snatches his loaner duds from Xander’s chair and pads into the bathroom, shutting the door.

Yes, the absence of Spike will make the hard-on-that-won’t-die - well, die. Right?

Xander flops back on the bed with a gusty sigh.

. . . if you weren’t m’ brother, I’d -

“Believe me, Spike, there are times I wish I wasn’t.”

“Bugger, bugger, fuck!”

Spike lays his head against the wet tile of Xander’s shower, letting cold water rain down on him. Not that there’s water cold enough to wash the perv off him, but Spike’s always been an optimist.

Though the icy water feels like penance, after five minutes, it's done nothing to diminish the erection Spike’s had - in one form or another - since the plane landed at LaGuardia.

Looks like the only way out is through. As always.

Spike closes one cold, shaking hand around his cock and starts stroking slowly, pretending it’s not his own hand doing the stroking. Which is fairly easy since Spike’s hand has gone so numb he barely has any feeling in it at all. He closes his eyes and imagines Xander’s in the cramped, tiny shower with him, smiling that mischievous smile, wet, dark hair in eyes that are dark, darker, darkest with want. Of Spike.

It’s Xan’s hand stroking up and down, driving Spike insane with need. Xan’s calloused thumb brushing the head of Spike’s cock every so often, dragging slowly across the hyper-sensitive tip and slit -

“Oh, fuck, Xan.” Spike’s about to come and it’s wrong. The only way to get past these desires is to not indulge himself. To just - focus on someone - anyone else.

But Xan had been so close, leaning back into Spike like he’d never belong anywhere else, smelling of soap and sweetness and Xander -

- something about that scent tugs at Spike’s memory, but he dismisses it in favor of remembering the warm, solid feel of Xander’s lean muscles under his hands and picking up the pace of his stroking under cold water he no longer notices. . . .

It’d been all Spike could do not to scooch forward till his legs bracketed Xander’s and his cock was nestled against that amazing arse. He would have been happy just to rock against Xander’s arse and bring himself off that way, if nothing else. And it’d feel bloody heavenly because it was Xander in Spike’s arms, Xander saying ’Spike’ like a prayer.

Xander fucking Spike’s hand just like in the dreams, all lovely and wanton and -

- and all Spike’s.

On that thought, Spike’s gasping, shooting into his hand. He collapses to the shower floor with a jarring thud when his knees buckle. Lays there, helplessly coming all over himself.

By the time the last load is shot and the last post-O aftershock has gone the way of the dodo, Spike is curled up, shivering on the floor of the shower under the still-freezing spray, but feeling utterly undeserving of any kind of warmth.

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