Gloryhole

by

Wit Ling

Part Two

The money stayed with Forsythe, and in a few weeks’ time there were a couple of new establishments on the West Side, neither one quite as upscale as the original Forsythe’s, but appropriate to the locale. Spike walked past one on a semi-regular basis, en route to one of the rocker bars where he drank his whiskey and blood. Looked like a popular place. Looked to be making money. Good. The deal was seven and a half percent, back in his pocket in six months. He was toying with the idea of a move. Maybe London, maybe somewhere on the continent. He hadn’t been to Europe since before the world ended.

He was toying with the idea, but he wasn’t making any definite plans, and part of him knew he wouldn’t, because there was something keeping him in the city now. Something with brown hair and brown eyes and a familiar profile. A puzzle, a bauble, a pain in the neck. Well, actually, Troy was a pretty agreeable guy. Unlike Xander Harris, who hadn’t made any definite appearances since that first visit, that glimpse of numb, fractured memory. A friend of mine cast a spell…

Spike thought about that from time to time—Red’s spell. Wondered how long it was supposed to protect Harris, and from what, exactly. Speaking strictly as a bystander, he thought it could have included a few more pre-emptive clauses.

He’d been back to Forsythe’s since that first visit, of course. After working out the financial details, after Forsythe had been magnanimous and understanding about the marks he’d left on Troy (“No problem, no problem at all. It’s more common than you think, especially if you haven’t had a human in a while…”), after they’d drunk another round of whiskey and blood to the future of the venture, and after Spike had arranged himself into a series of provocative-but-casual positions that made Forsythe stroke his tie with trembling fingers—Spike had let slip that he wouldn’t mind seeing Troy again sometime. Forsythe lit up like a martyr afire.

“Absolutely, love to see you back again, maybe we can interest you in a couple of the others as well, or at the same time, no problem at all, we’ll set you up an account, get you all squared away, told you, it’s a growth industry and we’re on the bleeding edge—“

And so on. When was convenient for Spike to visit again? Spike reflected on the wasteland of his social calendar—cat, VCR, Passions--and allowed that he might make it by on Thursday. Maybe. Forsythe looked regretful.

“Sorry, that’s just two days away, he won’t be healed up by then, and we don’t let them work if they’re not in top condition. It’s a policy, you know how it is, everyone who visits has to be able to believe that they’re the only one who visits.”

“They’re whores,” Spike said. “You think people don’t know what they’re doing here?”

“Of course, but you understand, if you came here and saw Troy with someone else’s fingerprints all over him, it would ruin the illusion, and it’s the illusion that we’re selling. The illusion that the time you spend with Troy is unique and special. That nobody else is with him the way you are.”

Spike leaned forward, palms together between his knees. “I put those marks on him.”

“So you did.” Forsythe was nodding, looking sage. “Don’t worry, no need to apologize again, it’s all taken care of—“

“I didn’t apologize,” Spike said. “And if I put the marks on him, and I remember doing it, how does that ruin the bloody illusion?”

“I see your point,” Forsythe said, still nodding. “I see your point, Spike. But it’s a very strict policy we have, if we change the rules for you we’d have to change them for everyone, and it’s the rules that set us apart from Hooters, isn’t it? It’s the rules that let us charge the rates we do, and that make us the money we make, and that keep our visitors happy.”

Stuff the rules, Spike thought, but he smiled and tapped his fingertips together. No point looking too eager. “Right, well. Next week sometime, then.”

“That should be fine. Just call the office for an appointment, don’t worry about the deposit, that’ll be all taken care of, you’re a shareholder after all—“ Forsythe chuckled, fiddling with his little letter opener. “How was he, by the way? And don’t feel compelled to answer that, I’m only curious, think of it as consumer feedback, we’re always trying to improve our services—“

“I’ll call the office,” Spike said, and walked out.

He’d made an appointment for the following week, the Wednesday. This time he went in through the side door, a little canopied entrance he’d never used before, with a hall that led past a security desk and straight down into the salon. The fire was lit, there was a whiskey and blood chaser waiting on the coffee table. Eerie. He picked the whiskey up and walked over to the shelf where they stashed the menu. Flipped to the Troy page and studied it. Apparently Troy did men and women both, gave good conversation, was sturdy enough for threesomes, and loved sucking dick.

“Long walks on the beach, starlight picnics, and trips abroad,” Spike murmured, studying the photograph.

The door opened behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder to see Lou walking in. “Oh look, you’re still here.”

“Good evening.” That must be the script, then. Lou went over to the far wall and stood against it, expressionless and bulky.

“We got off on the wrong footing last time.” Spike flipped the book closed and reshelved it. “Let’s try this again: you’re a complete fucking wanker, and if you touch me again I’ll break both your arms off and feed them to you.”

“Hey, hey.” Xander was walking in, smiling a little nervously. “Watch out, the last person who got on Lou’s bad side ended up as a fine layer on the television screen.”

Spike, seized with a sudden strange nervousness, swigged his whiskey. Xander was in a dark red shirt this time, and black trousers. A little cliché for a vamp establishment, but it looked good on him, you had to admit. How the hell did they get him so dark? UV bed, must be. Or maybe there was some kind of pen on the roof, for sunning?

“Nice to see you again,” Xander was saying, walking toward him with that same fascinating, easy smile. “Thanks for coming back.”

“Not a problem,” Spike muttered, trapped with his back to the shelf. There was nowhere for him to go when Xander walked right up to him, leaned in, and gently kissed his cheek. It wasn’t what he’d expected. It was too bold, too intimate, a gesture calculated to welcome him, arouse him, and put him off his balance, all at the same time. When the hell had Xander Harris got so good at playing this kind of game? Well. That was probably a longer story than he wanted to hear.

“I had a good time before,” Xander said softly, his mouth still close to Spike’s ear. His smell—skin, soap, hair, blood, the faintest trace of sex—filled Spike’s head. It was hard to think with that in the air, especially so close. Especially so warm. “It’s really good to see you again.”

Easy to believe he meant what he said, no matter what he said, as long as he used that sincere tone. Easy until you remembered that last time he’d landed up gagging on the carpet, and it’d taken him a week to heal the bruises.

“Listen,” Spike said, feeling a misplaced twinge of guilt. “About last time—“

“I liked it,” Xander said. “Didn’t you?”

Spike studied his drink, formulating an answer.

“If there’s something I can do differently,” Xander said, “I hope you’ll tell me. Or show me. I like a lot of things, Spike.”

“Says so, yeah.” Spike nodded over his shoulder at the menu. “You do a lot of stuff, at least. Looks like.”

“That thing…that’s just business.” Xander gave the album a glance and a shrug. His fingers were on Spike’s elbow, somehow. Light, firm touch. “It’s kind of embarrassing, really.”

“Uh huh.” More embarrassing than taking it from rich punters and their wives? Spike wondered. Maybe, yeah. Anyway, it wasn’t his right to decide what Xander should feel about anything he did these days. He made a living, or at least he stayed alive. Amounted to the same thing.

“So, can I get you anything?” Xander looked at the coffee table, the shot glass still full and waiting. “They’re full-service here, if you want a joint or some E or something…”

“And it goes on the account, I guess.” Xander shrugged and smiled. “You get a percentage of everything you sell?”

“Hey, I’m not in it for the percentage. I like what I do.” Xander lifted his hand and brushed something, probably imaginary, from Spike’s temple. Light, gentle touch. Totally fucking shameless. “Your hair is great, by the way.”

“You said that last time.” There was nowhere for Spike to step to; he was boxed in against the shelves, so he drained his glass and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Pass me that shot, will you?”

That got Xander away for a minute, picking up the glass, and gave Spike a chance to clear his head. He was here to talk, mostly. He was curious, he couldn’t stop thinking about the Littlest Slayerette, all alone in the world and selling tail to get by—and the only way to satisfy that curiosity was to get Xander alone again. Talk to him. Try to pry under the surface a little more. And maybe, sure, there was the fact of Harris’s warmth, his living breathing humanity, and the fact that he gave a hell of a blowjob. All contributing factors. Nothing worthwhile was ever straightforward.

“Here you go.” Xander was back with the shot, and Spike reached for it, but Xander held it away. “Let me.” He held the glass to Spike’s bottom lip, and smiled. “Yeah?”

What the fuck, Spike thought, and opened his mouth. Xander tipped the shot in, and there was blood rich on his tongue, salty-sweet and velvety, the best money could buy. He closed his mouth and let it trickle down his throat, wanting the taste to last. And then Xander leaned in and kissed him, pressing his tongue through Spike’s lips, adding his heartbeat to the taste. Spike didn’t think, just grabbed Xander’s shoulder and ass and ground hard into him. Biting at his mouth, lost in the baffling, incredible hotness of kissing blood with a pulse.

“Jesus—“ That was Xander, groaning as soon as Spike came back to earth and let him go. “Jesus, Spike, you’ll fuck me this time, right?”

Breathy, begging whisper, and Spike’s cock was suddenly iron, even while his brain sang a little song: It all goes on the account, it all goes on the account… Xander begged to be fucked because it was the most expensive thing on the menu, that was all. But at the same time his heart was racing, his color was up, his fingers were warm and damp, clutching Spike’s wrist. He might be selling it, but he wanted it too. Or else he was a very good actor. Well, he was definitely that. It was all a sham, really, and Spike was the king of shams, he knew fakery when he saw it.

“Come on,” he said roughly, yanking Xander around toward the far door, the one that led to the back rooms. Sham, fake, who cared? “Which way’s your room?”

“Fuck, yes.” Xander was stumbling ahead of him, his wrist still awkwardly clamped in Spike’s hand, reaching with his free hand to open the door. “God, yeah, okay—“

They made it a few steps down the hall before Lou caught up and restored order by removing Spike’s hand from Xander’s wrist, then blocking Spike’s path while Xander kept going down the hall.

“I’m really starting to not like you very much,” Spike said, watching Xander let himself into the same room as last time.

“The feeling is mutual,” Lou said. “You remember the rates, right?”

“Even got an account now. Bet that makes you all happy inside.”

“Two rules.” Lou held up two meaty fingers in a peace sign. “No marks. That means no biting. Also means no strangleholds, no friction burns, no bruises. Anywhere.”

Spike chose a stony silence for his reply.

“Second rule,” Lou said, producing a little white tube, just like the last time. “Use lube.”

“A gentleman always does,” Spike said, taking the tube from Lou’s hand, and sidestepping him. “Too bad your girlfriend doesn’t, when she fucks you with that bottlebrush.”

Silence behind him, and he closed the door on Lou’s professional disdain.

“Where were we?” he asked rhetorically, shrugging his coat off into a lump by the door. “Oh, right. I was going to fuck you into the mattress.”

Xander, splay-limbed on the bed, fumbling to unbutton his nice red shirt, gave a low groan. “Jesus Christ—“

“No,” Spike said, yanking his boots off. “Just look like him a little. Mostly around the eyes.” His shirt came off in one yank, and he started for the bed, already unbuckling his belt. “On your belly, then.”

Xander flipped over, still struggling with the button of his trousers, his shirt an expensive red puddle on the carpet. His back was smooth and brown, nicely defined. As Spike watched, he got the button open and shoved his trousers down roughly, as if he couldn’t wait another second. No underwear. Xander Harris, scrambling to kick his feet free of his trouser legs so that another man could fuck him. Xander Harris, possessor of a startlingly nice ass. Xander Harris, whimpering and whispering little bits of things that sounded almost like, “Please.”

His own jeans partway down, his cock pressing up into his belly, Spike paused. It couldn’t actually be this simple, could it? Not with Xander. There had to be a catch, it had to be all a big bait-and-switch, if he got onto that bed a net would drop and he’d be the loser again. Probably a clause in Red’s spell that would make his dick fall off. But a lot of other people had been there already, probably some of them repeat customers, and no harm done. And yet… And yet.

Spike stepped out of his jeans, walked to the side of the bed, and stood looking down at Xander’s back. His hair was glossy, looked thick and smooth, probably a pleasure to put your hands through. The heat coming off him was intense. He had his forearms crossed under his head, which made his shoulders beautiful and hid his face. His breath was fast and a little unsteady.

“Hey.” Xander jumped slightly, then turned his head. His face was flushed, his pupils were black holes. He looked Spike right in the eyes, and smiled.

“Hey.” A pause. Concern flickered through Xander’s smile. “Um, do you want me to… Do you want something different?”

Without answering, Spike slid a hand along Xander’s ribs, down his side, and under his belly. Xander’s eyelids fluttered, and he let out a soft groan. He was hard. Hard as a hard thing, hard as a rock, his dick jutting into the sheets like it wanted to fuck the bedsprings. It quivered in Spike’s fingers. Damp at the tip.

Still watching Xander’s face, Spike slid his hand out. Xander blinked, ran his tongue over his lips, and tried to catch his breath. Between them, Spike rubbed his forefinger and thumb together significantly. They both looked at the moisture there.

“You want this,” Spike said, taking a moment to gloat.

“Yeah,” Xander said, unceremoniously stealing thunder. “Yeah, I do. A lot. Very much a lot, please.”

“Oh shut up,” Spike said testily, getting onto the bed behind him. “Where did I put the fucking lube?”

Xander scrabbled in the bedclothes and handed it back. Spike bit the cap off, spat it aside, and ran a lube-slick hand over his own dick, part of his brain still ruminating the strangeness, a little pissed that Xander wasn’t putting up any resistance. When he slid a lubed finger between Xander’s legs, he got a satisfying, if minor, flinch. Probably just the cold.

His pissiness faded fast once he remembered what he was doing. Once Xander’s body heat took over and the lube warmed up, once he had a finger inside Xander’s body and a firm grip on his own cock. Xander was making those begging sounds, those please fuck me please now please God yeah sounds, and sinking back onto Spike’s hand, the muscles in his back stretching and rolling. Spike had a brief flash of himself in the salon, using the not my style line, and wanted to laugh. Screwing hot, willing humans was everyone’s style. When you got the demon, you didn’t lose anything of the animal.

He slipped his finger out and got hold of Xander’s shoulder, lined his dick up, and there was a moment of unspoken co-operation, of body physics, that got him fully sheathed on the first thrust. Maybe just a little sharp, that first shove, since Xander gave a gasping cry and clawed at the pillow. Spike paid no attention. He knelt where he was, drunk and swaying. So fucking hot, so fucking wet. So much blood, right there in that frail little packet. He could lean over and just nick a vein, just take a little taste…

The thought of Lou, right outside the door, was enough of a damper to bring him in off that particular ledge. He was still buried to the navel in human flesh, though, and that wasn’t half bad. Holding Xander’s shoulder in one hand and his hip in the other, steadying and balancing him for maximum pleasure, Spike started to thrust.

Sex was good. In the last few seconds his brain had shut down pretty much all activities except for thermal core maintenance, and the only message getting out was monosyllabic: sex good. Great. No reason to do anything else, really. Fucking was pretty much where it was at. He shoved in, Xander writhed and took it, and it was good. He pulled out, and Xander opened up, followed along, panted God please fuck yes into the sheets. Sex was good, it was great, it was a mainline of pleasure right up his spine, naked jags of energy yanking his hips in and out, and he wanted to bite, he wanted to bite, he dropped his head into the sweaty space between Xander’s head and shoulder and his hips snapped, Xander cried out, then chewed his lip and started up again fuck me God yeah please Spike please so good--


Spike came with a growl that sounded like cloth tearing, his hands digging into the mattress, his face ridged and hard against Xander’s neck. His chest and belly pressed to Xander’s hot back. His teeth not in Xander’s throat. He only realized that after a minute or two had passed, after he’d rolled off to the side and fallen instantly half-asleep, then jerked back up to wakefulness.

Xander was rubbing his face on his own shoulder, as if the sweat had made him itchy. He noticed Spike’s look, and blinked.

“Everything okay?”

His tongue swollen and unwieldy, Spike waved a hand. “Thought…thought I bit you.”

Xander shook his head. Then, as if that weren’t clear enough, he said, “No.”

Spike closed his eyes and floated. His body hummed a little tune to itself. Sex is good, sex is good, sex is great, let’s do that again, but it all goes on the account, it all goes on the account… He opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling for a minute, then looked back at Xander. “You okay?”

Xander had been drifting, but he opened his eyes at that, with an expression of slight surprise. “I’m great. How are you?”

Spike looked him over. Still face-down, damp with sweat, his legs parted under the sheet he’d pulled up to his waist. No marks. Spike had a moment of incredulity over that, then one of relief. Then he reached over and slid a hand under Xander’s belly. Xander didn’t look surprised; he rolled slightly to the side to accommodate.

He was hot and sticky, melting down. Spike took his hand back, considered it, then wiped it on the sheet.

“You like this,” he said, in a slightly wondering tone.

“I like a lot of things,” Xander said, and gave him a strange, unreadable look before turning his head away and scratching his nose against the sheets again.

Part Three

So now he’d fucked Xander Harris in the ass. Spike gave a lot of thought to that fact over the next week or so, waiting for his next appointment to roll around. He sat in a lot of bars with a whiskey and blood in front of him, zoning out on that fact. He’d fucked Xander. Before the world came to an end—and hell, even after—he wouldn’t have laid money on those odds. Xander Harris, of all people. It verged on unbelievable.

Spike did most of his more thoughtful thinking on the subject in bars—the less thoughtful thinking took place in bed or in the shower, his own hand working his cock, the backs of his eyelids painted with vivid images of that brown back twisting beneath him. The feel of his dick meeting resistance, then shoving into tight, human heat. The sound Xander made when Spike thrust too hard, or at the wrong angle—half pain, half pleasure, mostly buried in the pillow. The wetness on Spike’s fingers when he touched Xander’s dick afterwards.

During those times, the ones that made his brain flatline and his heart struggle to beat, Xander didn’t seem like a strange phenomenon at all. His body was familiar. Those hands, knotted in the sheets—Spike had seen them lots of times, shelving books and hammering nails. The back of Xander’s neck—he’d seen that, walking behind him on some forced Scooby errand, wanting to plant a stake in it. There was a particular curl, right at the base of his neck… A little different now, because his hair was longer, but still recognizable. It made sense, it made perfect sense, and when Spike was done, his fingers running in the last languid pattern through the wetness on his belly, it felt…comfortable. Right. Gradually, it started to feel wrong that Xander wasn’t there with him all the time, in his own bed at home. Waiting for instructions, ready and willing. Spike started to feel, faintly, that Forsythe had stolen his Scooby.

That was insane. He reminded himself of that fact while on his way back to Forsythe’s for the third time, on foot this time through a driving rain. He’d crashed two bikes since the end of the world, and got tired of healing up afterward. The DeSoto was in the basement of his apartment building, functional but dusty. He’d stopped thinking of it as transportation and started to think of it as a trophy, or a time capsule. A leftover from a prior age, when humans walked the earth.

“Lovely to see you, Spike. Come in, it’s fucking pouring isn’t it, the usual to drink? Get him the usual.” Forsythe was glowing ,expansive, overseeing operations at the desk. The new locations were doing well. Making money. “I’m going on Thursday to look over a new shipment of prospects, supposed to be some real beauties, one of them’s a former insurgent, I’m thinking of doing a sideline in resistance appeal, any chance you’d care to come along--?”

There was no chance at all that Spike would care to come along. He shook water out of his collar and gave Forsythe a stony stare. Forsythe’s smile faltered.

“No, of course not, you’re a busy man, let’s get you dried off—“

“It’s not that I’m busy,” Spike said, wiping water off his forehead. “It’s that I’m not dating you.”

There was a moment’s pause, while Forsythe stood frozen and the receptionist’s hand hung in midair over her phone. Then Forsythe gave a crackling, painful laugh.

“No, of course not, that’s not why you’re here, wasn’t asking you on a date anyway, we’re business partners though, aren’t we? Just thought you’d like to see the prospects you’re investing in—“

“You’re the pimp,” Spike said flatly. “I’m just the punter.” Then he smiled to take the edge off.

Again, Forsythe took a moment to process that.

“He ready?” Spike said to the receptionist. She nodded without glancing at her book or asking who he meant; she was good. “Ta.” He started down the corridor without looking back. Squelching only slightly.

“Okay then, Spike!” Forsythe called after him. “Good talk!”

“Good evening,” Lou said, in a tone that was more, What is this crap I’ve discovered on the sole of my shoe?

Spike slumped deeper into the couch, legs spread and glass of whiskey on his knee. Only a tiny fraction of his brain registered the fact that Lou went and stood in the usual place by the wall; most of his attention was on the door, which was still standing open. It was the strangest thing—hearing Xander come down the hall was exciting. He looked forward to seeing Xander. Well, his dick looked forward to seeing Xander, which was understandable, but now that he thought about it, so did the rest of him. Which was less understandable, but which he didn’t have time to contemplate, because Xander was walking through the door in front of him.

Dark trousers again, lighter shirt. This one was a little too yellow, compared to the first one. That was sort of a relief—even after the apocalypse, Xander Harris still wore crap shirts—and sort of distressing—why the hell was Spike noticing anything at all about what Xander Harris wore? Or about his hair, which was dark and soft-looking, well-cut and clean. Or about his face, which was smiling. Spike tried, on the spur of the moment, to think of all the times that Xander Harris had smiled at him before the world ended. He couldn’t think of any. But apparently now they were best friends.

“Hi,” Xander said, and there was that tone, just in one word, that tone of warmth and sincerity and happy surprise. “Spike. Great to see you back again.”

Spike couldn’t slump any deeper, so he frowned instead. Xander’s smile didn’t falter. He started for the couch, bringing his warm brown skin and his white teeth with him.

“Get yourself a drink,” Spike said sharply, cutting off Xander’s approach. For a second Xander hesitated, and Spike expected him to make an excuse, say that he wasn’t allowed to drink while working—but he didn’t. He turned and went to the bar.

“Anything in particular?” He’d picked up a tumbler and was cupping it absently in one hand while he eyed the bottles.

“No rum,” Spike said. Partly because he didn’t like the smell of rum, and partly because he was off balance. I’m the punter here, he reminded himself firmly. That meant he was the one in control. Right? “Whiskey. Take the good stuff.”

“It’s all good stuff,” Xander said, laughing quietly. He poured himself a healthy couple of fingers, then put the bottle back. “Can I get you anything else?”

Spike shook his head. That was something he was still getting used to—Xander Harris sounding like a flight attendant. Can I get you anything? Would you like some of this? Or that? I’m sorry, that was my fault. It’s great to see you again. Thanks for flying the friendly Harris skies. That, and the fact that when he wasn’t running that routine, he was the same smart-mouthed prick he’d always been. It was hard to get used to.

Xander came back, rolling the whiskey in his glass, but not taking more than a ceremonial sip. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Your owner’s a moron,” Spike said flatly. Xander’s eyebrows rose a millimeter, and he nodded. “Total fucking prick, you know that?”

“He does okay by me.” Xander settled onto the couch beside Spike, near enough to share body heat. “Looks like it’s raining out there.”

“Pissing.” Spike studied his drink, and wasn’t surprised to feel a warm hand brush the side of his face, his ear. When he didn’t shake it off, it moved to his neck and pressed gently. “You charge for the back rubs, too?”

“I don’t charge for anything,” Xander said with a smile. “All the business stuff gets handled at the front desk.”

“Your friend Lou keeps track, though.”

“Lou’s got a job to do, just like everybody else.”

“Just like you, you mean.”

“I like what I do.” Xander slid an inch closer along the couch. “I like you, Spike. I like what you—“

“You don’t like me,” Spike said, moving away from Xander’s hand. There was a moment of silence. The fire popped, and he turned to look at Xander straight on. “You never have liked me.”

Xander’s face was still. His eyes were dark and watchful, even while he forced a smile. “Actually, I do, Spike. You made me come so hard I thought my spine was—“

“You. Have never. Liked. Me.” Spike nailed each word home, his eyes fixed to Xander’s. Making the point. Which was: I can see you. I know who you are. And Xander wasn’t stupid, Xander got it. There was something familiar in his eyes now, a familiar response. Fear.

On the other side of the room, Lou shifted a fraction of an inch. Just easing his legs, maybe.

Xander dropped his gaze. “I’m sorry,” he said, soft and fast, “if I’ve done anything to make you think that, Spike. I’d like to make it up to you. If you’ll let me.”

Spike let the silence spin out half a minute, then longer. He could hear Xander’s heart beating faster now. He was used to hearing it like that—frightened, in flight, looking for a way out. Lou could hear it too. That was both satisfying and irritating, for all kinds of reasons.

Finally Spike drained his glass and set it on the table with a quiet click.

“Yeah, all right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

There was no lecture about the rules this time; Lou just held up the tube and then, when Spike reached for it, raised it a little higher, out of reach. Spike looked at Lou. Lou looked at Spike. Lou’s face was thoughtful.

“Are you flirting with me?” Spike asked. Privately wondering if he’d pushed it too far, back in the salon. He didn’t actually want to spark too much interest in Troy’s background, or God forbid start any detective work.

“We have a satisfaction guarantee,” Lou said, his tone professional but his eyes fixed on Spike’s face in a way that suggested he was thinking unprofessional thoughts. “If, for any reason, your visit doesn’t please you, you can receive a visit of equal or lesser value free.”

“Is that so.”

Pause.

“Have your visits pleased you?” Lou’s eyes were one-way windows, behind which a little man was flipping Spike off with both hands.

“They’ve been all right.” Spike reached for the tube again; Lou held it away.

“You’re satisfied with Troy’s performance?”

“He’s fine.”

“If there’s anything he can do differently, you’re encouraged to tell him.”

“What are you, my mother?” Spike made another grab for the tube, and again, Lou raised it just enough to keep it away. “Look, I know you have to get your petty thrills somewhere, but I’m about to rip your—“

“It’s my responsibility to report any customer dissatisfaction to the management,” Lou said. Spike paused.

“I’m not dissatisfied.”

“If Troy isn’t meeting your expectations, he’ll be scheduled for in-service training.” The look on Lou’s face was ominously flat; it was the sort of look that Mafia dons used to have when they ordered hits on that old television program, The Sopranos. Good program, that. Only reruns now, of course. And what the hell was ‘in-service training’?

“Look, I said I’m not dissatisfied. I’m perfectly satisfied, all right?” Spike feinted for the tube; Lou twitched it away. “He’s bloody perfect, does everything right, couldn’t ask for anything more, five stars, don’t mess with a good thing.” Fucking hell, he shouldn’t have pushed the issue where Lou could hear it. “I was just winding him up, not that it’s any of your business.”

Lou stood silently, considering.

“Maybe it’s a kink of mine,” Spike said. “Maybe I like him a little off-balance, all right?” And that was actually pretty close to the truth, which was probably why it worked.

Lou gave Spike one last look—a look that said, You are a pathetic turd and I can barely see down to your level—and handed over the tube.

“Thanks so much,” Spike said, taking it. “Oh—and what do I do if I’m dissatisfied with you?”

Lou took up a position against the wall and said nothing. Spike lingered a second, waiting for a reaction, then gave up and went in.

Xander was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking small. Something about him had retracted or condensed or something—he didn’t occupy space the way he had before. His shoulders were hunched up a bit, and his smile looked paper-thin. For the first time, the fact that he was barefoot made him look vulnerable.

“That guy is a complete cocksucker,” Spike said, dumping his coat and walking without a pause over to the armchair. Xander’s smile wavered, and his eyes flicked to the door.

“Lou’s just…looking after me.”

“Lou wants you in something called ‘in-service training’.” Spike flipped the tube of lube dismissively over the arm of the chair. “Lou’s looking after Forsythe’s investment.”

There was silence from the other side of the room, he realized; when he looked over, he saw that Xander was staring at the door with an expression that was somewhere between total blank and low-grade panic. Mentally, Spike reran the last minute. In-service training, oh yeah.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I told him you didn’t need it. Said you were great, totally satisfied customer here.”

Xander’s eyes flicked back to Spike, and with a visible effort, he reassembled his features into a sort-of smile. “Hey, thanks. That’s…great.”

“Yeah, well, wasn’t a total lie. You’re all right.” It was a skewed sense of fairness that made him say that. “Bit of a surprise, actually. I’d never have thought you, of all the—“

Xander made a startled, abortive, half-standing movement, his eyes wide and his face strained. Spike stopped. Xander stood staring at him like a dog that wanted desperately to speak. When Spike raised one eyebrow, Xander swallowed hard and nodded at the door.

Spike looked at the door. Lou was standing out there, right. And while he probably wasn’t supposed to be keeping an ear out for every last dirty thing a customer whispered in bed, he could if he wanted to.

Spike turned back to Xander, held his eyes, and said calmly, “I’d never have thought you’d be this good, compared to all the other ones in that book out there.”

Xander’s shoulders fell an inch, and he let out a breath. His heart was racing, Spike realized.

“Never would have thought you’d be so fucking good at taking it up the arse,” he went on, warming to his topic. “Or sucking cock. Like you’re born to it, really. Almost like you like it.”

For half a second or less, he saw something completely, totally delightful. Xander’s eyes darkened, his brows came down, and his throat tightened. He looked about to shoot back something sharp, pointy, or vitriolic. Or all three, possibly. He looked seriously pissed off. Xander Harris was still in the building, apparently.

Then the veil dropped, and Xander smiled. He looked relieved and shyly flattered.

“Thanks,” he said, starting across the carpet to where Spike sat. “That means a lot, coming from you.”

Spike started to smile, then paused. Wait a minute—was that a jab? No way to tell, because Xander was kneeling at his feet now, smiling mildly up at him, running his palms—a little cold, a little damp this time—up Spike’s legs and then slowly in between.

“You’re a very accomplished cocksucker,” Spike said firmly, to reestablish dominance. A little louder, with his face pointed to the door, he added: “God, yeah. Can’t wait to nail that sweet arse of yours again.”

“Thanks,” Xander murmured, mouthing Spike’s inseam. Irritated, Spike pushed his head away.

“Cut that out.” He whispered that, hoping Lou didn’t have a glass pressed to the wall.

Xander looked up in surprise, his fingers already working at Spike’s belt.

“I said, stop it.” Spike batted at Xander’s fingers, and Xander more or less ignored him. He seemed to be regaining confidence, back on familiar ground. He kept his eyes locked on Spike’s, while his fingers negotiated with Spike’s for entry. “I’m not here for that, all right? I just came to talk.”

“If you want to talk, we have to go to the salon.” Xander’s voice was pitched low, too, which gave Spike a strange thrill.

“Can’t talk in there,” he said, nodding at the door. “That bloody gorilla’s in the way.”

“I know,” Xander breathed, lowering his face and rubbing his cheek along Spike’s thigh. “That’s the point.”

Spike sat still for a minute, thinking. Or more like, getting used to the fact that that was Xander talking to him. Not Troy, now. Not Great to see you, love the hair, can I get you a drink or maybe suck your dick? Troy. This was Xander, or at least part of him. Stroking his face along Spike’s thigh, and strategizing. And getting ready to suck his dick.

“So we talk here,” Spike muttered, removing Xander’s hand from his zipper for the third time. It was getting harder as he did. He wasn’t made of stone, after all. At least, not all of him.

“We can’t talk here,” Xander whispered patiently, as if he were sharing sweet nothings with a lover. “Or, we can’t just talk here.” He glanced meaningfully at the door again.

“We—oh.” Spike looked at the door too, his hands still absently intercepting Xander’s. Then he realized what he was doing, and looked down apologetically. “Sorry.”

With a faint, flat irony to his voice, Xander said, “Thanks.” Spike lifted his hands free, suddenly unsure what to do with them, and Xander sighed, took hold of them, and settled them on his own neck and shoulder. Then he popped the button on Spike’s jeans, eased his zipper down, and freed his dick.

“God, yeah,” Spike said, with completely unfeigned appreciation, when Xander ran a warm, wet tongue down the length of his cock. “That’s…that’s very good.” He turned his face toward the door and repeated, a little louder, “That’s good.”

With something that might have been a small laugh or else a snort, Xander took the head of Spike’s dick into his mouth and worked with his tongue. He was good at it. That part was true, it was amazing how practice improved people, who’d have thought the Slayer’s dumbass hetero builder sidekick could ever learn to treat another man’s dick like this, human adaptability was a wonderful thing, and oh God, yeah, right there like that, with his tongue in that sweet spot right under the tip—

The sensation eased, then stopped altogether, and Spike opened his eyes and blinked at the ceiling. When he looked down, Xander was still kneeling there, his cheek resting on Spike’s thigh, making lazy patterns with his fingernails in the few exposed inches of Spike’s belly.

“What--?” Spike started, then remembered. Oh, right. They were supposed to be talking. He cleared his throat, glanced at the door, and then didn’t know what to say. “Um, sorry…”

“If they find out who I am,” Xander whispered, “I’m screwed.” His face didn’t change, his fingers didn’t pause. A tingle went up Spike’s spine.

“Who you are?”

Xander shrugged, infinitesimally. “Who I used to be. Who I used to know.”

Right. Spike nodded. His hands were still on Xander’s neck and shoulder, exactly where Xander had put them, and it felt a little stagey now, a little awkward. He took them back, and again, didn’t know what to do with them. Crossing his arms was too bizarre, given that his dick was standing up in midair between them. He settled for letting them hang down the sides of the chair. Why was he worrying about his arms?

“Are you going to tell?” Xander’s face still hadn’t changed; he kept his eyes fixed on Spike’s, flat and unafraid.

For a moment Spike considered another answer--What’s in it for me if I don’t?, or You never know, you play your cards right…--but what came out was just the truth. “No.”

Xander didn’t look relieved or grateful. His face didn’t change at all. His fingers didn’t stop the lazy little pattern.

“No,” Spike said again, a little more forcefully. Too loud. They both glanced at the door, and Spike added quickly, “No, um, no way you’re stopping now, fuck yeah, take it, that’s right, take it good—“

Xander raised an eyebrow, and Spike shrugged, then frowned.

“Why not?” Xander whispered, tipping his head as if he thought he could see better into Spike’s motives that way.

Spike opened his mouth, then found he didn’t have an answer. Or he did, and he didn’t want to share it. They looked at each other a minute in silence, and then Xander shrugged and leaned forward again. Spike instinctively put a hand on the back of his head, gentle but firm.

“Looks like you’re already screwed anyway,” he said, as Xander started sucking the head of his dick. For a second he felt the scrape of teeth, and it was probably supposed to be a warning or a snarky reply, but it felt like a reward, and he thrust up into it without caring. Xander gave a muffled glumph of surprise, and then his hands found Spike’s hips and he settled into the rhythm. Harder and faster now, not teasing but actually following through. Wet mouth, sharp teeth, choking breath. Strong arms alongside Spike’s thighs, pulling him forward and up for more. And for the first time, it was actually Xander doing it. Gasping and sucking and desperate to be used. Used or saved, one of the two. Both. Whatever.

Spike came with Xander’s teeth circling the head of his cock, with Xander’s hand awkwardly cupping his balls, with Xander’s hair tight in his own fist. For the last spasms he pulled hard with that hand, arching Xander’s head back and painting Xander’s taut throat with the last of his come. It was electrifying. When he was finished it was still electrifying. Xander hung in his fist like a strangling fish, arched hard and desperate, slippery, submissive. His knees were half off the floor, he could barely breathe. And he had a hard-on.

Slowly, Spike lowered him. Eased his fingers out of Xander’s hair and shook them out. Xander folded and lay for a minute or two with his head against the carpet, his back heaving. Floating in the armchair above him, Spike had a strong urge to put his hand on that back, to feel the breath moving in and the heart beating. The life, persisting. But that would have involved moving, and he didn’t feel like moving for another year or two.

Finally, Xander sat up on his own. The collar of his shirt was wet, and his throat was still pearled with Spike’s come. He wiped it away with one hand, the way he would have wiped away sweat in another lifetime. Like it was nothing.

“You think this is screwed,” he whispered, catching Spike’s eye as he got shakily to his feet. “You should see the alternatives.”