Gloryhole

by

Wit Ling

Part Four

Spike didn’t cancel his standing appointment—once a week, like seeing a therapist—but he changed his tactics a little. Never let it be said that he hadn’t learned anything from a hundred and twenty something years of doing things all wrong. The next time he walked in the side door and found Forsythe at the desk, he met the man’s eyes and smiled.

“Spike, my friend! Great to see you, great to have you back, how is it out there, can we get you the regular, get him the regular, the man needs a drink and a fuck, doesn’t he, Spike?” Forsythe laughed loudly, then lost the smile and said in a sober undertone to the receptionist: “Spike is an investor, we can joke like this, but we never joke with the other clients. Understood?”

She nodded, and he was all smiles again, coming out from behind the desk with his arms spread wide. “Spike!”

“Forsythe.” Spike submitted to a business-man hug, his own arms at his sides. Tactics, he reminded himself. Forsythe kept a hand on Spike’s bicep, looking him over like a father examining a son just back from college. “How’s business?”

“Business is great, just great, we can hardly keep up with the demand, I brought three new kids on last week and they’re working out great, very popular, smartest thing we’ve ever done, this gaming business—“

“Push my appointment back a bit,” Spike said to the receptionist. “Ten minutes, say.”

She glanced at Forsythe, who paused, then nodded. “Everything okay, Spike?”

“Everything’s fine. I want to talk to you. In private.”

Forsythe got an edgy look, somewhere between anxious and excited, and Spike gave him a panty-melting smile.

“As business partners,” he murmured, and started down the hall to the salon. He heard Forsythe give the receptionist some rapid last instructions in a low voice, and then his little feet were skittering down the hall after Spike.

“As business partners,” he repeated, coming up level with Spike’s elbow. He was glowing like a kid on his birthday. It was embarrassing, really. “Right, because we’re partners in this mad venture, aren’t we, Spike? Never could have done it without you, and I’d just like to say, if you’ve decided you’d like to be more involved in the business, that door is always open, Spike. That door is always open.”

He was making it too easy—except, really, there was no such thing as too easy. Spike nodded without saying anything, pretending to think it over.

“If you have some ideas about how things could be run differently,” Forsythe went on, reaching for the doorknob ahead of Spike, “or some new things we could try, I’d be more than happy to discuss them with you. I’ve been thinking we need some new blood around here, actually. Somebody to shake things up a bit, and that’s what you’re good at, isn’t it, Spike? Shaking things up?”

“Can be,” Spike allowed, walking through the open door and into the salon. His drink was already waiting on the table, the fire was already lit. It was starting to feel almost homey in there. “I’m not a businessman, though.”

“Oh—“ Forsythe fluttered his fingers in a geisha-like gesture of polite dismissal. “You sell yourself short, Spike. You sell yourself short. With your take-no-prisoners attitude, and your keen judgment of character, and your…well, frankly, your reputation and your, uh, disarming appearance—“ He was turning himself on; Spike could smell it. Tactics, he reminded himself firmly. “You could be the ultimate businessman, Spike.”

“Really?” Spike took a seat in the armchair and reached for his drink. “The ultimate businessman? You think?”

“Oh, absolutely. Like a—“ Forsythe searched for words. “Like a yakuza. You could rule the business world, Spike. People would fear you.”

“People already fear me,” Spike said mildly, sipping his whiskey. Forsythe, if he’d been alive, would have blushed.

“Right, of course, you’re absolutely right, you do of course, I didn’t mean to imply—“

“I’m interested,” Spike said, sliding a little lower in the chair and presenting his crotch, “in this gaming thing.”

Forsythe dragged his eyes up to meet Spike’s, and gave him a look of doglike adoration. “You are?”

“I am.” Spike sipped, and ran a hand lazily down the inside of his thigh. “Not sure I want to get involved, but I want to know a bit more about how it works.”

“You do.”

“I do.” Spike looked around at the salon appraisingly. “Nice place, solid business, makes money. A lot more than seven and a half percent, I’m guessing.”

Forsythe’s expression turned coy. “Oh, well, Spike, I don’t have exact numbers at my fingertips—“

The fuck he didn’t. Spike smiled benignly. “Hand over fist, I’d say. And I’ve never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“Not at all,” Forsythe said, shaking his head. “Of course not. And like I said, the door is always open, Spike. What would you…” He paused, and shifted an inch closer along the couch. “What would you like to learn?”

Again, Spike pretended to consider, rolling his whiskey in one hand and coincidentally letting his right leg fall a little further to the side, so that it brushed Forsythe’s knee. “Dunno. Thought I could spend a little more time here, for starters. Do some shadowing. See how it works.”

“I think that’s a terrific idea.” Forsythe was breathy with opportunity. “We’d love to see more of you here, Spike. You know that. And I’ll make myself personally available to you, to answer whatever questions you have about the operation. Or, for instance, if you’d like a bit of background in the accounting, I’d be happy to walk you through our zero-based balance budget system, it’s quite innovative if I say so myself—“

“That’s okay,” Spike said hastily, bumping his knee against Forsythe’s. “Like I said, I’m not a businessman. Thought I’d start at the ground floor. Maybe, personnel.”

“Right, of course, that’s an excellent idea, your talents would be perfect in that area, and again, I’d be happy to be a personal guide through our human resources systems—“

“One thing,” Spike said, as if it had just occurred to him. “I’m not a very good pupil. Have a tendency to rip heads off when I get frustrated.” He shrugged, and Forsythe tried to find a suitable expression to answer that comment. “Might be better if I show myself around, and just ask questions when I need to.”

Forsythe paused, his fingers finding his tie and starting to smooth. He looked a bit like a man who’s agreed to let a beautiful woman spend the night, only to find her husband coming too. “Well, I’m not sure that would be a very practical means of—“

Spike dipped two fingers into his whiskey, and sucked them. Forsythe paused.

“Maybe not,” Spike said, wiping his wet fingers along his fly. “You’re right, I’m not cut out for this kind of thing. Should stick to the customer side, I guess.”

“No, no, no, no.” Forsythe raised a hand like a traffic cop, shaking his head. “No, no, that’s not what I meant to say. We’d love to see you here more often, Spike, and of course you should learn as you learn best, you’re more than welcome to show yourself around, and perhaps we can set up a standing meeting just to touch base?”

“Sounds good,” Spike said. “On the ides, maybe.”

“I was thinking weekly,” Forsythe faltered, his face falling again. Then the door opened and Lou walked in.

“Good evening.” He didn’t even appear to notice that Forsythe was in the room tonight; he just went and took up his place against the wall, his face immobile.

“That one, for instance,” Spike said, tipping his head back over his shoulder in Lou’s general direction. “Do we really need him?”

“Who—Lou?” Forsythe was still gathering himself together, arranging his handful of manila folders to hide his lap. “Oh, Lou’s been with us from the start, he’s very good at what he does—“

“Gets in the way,” Spike groused, but then Xander walked through the door, and he lost that train of thought. Xander looked—a little tired. Just the faintest bit of tightness around the eyes, you wouldn’t see it unless you knew him well. He was smiling that same, usual, warm Troy smile, at least until he saw Forsythe sitting on the couch. Then his smile froze, and his eyes flicked to Spike, and there was a moment when Spike thought he was going to blow it all completely.

“Troy,” Forsythe said, in a tone of intense irritation. “Of course, right. Spike, you have an appointment. I won’t keep you.”

“I’ll come find you later,” Spike said, in a tone designed to make Forsythe feel that they were going to do things that were much more important than whatever tawdry mischief was going to go on with Troy in the next little while. “We’ll have a drink. Talk a bit more about all this.”

“Of course.” Some dignity restored, Forsythe stood up. Still had his folders over his crotch, though. “We’ll talk later, Spike. Enjoy yourself.” He went out, quivering slightly with confused emotion.

Spike and Xander looked at each other. Somehow, Xander dredged up a smile. “Hi, Spike. Nice to see you again.”

“Get yourself a drink.” He looked like he could use one, frankly. And he didn’t argue; he just went to the bar and poured himself a whiskey, no questions asked. “Sit down.”

Xander came back and sat on the couch, right next to the armchair, where Forsythe had been sitting. He didn’t drink any of the whiskey this time. His fingers were tight around the glass.

“I’ve been talking to your owner,” Spike said, closing his legs and sitting up straighter. “Things are going to be a little different from now on.”

Xander nodded faintly, then seemed to remember that he was supposed to smile. “That’s…that’s great. But listen, I don’t really have a head for the business end of this stuff—“

“I’m part owner in this place,” Spike said flatly. Watching Xander’s face closely, to see if he already knew that. No reaction; apparently that wasn’t news. “And I’m going to start exercising some of my rights. Starting now.”

Xander just sat there, the smile pasted on, holding the glass like he’d forgotten it was there. “That’s great.”

“Going to be around more often, for one thing.”

“Great.”

“Going to learn a little more about how this operation works.”

“Great.” There was a pause, and Xander seemed to rouse himself out of some kind of stupor. Somehow, he found his place in the script again. “That’s great, Spike. If there’s anything I can do to help, I hope you’ll tell me.”

Spike took a long sip of whiskey, watching Xander over the rim of the glass. Under the smile, he was running at full speed, trying to figure out where this was headed. Until he realized that Spike was watching him, and dropped his eyes to his lap.

“I’ll tell you what you can do,” Spike said, standing up. “You can blow me.”

Xander stayed where he was, looking up with an expression of confusion, as if he hadn’t understood that part.

“Now,” Spike said, and led the way toward the door.

In the bedroom, Spike lay fully dressed on top of the covers, propped against three of the vampire world’s finest goosedown pillows, while Xander shucked his pants at the foot of the bed.

“You’re losing the plot,” Spike whispered, fingering the inevitable little white tube. “Thought you were going to screw it all up, in there.”

“Sorry.” Xander climbed onto the bed, his face still distracted. He looked wearier, now that they were alone. Naked, his body betrayed a little bit of wear and tear. Nothing major, just a little slump in the shoulders, a sort of automatic look to his movements. “I was a little…thrown.” Spike shrugged, and Xander hesitated on his hands and knees. “What did you want, again?”

“Decent programs on network,” Spike said, unbuckling his belt. “Do you know they rerun Married With Children now? Unbelievable, what some people will watch.”

“I know,” Xander said, helping Spike get his jeans down the requisite amount. “The world ended and television’s still shitty. Crazy.”

“Suck me off a little, will you?” Spike said. Xander got belly-down between his legs and started to run his tongue obligingly down Spike’s dick. Spike took the opportunity to melt into the pillows and study Xander’s back. Pretty. There was that curl at the nape of his neck, the one he’d always had, still there. Without thinking, Spike ran his hand through Xander’s hair, singled out the curl, and wrapped it around his finger. Xander kept doing his job.

“That’s good,” Spike said, in the general direction of the door. “Fuck, yeah, suck it—“ He tugged on the curl, and Xander pulled off. In a whisper, Spike asked, “So what was your grand plan, exactly?”

Xander looked blank. “Plan?”

“Don’t tell me it’s your life’s ambition to suck vampire dick until they sell you to the knacker.”

Xander frowned, and God, if that wasn’t a thrill to see. “Not exactly, no.”

“Okay, so what was the plan?”

Xander shifted, took more of his weight on his elbow, and wiped his mouth. “To stay alive, basically. That’s about it, so far.”

Spike raised his eyebrows. “You’re worse than me. At least when your kind ruled the planet, I didn’t have to sell my ass to get by.”

“Nobody was buying, Spike.” That was sharp, sharper than anything Xander had said so far, and it gave Spike a strange, gleeful pang. That was the old Xander Harris, and God, he’d hated that twit with a passion, and now he felt like he could almost kiss him. He was smiling, he realized. Still holding the curl, and smiling.

Xander wasn’t smiling. He looked stricken, then a little panicked, and started to backpedal. “I mean, I didn’t mean that in a bad way, I meant, it wasn’t really the same, there weren’t abbatoirs—“

“I know what you meant,” Spike said, a little more roughly than necessary. Rearranging his face into a scowl. “And you’re still a wanker, Harris.”

And that was the first time he’d used Xander’s name. He heard the kick in Xander’s heart, the sheer pain of recognition and the fear that went with it, and then Xander dropped his face back into Spike’s lap, and started rubbing his cheek along Spike’s dick. Smooth warm skin and a hint of stubble, and then a tongue. Okay. Spike tipped his head back into the pillows and went with it.

“I bet we would have got along a lot better if you’d done this before,” he murmured, while his dick sank into Xander’s mouth.

They spent a few minutes doing that, less frantically than before, more like a couple of guys with some time on their hands. Xander was a professional, Spike realized. He knew how to hurry it along, and he knew how to make it last. Right now, he was making it last. Spike had no problem with that.

The next time he pulled on the curl, Xander’s face came up flushed and heated. He was grinding into the sheets, Spike realized. He really did like this, no matter how pissed he got when you called him on it. Survival mechanism, probably. Amazing, how humans could adapt.

“So, you’re alive.” Spike said it softly, running Xander’s hair through his fingers. “What next?”

Xander stared at him. For a few seconds he thought it was a blank look; then he realized it was an internal debate. He tugged gently on the curl. “You’re already sucking my dick, you might as well say.”

“I like sucking your dick,” Xander said, but it was rote, automatic, a clear parody of the Troy response. Code for: I have a shield, I can use it.

“Don’t blame you,” Spike said. “It’s a nice one.” Then something occurred to him. “You get telly in here?”

Xander looked puzzled, then nodded.

“You get the news?”

Xander gave him a long, sideways look.

“The resistance,” Spike whispered, with a grin. “You’re staying alive so you can go play insurgent.”

Xander’s response was no response at all; he just lay there, his face shuttered and blank. Spike gave the curl a yank.

“I’ve got your number,” he said in a little sing-song, and then things happened very fast. Xander swung a hand at his head, and he blocked it without thinking. The contact stung. Then he realized: He just tried to hit me. At the same time, Xander was already scrambling backward across the bed, his face aghast. Spike leaned over and made a grab for him. Got hold of his ankle and yanked him back up the bed.

“I’m sorry,” Xander was whispering, his words stumbling over each other. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that, please don’t tell them, I’m sorry—“

Spike slapped a hand over his mouth and watched the door. Xander stopped talking. His heart was going a mile a minute, and he smelled like fear and shock. His eyes were on the door now, too.

A minute went by with no knock on the door, then another. Xander’s heart started to slow, just a bit. He was sweating.

Spike looked back at Xander. “If I take my hand off your mouth, are you going to stop being such a fucking idiot?”

Xander nodded.

Spike took his hand away, and wiped the sweat off on the blanket. “It’s a wonder you’ve made it this far, frankly.”

Xander swallowed and nodded. The picture of penitence.

“If I mark you I get dinged for it,” Spike said sourly, “so let’s just consider that I owe you one. And if you do that again, I’ll tell Forsythe you want to work more with Fyarl, right?”

Xander nodded.

“For Christ’s sake,” Spike said, to the room in general. Then he remembered the door, and Lou on the other side of it. “Here, you’d better get going again.”

Xander addressed himself to Spike’s dick with renewed enthusiasm. He was shaking slightly, a little clumsy, still smelling like fear. That was all fine. Spike used his fist in Xander’s hair to keep things at the level where he could still think straight. Because that was Xander’s plan, all too obviously—to stay alive long enough to get killed in the resistance. And that required a little bit of thought.

There’d been a resistance ever since Marsha took the Orb, pesky and resourceful and given to releasing UV spells in the subways. They’d had a few sizeable victories, a couple of really big blow-ups that had taken out a hundred, two hundred vamps at a time. In a world made up of vamps, though, that was nothing. Lately the news had been saying that the Guard knew where the insurgents were based, that a major offensive was being planned. To wipe them out, once and for all. Shouldn’t be hard; there couldn’t be more than a few hundred left in the whole country.

“You’re an idiot,” Spike said softly, and when Xander looked up, he tugged at his hair. “Get up, will you?” Fumbling for the lube with his free hand, until Xander took it from him and obligingly finger-slicked his own ass. “Here—like this.” Xander didn’t need much guidance. He straddled Spike’s lap and sank down onto him with a faint moan. He’d lost his erection, but it started to make a comeback.

“You’re an idiot,” Spike repeated, getting the pillows out of the way and settling his hands on Xander’s hips. “They’re all going to get wiped out.” Thrust up, God yeah, hot and tight and rocking just the right way. “You might as well run away and join the circus.”

“I just,” Xander whispered, eyes shut and panting, “need one chance. One…open door.”

“You’ll die in a day.”

“Fine with me.” Xander opened his eyes and stared down at Spike. He placed one palm on Spike’s chest, and reached back with the other to burrow into Spike’s jeans and cup his balls. “Not like I’m doing anything anyway.”

“What if—“ Spike tried to focus his thoughts, tried to drag his brain out of his dick for just one second. “What if there was some other…something else?”

“There’s nothing else,” Xander said flatly. “The world’s over, remember?”

He had a point, and Spike couldn’t actually think of any alternatives to suggest, so he closed his eyes and pushed up hard, angling his hips for that sweet spot, the one he knew was there because never mind how he knew. For some reason he wanted to make it good for Xander, this time. Not that it hadn’t been before, not that Xander hadn’t come before. But still. He wanted to make Xander feel that rush, the one that took you out of yourself and made you forget the unimportant things. Like Lou, waiting outside on the door. Like Forsythe, tallying accounts somewhere. Like the insurgents, like past lives, like false hope.

Either it worked or Xander was a very good actor, because he jerked and gasped, and his hips snapped back to meet Spike’s. The hand on Spike’s chest convulsed, as if Xander were grabbing at his heart. “God, fuck, Spike—“ Raw, sweet, unfeigned as far as Spike could tell, and just what he needed to send him over the edge. Xander came a few seconds later, smothering the head of his cock with his hand. Accommodating, even in orgasm.

They both rode it out, Xander gasping and hot, Spike liquid in his bones. Xander slumped, his breathing slowed, and he started to shift, to get off. Spike stopped him.

“Stay a bit, like this.”

Xander gave him a long look, wiped sweat off his eyelid with a shaking hand, and nodded. He folded forward over Spike’s chest, heavy and hot. After a while Spike lifted a hand and started to toy with the curl again.

Part Five

It wasn’t possible to put a guy like Forsythe off completely, not if you were in business with him. Not if you wanted something from him, not even if you didn’t quite know what that was yet. It was all strategy, Spike reminded himself, running his finger over the rim of his glass while Forsythe watched eagerly. Strategy and tactics. Everybody used everybody, always had, nothing new there. The trick was to stay on top of the situation, and not end up sucking dick for nothing.

“I think you have a real talent for management,” Forsythe was saying, for the third time. The booze was getting to him; his eyelids were drooping, and he’d loosened his tie. His lips shone with whiskey and saliva. Between them, they’d barely killed one bottle. Without surprise, Spike filed away the information that Forsythe was a lightweight.

“I’m just in it for the money,” Spike said. “Like I said, I’m not a businessman.”

“But you have—“ Forsythe paused and waved a hand in midair, trying to convey the futility of attempting to identify what Spike had. “Panache. The kids look up to that. It’s good.” He let his hand fall, predictably, onto Spike’s shoulder. “You’re a mentor to them.” His fingers started to squeeze and rub.

“They haven’t met me,” Spike pointed out.

“But they know you. Everyone knows you. It’s good to have you associated with the place, Spike, it’s a good brand, you’re a good brand for us. You could charge for that, you know that?”

“I should start.” Spike smiled disarmingly over the rim of his glass. “How much could I get out of you, do you think?”

“Oh—“ Forsythe leaned in closer, in a haze of booze fumes and lust. “I bet you could take me for a real ride, Spike.”

Spike let that sit in silence, studying his fingernails. Forsythe breathed whiskey over him in a cool cloud. After a minute or so, confusion started to enter his expression.

“I want more access to the help,” Spike said abruptly, as if they’d been discussing this all along. “You’re right, they need whipping into shape. Need someone backstage, prepping them for the customers. I know what the customers want, I can do that.”

“To the—“ Forsythe sat back, blinking. “Oh, right. That’s…that’s a very good idea. I’d been thinking that myself, in fact.”

“I want to be here during off hours,” Spike went on. “Part of the business. Part owner, right?”

“Right, of course, that’s a great—“

“I’ll need the lock combinations.”

Forsythe paused. “Only a few people get the combinations, Spike. No offense, it’s just that if anything ever did go wrong, you know, they’re still humans and they’re never really tame, and I’d be out thousands if I lost one, so it’s really just a matter of keeping potential problems to a minimum—“

Spike sat forward to refill his glass, which removed Forsythe’s hand from his shoulder. When he sat back, he was a few inches farther away on the couch. Not touching Forsythe’s knee anymore. “You’re insured though, right?”

“Oh, absolutely, everything’s covered, the premiums are killing me—“

“So if anything did happen, you wouldn’t actually lose anything.”

“Let me assure you, Spike, your investment is safe in this business.”

“Good.” Spike bolted the whiskey in his glass, and poured the rest of the bottle out between them. “Here’s to safe investments.” They drank. Forsythe lost a little of his whiskey down his chin, and Spike debated internally for a second, then reminded himself: Strategy, and reached out to blot it with his thumb. Forsythe looked surprised, then boyishly delighted. Sweet Jesus.

“Here’s to fruitful partnerships,” he quavered, raising his empty glass. “And wherever they may lead.” He raised an eyebrow significantly, then tried to drink. Spike set to work opening the second bottle.

“Who’s got the combinations?” he asked, sloshing whiskey into Forsythe’s glass.

“Myself. Lou.” Forsythe drank, then furrowed his brow in concentration. “A couple of the under-managers. Just in case of emergency.”

“What if something happens to Lou?”

Forsythe blinked at him, as if he’d suggested that Lou might turn into a frog and hop away. “Lou? What do you mean?”

“What if Lou breaks his neck walking to work some night, and you’re on vacation? Who runs the show then?”

“Well, we have under-managers for that.” Forsythe frowned, considering. “Although I did have one of them staked last month, I keep meaning to advertise for that.”

“What if Lou decides to go work for the competition?”

“Oh.” Forsythe waved a hand in dismissal. “Not a possibility.”

“Why not?”

“There is no competition. We’re the highest-end gaming organization in town. He couldn’t make money like this anywhere else.”

“Look, all I’m saying is, I’m a partner in this and I should have access to the business.” He sounded petulant even to himself, which was a problem. Patience had never been his strong suit, dammit. If he had to knock Forsythe’s clammy, intrepid little hand off his shoulder one more time, he was going to beat the man with his own whiskey bottle. Strategy, he thought furiously. Goddamn fucking bloody arsehole strategy.

Forsythe was stifling a delicate belch, his eyes lizard-like and sleepy. “You have complete and total access, Spike. Total. And complete. Access.”

“Thank you very bloody much.” With a sense of relief and sudden generosity, Spike clinked their rims together. “And the combinations too, right?”

“Oh, no.” Forsythe laid his head against the back of the sofa and let out a gentle, sighing snore.

Spike removed Forsythe’s hand from his thigh, shot the rest of his whiskey, and let himself out in a dim frame of mind.

“Your owner,” Spike said, staring at the ceiling with his hands behind his head, “is a poncy little fruit with mummy issues, and I hate him.”

Xander raised his head, licked his lips, and seemed to consider. “You forgot, ‘small-dicked.’”

“That too.” Spike closed his eyes in appreciation as Xander went back to work, then opened them again. “Wait—how do you know that?”

Xander raised his head. “I’m psychic. How do you think?”

They looked at each other for a few seconds, while Spike’s brain churned obligingly away on the creation of a visual. When it came into focus, he flinched. “You’re kidding—that little fruitbat?”

Xander shrugged. “That little fruitbat owns me. He can do whatever he wants, whenever he wants.”

“Sucks to be you.” Spike let his head fall back onto the pillow, and tried to refocus his attention on the things that Xander’s mouth was doing to his cock. Irritatingly, he couldn’t. He kept flashing on the image of Forsythe, wild-haired and imperious, little-Napoleoning Xander into the mattress. He felt his erection start to flag, and hastily reached down to shove Xander away.

“Do you want—“

“No.” He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, feeling frustrated and pissed off. “I fucking hate that little shit.”

Xander said nothing. After a minute, Spike looked at him. He was kneeling, rubbing a hand over his mouth. Watching Spike without much sympathy or interest.

“You want me to talk dirty?” Xander asked, matter-of-factly popping his jaw. “Or I could jerk off, I think.” One hand traveled down and massaged the crotch of his trousers. “You want me to get hard?”

There was a touch of something insincere in that, Spike realized. More than a touch—Xander was mocking him. He propped himself up on one elbow and frowned.

“What’s your problem, exactly?”

“Nothing.” Xander’s face was neutral, but beneath the neutrality, there was a kind of amusement. “You want to watch me take a piss?”

“No.” Spike studied Xander’s face, then suddenly got it. “You’re on me for complaining about him, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Xander said mildly. “If you want, I can punish you. I can call you ‘worm,’ and stuff.”

“Look, just because you’re a whore doesn’t mean I have to let that droopy little poof paw at my dick.”

“If you’re careful about where you put your thumbs, you can suffocate me while you fuck me, and Lou won’t ever know.” Xander studied his thumbnail. “There’s even a couple of places they don’t always notice if you bite. Especially if you’re a big-money customer.”

Spike let his head fall back against the pillow. “I get it, all right?”

Xander nibbled his thumbnail. They were quiet for a minute or two.

“You have always been a pain in my ass,” Spike said.

“Tell me about it,” Xander replied.

Working behind the scenes was actually kind of interesting. In a cruddy, skin-crawling kind of way. He’d been a vampire for well over a hundred years, eaten more than his share of pretty children, but somehow pimping still seemed like a low. He wasn’t a pimp, though—he reminded himself of that every time he went. He didn’t have any of the important lock combinations. He was just…an interested bystander. And strategizing.

Behind the scenes, things weren’t fancy. You stepped through the unmarked door that led to the whores’ living quarters, and just like that, you ran out of carpet and nice light fixtures. It was just a clean white hallway, with a bunch of locked doors down one side. No particular effort at security, no Lou hanging around giving you a steady glare. Sometimes a vamp with a clipboard and cell phone, deep in conversation, en route to somewhere else. Forsythe’s people were busy, and they minded their own business. That was good.

The whores stayed in their rooms most of the time—that line Xander had given him, back in the beginning, about one big happy family, that was bullshit. There was no table tennis, no pizza parties. There were the little rooms, spartan as barracks, and there was a gym with a shared shower and a television over the treadmills. Meals came from the main kitchen. Books were allowed, as long as they weren’t revolutionary. There were windows in the doors of their rooms, so a quick walk down the hall showed you everything they were up to at any given moment.

It was a smart system, Spike had to admit. The humans got enough time together, in the gym mostly, that they didn’t go stark raving mad from lack of contact. They were supervised enough that they couldn’t lay plans. Their rooms were their own, it looked like—they could put things where they liked, decorate if they wanted. They had television, they had books. Pretty comfortable life, compared to what else was out there for humans these days.

Still, Forsythe had this thing about “morale,” about maximizing output. He wanted Spike to be in there organizing all the time, making them build human pyramids and bake cupcakes for their clientele. Unbelievable, what some people thought they should be able to expect.

Spike walked the length of the hall, glancing in windows as he passed them. It was almost three o’clock in the afternoon; most of the humans were still asleep. The woman at the end, Chablis, was up. He knocked with one knuckle, and she looked at him, then nodded. He unlocked the door and put his head in.

“All right?”

She gave him an odd look—they still weren’t used to having someone check up on them like this—and nodded. “I’m fine, thanks. Just enjoying the quiet.”

“Ah.” It was always quiet back here, which meant she was taking the piss. “Busy night tonight?”

“I’m always busy.” She sounded bored and irritated, and she was right. Chablis was as popular as Troy, which meant very popular. Both of them worked every night, while some of the other humans lay in bed watching old movies and painting their toenails. Funny, how tastes were consistent.

“Right. Well, I’ll let you get back to it then.” He gave her a little wave and closed the door. It locked automatically. She closed her eyes and covered them with the heels of her hands.

Being an interested bystander in a gaming house was sort of depressing, he reflected, walking back down the hall the way he’d come.

Xander’s room was the second to last, in between Steele and Tiffany. His window was dark. Spike didn’t bother knocking, just let himself in and closed the door behind him.

Xander was lying on the floor beside his bed, staring at the ceiling with his hands behind his head. He was wearing low-slung jeans, the buttons undone, the zip halfway down, and nothing else. He smelled like very recent sex.

Spike sat down on the end of Xander’s bed, and rolled his head on his neck. He had a crick, he’d slept on it wrong. Just one more thing.

“Have a nice time?” He’d got into the habit of asking how Xander’s appointments went. Partly because he was interested in the mechanics, the variety. Partly because it gave him more scraps to magpie away in his little box marked Xander Harris, Not Dead Yet. Partly, he had to admit, because he was a bit obsessed, a bit possessive, a bit turned on. He didn’t fool himself that Xander didn’t know any of that.

Xander took one hand out from beneath his head, and dragged it over his belly. It was hard not to look at the dark hair showing in the V of his open jeans zipper, so Spike looked. Xander’s body was becoming something in which he took proprietary interest.

“Mr. Carruthers likes farm boys,” Xander said meditatively, still staring at the ceiling.

“Hence the jeans,” Spike said.

Xander nodded. “Mr. Carruthers has a submerged interest in, shall we say, the outer reaches of agricultural role-play.”

“Meaning what?”

Xander raised his eyebrows mildly, as if the ceiling had made an interesting point and he had to concede. “Moo.”

“You’re joking.”

Someone walked down the hallway outside, and they both paused to listen to the rapid, businesslike click of heels. Then the pause for the combination, and the sound of hinges swinging. The first few times it had happened, Spike had been struck by the realization that Xander must have heard that sequence a thousand times already. The sound of freedom, right outside his door. He’d assumed it made Xander crazy. Now he realized it just blended in.

“And how are you?” Xander asked, picking something out of the line of hair on his belly, examining it, and flicking it away with a frown. “Have you had a nice night, Spike?”

“Not really. I’m supposed to be motivating you lot to do a better job, or something. I don’t give a fuck what you do, I just want my share of the proceeds and something decent on the telly.”

“Nice to see you taking your new job so seriously.”

“One of these days I might start,” Spike said, falling back onto Xander’s bed and rubbing his eyes. “And then you’ll be sorry.”

He couldn’t see what was so fascinating about the ceiling, and after a few minutes of looking at it he started to drift. He was tired. He was tired a lot these days, for no good reason. There was something about leading a totally purposeless existence that did it to you.

“I was thinking about Sunnydale,” he said after a while. Xander shifted, but didn’t say anything. “That shop Rupert ran—what was it called?”

After a brief pause, Xander said, “The Magic Box.”

The Magic Box. Right. It had been bothering him, not being able to remember that. “Think it’s still there?”

“No.”

Silence fell again. Spike considered falling asleep there, wondered how much damage control that would require with Forsythe, and decided it wasn’t worth it. He sat up, rolling his head again. “Well, this has been great, but the excitement’s getting to be a bit too much for me—”

“Why are you doing this?” Xander’s tone was peremptory, a little edgy.

“Because you’re boring and you have no alcohol.”

“No, why are you doing all this?” Xander flared his hands behind his head, indicating the room, the building, everything. “Why aren’t you just a customer?”

“That’s not the way to advance in the world, is it?”

“Since when did you care about advancing in the world?”

“Maybe since the world turned into the kind of place I could advance in.” He sounded ridiculous even to himself. Xander rolled his eyes.

“Spike, you could inherit General Motors and you’d burn it down in a week.”

“General Motors wouldn’t come with perks like this place.”

“You did it for the blowjobs?” Xander gave a heavy sigh, rolled over, and pushed to his feet. “God, you’re a loser.”

“I’m not the one sucking dick though, am I?”

“No, you’re the one paying for it.”

Spike pressed his lips together and watched Xander walk over to the small, wall-mounted sink. “What’s this in-service training I hear so much about?”

Xander paused, then put the plug in the sink and turned both taps on. “Where’s Drusilla these days, you think?”

Spike sat up a little straighter. “Sorry?”

“She hanging out with Angelus, maybe? Or maybe she found a nice ogre and settled down with him. Two ogres, maybe. She was always kind of wild, wasn’t she?”

It was dark in the room; Xander couldn’t see him even if he turned around. That was good, because Spike was pretty sure his expression was gobsmacked.

“Are you serious?” he said finally. Xander was bent over the sink, using his cupped hands to splash water over his face and throat.

“I remember that one time,” he said, his tone still conversational. “I cast that stupid spell and she wanted to fuck me. That was some scary shit. No offense, but your girlfriend had issues.”

“I don’t get it,” Spike said, standing up slowly. “Are you trying to get me to beat the crap out of you?”

“No,” Xander said. He shut the taps off, pulled the plug, and flicked water off his fingertips. “I mean, yes, but I don’t actually think you’ll do it. You’d have to pay for it, and you’re kind of cheap.”

“I don’t have to pay to get you into in-service training,” Spike said, his fists clenched at his sides. “Whatever the fuck that is.”

“It’s where they make you a nice big Italian meal and let you play with the puppies.” Xander pulled the hand towel off the bar and scrubbed his face with it. “It’s great, you should totally try it.”

“You think I’m soft on you?” Spike took three steps across the room and stood there, forward on the tips of his toes, smelling sex and skin and a frustratingly total lack of fear. “You think I won’t do that to you?”

Xander tapped the light switch beside the mirror, and the sudden glare made them both blink. There were damp curls stuck to Xander’s forehead and cheeks, and water in the hollow of his throat. His expression was tired and bitter. “I don’t think you’re soft on me, Spike. I think you’re the same pathetic asshole you always were, and I think I should have staked you when I had the chance.” He draped the damp hand towel over Spike’s shoulder and walked past him to the bed. “Also, I think you should leave now.”

Spike stood there staring through the blank spot that should have been his reflection. Xander lay down on bed, pulled the pillow over his head, and was still.

“Moron,” Spike said, and left.

In-service training was just a matter of a word in the right ear—Forsythe’s right ear, actually—and there was plenty of opportunity for that. Any of their little business-partner meetings, all he had to do was look troubled, wait for Forsythe to ask what was the matter, and say, It’s Troy, I’m worried about his team spirit… Forsythe was looking for an opportunity anyway. Every time he saw Xander he got a pinched look, like a man who wanted to complain about his meal but couldn’t find anything wrong with it. Troy was popular, Troy made money. Troy also had regular sex with Spike. Forsythe didn’t know which way to jump on that one.

So it would have been easy, but for some reason Spike didn’t find the time to do it. There was something about the way Xander had looked at him, that night in his little room. Or something about the tone of his voice. It had been flat, cynical, unafraid. Deeply stupid, deeply shortsighted. But what was interesting, what made it memorable and almost pleasurable, was that Xander had talked to him the way he used to. The way he would have back in Sunnydale. He’d been insulting. He’d been a prick. Whenever Spike thought about it, he felt pissed off and indignant and strangely grateful.

He didn’t arrange for in-service training. He hung around the gym, drinking beer while the whores worked out. The news showed things heating up for the insurgents—they were being picked off, one cell at a time, and the end was apparently nigh. President For Life Marsha delivered gloating addresses on CNN. The whores didn’t react. Even Troy, spotting Dirk on the bench, didn’t glance up. Spike sipped his beer and flipped through an old racing form. All right, then.

Life went on. He kept his regular weekly appointments with Xander, although now that he had a backstage pass, the sessions were less interesting. No more whispered conversations, no more false fronts—just a good blow job, or the chance to yet again fuck Xander Harris through the mattress. Xander didn’t seem to mind. He played his part easily and well—got hard, got fucked, got out. He talked like Troy, gave lavish praise for everything Spike did to him, wiped his mouth, and left. Later on, when Spike checked in on him in his room, he was mild and unresponsive. No more challenges, not much eye contact. His mind seemed to be on other things.

That was okay, because Spike was thinking too. The whole thing was turning into a puzzle, something to keep him busy, something to solve. He wanted Xander. Not because he was soft on him, but because if anyone in the post-apocalypse had first dibs on Xander Harris, it was Spike. Because he’d put up with being called a fangless dickhead for three years, because he’d been tied to a Barcalounger and chained to a bathtub. Because arguing with Xander Harris was as familiar as whiskey. Because it would piss Forsythe off. Because it was something to do.

All kinds of reasons to do it, but he was still figuring out how, exactly, to make it happen. Troy was a talented gamer with a good reputation and a lot of years left in him. He was worth serious money. More than Spike had invested in the place, more than he probably had. More than he wanted to spend, definitely. And if Forsythe knew he wanted to buy, that would just drive the price up. Forsythe didn’t want to sell Troy, to let the two of them fade out of the gaming scene together. He wanted to keep Troy, to keep Spike coming back, even if the most he ever got out of it was a quick grope and a crack on the jaw.

It was a puzzle, and puzzles weren’t Spike’s strong point. Strategy, he reminded himself, drinking whiskey morosely in the rocker bar before heading over to get fondled by Forsythe. There had to be a way to do it. Too bad all the Watchers were dead. They’d been dusty old farts, but they’d been good at laying plans. Then again, look what that had got them.

“The human resistance movement will be a thing of the past within a matter of weeks,” President For Life Marsha said earnestly in the television screen over the bar, and Spike sneered and threw a peanut at her.