Land of the Lost

by
Witling

Part Five

They had visitors at the stream that night. A litter of some kind of little red foxlike animals, the mother as long as Spike's forearm and the kits as long as his hand. Maybe it had taken them that long to brave the fire, or maybe they were just passing through. They tumbled over each other on the stream bank, squeaking and snuffling, while Harris gnawed the flesh off a rabbitish bone and Spike watched carefully, just in case.

"Relax. They're cute." Harris finished the bone he was working on and tossed it gently across the stream, into the grasses. Two of the kits pounced on it, and there was a brief growling match.

"They're irritating." Actually, they were cute, but he didn’t like the thought of the local wildlife getting too comfortable. He picked up a rock and drew his arm back to skim it at them. Harris grabbed his hand.

"Jesus, Spike. Take it easy."

"You don't even know what they are." He sounded weak and defensive even to his own ears. Harris fished a bone out of his molars and flicked it into the dust.

"They're foxes," he said. "More or less. If they turn out to be Gremlins, I take full responsibility for feeding them just now."

"Right, and when they come back and start eating your feet while you're asleep, I'll just stroke them gently, shall I?"

Harris made a pfffft sound and sank back against the rock. The sun was going down, and everything was bathed in a coppery glow. The fox kits tumbled. Slowly, Spike sat down again.

"There you go," Harris said, wrapping his arms around his knees. "Just like watching Mutual of Omaha."

After a while the foxes left and the sun went down. Staring into the fire on his side of the cave, Harris said quietly, "I wonder what Buffy and Willow are doing right now."

For just a second, Spike couldn't remember who Buffy and Willow were.

He was running across the desert again, his legs long and hard, carrying him tirelessly. Naked, the sun heavy on his shoulders and the crown of his head. He had almost no shadow. He felt strong, elated, prepared.

The smell in the air was different this time. Not the rank smell of cat, or the blunted, hapless smell of the deer. Something darker and stronger. It smelled of the blood of things it had killed, and it smelled massive. He felt the hairs on his arms and neck rise, felt his fangs draw out of his gums, felt his cock half-rise. It wasn't far now.

He was pressed against a rock, a huge weight crushing him, his own blood welling up in his throat. It was on top of him, holding him down, tearing into him. He felt his ribcage fold with a single snap, like the stem of a wineglass stepped on. He was bleeding out of himself at both ends, everywhere he had an opening. His fangs sank uselessly into dark oily flesh. He couldn't move. It was staring into his face, its eye huge and golden, flecked with brown. He couldn't look away. It tipped its head, taking his throat at a better angle. Then it tore his head off.

"Spike." Harris was there, holding his shoulder, staring into his face. "Spike, come on. Wake up."

He turned his head, tried to stand up, and immediately fell over. Harris caught him and they both went down onto the stone. His legs had cramped. He was covered in sweat, and shivering. Something was wrong.

"Where—" He pushed halfway up, to his knees, and looked around. It was night, the fire was still going. "What happened?"

"You were having a nightmare." Harris was still on his back, hands up defensively, staring at him. "Sort of. You were staring again."

"I was asleep." He remembered all of it, beginning to end. It made bile rise in his throat. For the first time in what seemed like forever, he didn't feel strong. He felt weak and vulnerable and frightened.

"Spike?" Harris was getting up, coming toward him. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." He didn't want Harris near him, didn't want Harris to see him scared like this. He got to his feet and walked out past the fire, into the darkness. Outside, he took a few long deep breaths, testing the air. He smelled dust and woodsmoke and distant crud, water and Harris and little animals in the grass. Nothing else. No tigers. No massive, putrid giant with golden eyes. Except maybe…

He stood still for five minutes, trying to decide whether there was a current of something out there. His imagination was running away with him, that was all. He was tired, getting paranoid.

When he turned back, Harris was leaning against the mouth of the cave, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked bleak and baffled. Spike came back into the firelight and shook his head.

"Sorry. Just a bad dream."

"Your eyes were open. Again."

"Don't worry about it. It's okay, we're safe."

"You keep saying that." Harris tipped his head with a humorless half-smile. "It's exactly that kind of reassurance that makes me think we're doomed."

"We're not doomed." He was tired, and his shirt was sticking to his skin. He plucked at it and came back into the cave, let his legs fold and lay back on the stone. "Wish we had a proper bed, though."

"It's good for the posture." Harris sank down next to him, but sat upright, feeding twigs into the fire. Spike watched him through half-lidded eyes. The little flames leapt up and died down.

"Spike."

He was almost asleep; he opened his eyes and said, "Yeah?" Hoping it wasn't an emergency.

"You think we're really going to get back?"

Harris kept his eyes on the flames, as if they were an important project he was working on. Spike blinked slowly, feeling grit beneath his eyelids.

"I don't know," he said at last, because it was the only thing he could think of to say.

Harris nodded without surprise and kept feeding the fire.

Sometime much later, Spike woke up to find Harris curled up right next to him, practically around him. One of Harris's arms was thrown across Spike's chest. He was breathing steadily and deeply, his eyelids twitching.

Spike pressed his nose to the top of Harris's head, breathed in, and felt the dark snag of fear in his belly loosen a little bit.

When they woke up in the morning, Harris rolled away and went to take a piss without saying anything.

"Where did you get that?" Harris was staring at the deer like it was a hubcab, something completely bizarre and inexplicable. Spike smiled.

"There's a valley, a few miles off. Thousands of 'em in it." He dropped it in the dust and toed its belly. "Ought to keep you fed for a while."

"If the scurvy doesn't get me first." Harris crouched and studied the deer doubtfully. "So how does it go from this to burger?"

"You gut it," Spike said simply, plunging his arms into the stream up to the elbows. The cold water felt good. Running had felt good. Killing the deer had felt the best of all. "One thing about spending twenty years under Angelus's tender patronage, you learn how to gut."

Harris leaned back, swallowing hard, and Spike laughed.

"This," he said, "is going to get messy."

It got very messy. He did it naked so he'd still have clothes to wear afterward, and only washed off when it was finished. The skin was lying out four points to the compass, as neat as he could get it under the circumstances, the guts piled on top. There was plenty of meat, more than Harris could eat really, but there were also plenty more deer out there.

"That," Harris said, sitting slumped at the mouth of the cave while Spike rinsed off, "is the goriest thing I've ever seen. And I saw Showgirls."

Spike laughed, dousing himself. The dream, or whatever it had been, was completely gone now. The world was good again. He was the apex, the great white shark. The master of all he surveyed.

Harris ate a gory lunch of seared deer meat, burning his fingers on the blackened parts and grimacing at the ruby-red insides. Spike tried a bit himself, just to see. It was like eating a sponge that had been soaked in the real food, the blood. He frowned and held out the bit he was eating for Harris to take back.

"No good?"

He shrugged. Harris took the bite and popped it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Tastes like chicken."

"No it doesn't."

"I know. I just had to say that."

Spike lay back in the dust and let his arm fall out, so that the backs of his fingers touched Harris's leg. Harris didn't move away or comment. He didn't even seem to notice. He just kept working on the meat until he'd finished everything he could, and then he set it aside with a low groan.

"And that was the deer that was." He licked his thumb, then grimaced. "Gross."

Spike rolled onto his side and studied Harris for a couple of moments, Long enough to let him know he was being studied, long enough to give him a chance to get up and walk away. He didn't.

So Spike reached out and pulled Harris's hand to his mouth. There was blood on his fingers, warm and salty. Spike licked it off, already reaching for Harris's other hand. Harris cleared his throat, but let Spike do it. Then they were sitting there with Harris's wrists in Spike's hands, Harris's fingers wet from Spike's mouth. Staring at each other.

"I guess you did buy me dinner," Harris said, and leaned down. His mouth was tentative, delicious. He was off-balance, so Spike pulled gently and guided him down onto the stone, still kissing. Warm breath in his mouth, a little quick, a little scared. A taste of blood, a tongue just barely touching his lips. The hesitancy was incredible, inflaming. It made Spike want to roll over on top of Harris and cover him, keep him safe and feed him, fuck him, own him completely. He kissed harder, bringing his hand up to Harris's jaw. Harris made a soft sound and parted his lips a little wider.

Gradually they interlocked, Spike's leg in between Harris's, Harris's hand up Spike's shirt, flat in the middle of his back. Harris was breathing fast now, his heart beating in his throat. Spike ducked his head and sucked Harris's fingers back into his mouth, tasting blood and sweat, teasing with his teeth.

"God, fuck—" When Spike opened his eyes, he saw Harris watching with amazement. "Jesus, Spike." The sound of his own name was riveting. He pushed his hips forward and felt Harris's hard-on, incontrovertible alongside his own. Harris made a little whining sound in his throat.

Smiling, Spike got Harris's belt undone, got his own jeans down, got both of them out. When he touched Harris's dick, Harris sucked in breath like he'd been burned. His pupils were gigantic, his expression stunned. Maybe he hadn't done this before. Not with another bloke, at least. Spike gave that about a second's worth of thought, then wrapped his fingers around Harris's dick and started to stroke. Harris's eyes snapped closed, and his mouth fell open as if on a hinge. His teeth were white against his sunburn. Spike leaned over and kissed him, tongue first, matching the movement of his hand.

Maybe Harris hadn't done this before, but Spike had. He knew where the edge was, what the telltale signs were, and he backed off before Harris went over it. Just before. Harris was gasping, sweating, staring at him wide-eyed like he'd invented something incredible. Spike smiled at him, then put the pads of his fingers against Harris's lips.

"What--?"

"Open up."

Harris opened up, his eyelids falling slightly as he sucked on Spike's fingers. It felt incredible, right in every way, the perfect prelude. Spike gave himself a moment to thrust hard against Harris's thigh, scraping himself over the fabric of Harris's trousers. Then he pulled his fingers out and pushed Harris onto his side. Harris opened his mouth to ask, but Spike was already running his wet hand down and around, into the cleft of Harris's ass. Harris's eyes widened, and he jerked.

"Hey—whoah—"

Spike stopped moving his hand, stopped thrusting. For a second they lay still and looked at each other. Harris was struggling to catch his breath, Spike noticed.

"You want to stop?"

"I just—" Harris licked his lips and glanced around, as if looking for assistance. "I'm just not sure this is such a great idea."

Spike ran a wet finger over Harris's asshole, and he jerked again. This time his dick jerked too.

"Don't have to do anything." It was true—if Harris wanted to stop, they'd stop. In his dream, the body beneath his had been willing and eager. That was what he wanted. To be strong, to be light, to bring pleasure. "Just this for a while, yeah?"

"Why—" Harris swallowed, as Spike's fingers moved over him. "Why are you doing this, exactly? I mean, Jesus. Fuck." He lowered his head and closed his eyes. "God, okay. That's—God."

Spike laughed quietly, and licked the fingers of his other hand.

They just did that for a while, Harris following along nervously at first, then losing himself bit by bit and starting to lead. He was a good kisser, an interesting kisser. He was a man, which meant he thought he had to lead, but really he liked to be led. When Spike bit his lip, his dick jerked. When Spike said, I want to fuck you, his heart kicked over and his whole body flushed. Interesting.

"I don't—" He stopped. "I mean, I don't think that's—" He stopped again.

Spike let that go, and went back to kissing him. His whole body felt alive, attuned, singing like a wineglass. His dick felt leaden, leaking at the tip. He couldn't stop shoving it against Harris's warm skin, feeling the cat-tongue friction of it, the delicious burn. "I want to fuck you," he said again. "Please, yeah, let me—" His fingers found Harris's entrance and breached him, just slightly. "God, I want to be inside you."

Harris's breath sounded desperate, almost like sobs. He was on top now, naked except for his T-shirt, God knew where his trousers had gone. Spike was the opposite, shirtless but still in his jeans. He arched up, pressing his dick through Harris's legs, rubbing along his balls and thigh. Harris's face looked stunned, scared and entranced. His own dick was pointing due north, flat against his belly.

"Just for a minute," Spike went on, aware that he was begging but not able to stop. "Just a bit, just let me—" He reared up again, sliding frustratedly into air.

Harris said nothing, but when Spike's fingers entered him again he pressed down, his hands flexing on Spike's chest. The sound he made was strangled and thick. Inside, he felt silken. Tight and hot, like a fist. Spike moved his fingers and Harris arched, grabbing Spike's shoulders. His mouth opened and he hissed out a long breath, almost like a sigh.

"Yeah?" Spike used his other hand to jack Harris off, slowly and deliberately. Harris pressed up and back, his face lost, his throat pulsing. After a while, he reached down and felt blindly for Spike's dick.

"Not like this—" Spike nudged Harris's left knee, and got out from under when he lifted it up. Behind him, he took hold of Harris's waist and kissed the back of his neck. "Okay?"

Harris nodded, his shoulders tightening slightly. Spike bent him forward and knelt behind him, spat in his hand, then rubbed the dark line of Harris's ass, straight down and around. He was so warm, so fragile. Bent over like this, he had no way of defending himself. But it felt right, it felt exactly right, to cover his body and part him and start to press inside—

Harris gave a low moan, then a yelp, and then he was scrambling free, panting, his eyes wide and frightened. Spike fell back onto his heels, startled.

"You okay?"

Harris wiped his forearm over his mouth and said nothing. After a minute he let out a shaky laugh.

"Sorry. That was just…I don't think I'm ready for that."

Spike took that in, then nodded slowly. "Right. Sorry."

"It's okay." Harris scratched his ear, glanced down at his dick, and laughed again. "Obviously. I'm okay. I'm just—"

Spike waited.

"I think," Harris said, after a moment's thought, "I'm gonna hold out for jewelry on that one."

There was another pause. Spike reached for the zipper of his jeans, nodding again to show he understood. He felt strangely jolted and crushed, not just rejected but somehow frightened. This was supposed to go a certain way—he'd dreamed it like that. He'd just been following the dream, but it wasn't working, and now he didn’t know what to do.

"Hang on." Harris came back and knelt in front of him, his face earnest now. "Look, I have no idea how we got going with this, but since we did, we might as well finish it off right."

Spike smiled. "Gallant of you."

"Fuck gallant." Frustrated now, Harris kissed him hard, his hands on Spike's shoulder and jaw. The bristles of his beard scraped Spike's lips. When he pulled back, his eyes were lit up darkly, the pupils huge. "Here, look—"

Maybe he'd never done this before, but he seemed to have some pretty clear ideas about how it could work. He folded his legs beneath him, took hold of his own dick, and wrapped his free hand around the back of Spike's neck, bringing their heads close together. "Like this, yeah?"

Spike, ever the fast learner, took the hint and jerked himself off while Harris breathed hard into his mouth. Spike came first. He knelt there watching, floating almost, while Harris's hand moved and his eyes closed and he got that particular flush some people took on in their throat and cheeks. His spine arched, he said God, fuck, baby--and then it was all over. He was gasping for air, one hand catching his weight on the stone as he folded.

"You okay?" Spike put a hand on Harris's back, then took it away when he felt the damp heat coming through the shirt. He felt intrusive, somehow. Off kilter. Something hadn't been right, and he still had the little bud of fear in his belly. Little, but growing.

"Yeah." Harris picked himself up, wiped sweat off his upper lip, and tried to smile. "Straight guys do this all the time, right?"

Spike shrugged, zipped up his jeans, and found his shirt. Pulling it on, he noticed the fire was almost out. They still needed more wood. And he had to get rid of the deer guts.

Harris's trousers were lying in a heap near his shirt. He picked them up, shook them right-side-out, and handed them over.

"Thanks," Harris said quietly. Too quietly, but Spike's mind was on other things. The deer guts near the cave, that was a stupid thing to do. The meat—he should find a safe place to keep it. They should start keeping the fire lit all the time. Now when he stood in the clean air at the mouth of the cave, he was sure he could smell something big out there. He couldn't see it yet, but that didn't mean it hadn't seen them.

He thought of the huge yellow eye staring into his face, and went out to clear away the entrails.

Part Six

The afternoon faded into evening, and he couldn't shake the weird strong sense of things being wrong. Of danger, of the dream eye watching them. This was what the humans felt, he thought, when they sensed they were being stalked from the rooftops. This was what made them go momentarily insane and run into dark alleys to escape. There was always a connection between the predator and the prey. He just wasn't used to being on the prey side of the equation.

It made him more and more angry and afraid, because he couldn't see anything on the plain and he couldn't smell anything definite on the wind. Harris had gone silent, probably taking Spike's mood as some kind of rebuke for bad sex. Spike wanted to say something to reassure him, but he couldn't sit still long enough to think up the words. He'd do it later, when the sense of threat was gone. When he couldn't smell the faint, dark suggestions on the breeze. When the hairs on the back of his neck lay down flat again.

He'd taken the deer guts far away and buried them, then put the rest of the meat in a pool downstream. He'd brought firewood back in stacks, while Harris sat watching without saying a word. Now he was standing out in front of the cave, smelling the wind while the sun went down. He'd been standing there for half an hour.

"Spike."

He turned; Harris was sitting at the edge of the cave, his chin on his hand. He looked strangely…glum. Not frightened, not on edge. Just tired and low. The bruise on his cheek had faded to green.

Spike walked back to the mouth of the cave and, after a moment's hesitation, sat down next to Harris. They didn’t say anything for a while.

Finally, Harris shifted and turned his head to look at Spike. "You don't have any more cigarettes, do you?"

Spike shook his head. They'd gone into the river when he'd tackled the second cat.

"Too bad." Harris went back to looking at the horizon. "So…don't take this the wrong way, but you kind of suck at afterglow."

"There's something out there." Spike poked a loose stick into the fire with his heel. "What you saw, before. With the deer."

Harris took a deep breath and looked out into the plain. It was dark now, Spike realized. Dark fell fast in the desert. "Strictly speaking, they're not deer."

"Whatever. You saw them running. There's something out there, and I think it's coming this way."

There was a pause while Harris considered that. Finally he ran his hands over his face and half-smiled. "Like I said, you could stand to work on your morning-after patter. Giant monster threats are more of a come-hither tactic for most people."

Spike scraped his heel through the dust and said nothing.

"You're the biggest bad out here," Harris said, sounding falsely hearty. "You've been eating sabre-tooth tigers for breakfast. You're scaring the shit out of me, if that's any consolation."

"It's big," Spike said, scuffing out the marks he'd made with his boot. "I don't think…"

Harris waited. After a minute he reached out and drew the club to him, laying it across his knees.

"You don't think what?"

Spike shook his head. The fire popped and Harris jumped. It was stupid, what he was doing. Getting them both worked up over nothing, over a dream and the faintest thread of a smell.

"Doesn't matter," he said, getting up and clapping dust off his palms. "Doesn't matter what it is, there's no way it's getting through me."

"I'm right behind you," Harris said softly, with a kind of knee-jerk self-denigration. Spike dropped a few more sticks on the fire and lay down on the other side of the cave, where he could pretend to fall asleep.

Somehow he must have really dropped off, because when he opened his eyes the fire was low and there was a heavy smell in the air. It smelled thick and dry, totally foreign and somehow, at the same time, familiar. It made him think of dead leaves, piles of dead winter leaves and yellow London fog—the acrid eyeburn of it when the wind hadn't changed in weeks. It made him think, briefly, of Angelus. It was bigger than Angelus, though.

Harris was sitting against the other side of the cave, the club in both hands, his legs gathered in tight to his chest. His eyes were wide, staring out the mouth of the cave. He glanced at Spike, then looked back out into the darkness. His face was white and he was breathing fast.

Spike stood up slowly, bracing one hand against the rock, trying to see past the light of the fire. In the corner of his eye, Harris was shaking his head. Spike ignored him. Without thinking about it, he slipped his shirt off over his head, and stepped out of his boots. Then he walked around the fire and out of the cave, into the darkness.

There was nothing out there. Nothing he could see, at least—just the open desert and the stars, and no little animals moving around this time. Everything was still and silent. The smell was stronger now, tickling the back of his throat and making his eyes water. It was getting into his gut, making him feel sick and frightened. He stopped breathing. Total silence except for the water in the stream, the faint settling of the fire. Harris's panicky breathing, back in the cave.

Then something dropped to the ground behind him, a small sound like a coin falling, and he turned. Harris was staring at a pebble in the dust just outside the cave. Spike looked at it too, then looked up. It was a few feet above the mouth of the cave, clinging head-down to the rock with dull black claws. It had golden eyes the size of teacups. They were fixed on him, on his face. It was so big he felt like he couldn't see all of it at once, like he needed a minute to take it all in.

He didn't get a minute. It dropped to the ground on all fours and hit him before he even saw it move. He hit the dust and skidded, losing skin on his back. He was in game face and on his feet in seconds, feeling the instantaneous rush—but this time it didn’t make him feel enormous or powerful. This time he felt small and naked. The claws had ripped his chest and belly. Blood was soaking his jeans. He couldn't tell how deep it had gone, because he couldn't feel it properly yet. Just a dull hot ache, and under that, the flower of panic. He wasn't big enough for this, he couldn't win this. He'd already dreamed how this would come out.

Then Harris yelled, and Spike started running before he could think.

It was halfway into the cave, trying to skirt the fire. It was so big it couldn't fit all the way inside. Its back legs and long, flat tail were outside in the dust. Inside, Harris was backed up against the wall, yelling. Spike grabbed one of the back legs at the joint and hauled. In his dream, he'd broken a twelve-foot tiger's back like that. Planted his legs and snapped its spine, but this time it wasn't a twelve-foot tiger. It was twenty feet long, or even thirty, and its skin felt black and oily, and when he yanked its leg it turned with switchblade speed and smashed him sideways into the rock.

His skull connected and he saw stars, then a golden moon. But there wasn't a moon here, and the moon didn't descend like that, getting lower and closer and smelling like acid rain. The moon looked him in the eye, and gently tipped his head to the side. He had a last view of the open desert, the beautiful purple plain where he could have run forever and killed everything in sight. Harris was going to die, he realized. The thought filled him with a miserable fury, so thick he could taste it.

Then there was a sudden jolt, and the moon withdrew. There was something bright and hot beside his face, burning his skin. He flinched and something grabbed his arm. Harris. Harris was half-carrying, half-dragging him over the dust. There was blood all over the place. It had been a stupid idea to bring the deer meat back to the cave.

"Spike." They were stalled, the flaming stick guttering, Harris gasping for breath. Not ten feet away, the golden eyes sank low to the ground and waited. There was a low, purring growl in the air. "Spike, get up. Come on."

He had a bad feeling his guts were coming out, but he rolled onto his side and got to his knees. Harris was holding the burning club in one hand, waving it like a caveman at the monster in the darkness. They were on the wrong side of the fire, the monster side. Harris was shaking, and the club was starting to burn out.

Spike's arms and legs had turned to lead, but he hauled himself to his feet and took the last few steps into the cave, past the fire. Blood ran out of his belly and into the dust in a steady stream. His ears were ringing, and his feet felt very far away. Behind him, Harris crowded into the cave and crouched down to throw more wood onto the fire. Outside, the moons moved closer, then subsided again.

"What the fuck is that?" Harris asked, lighting the end of the club again and swinging it through the air above the fire. His voice was high and sharp with fear. "What kind of giant fucking tree sloth monster kitty is that, exactly?"

"'s not a fucking tree sloth," Spike slurred, sinking down the rock, his legs losing coherence. "'s fast."

"It's a freaking naked mole rat." Harris was tossing handfuls of grass into the fire, wood chips, whatever little things he could find. There wasn't much wood left, Spike realized. "It's the naked mole rat that ate Three Mile Island. Did it come down the cliff?"

Spike couldn't see that it mattered where it had come from, so he took the opportunity to study his midriff instead. The claws had opened him up in three neat horizontal slices, exposing some bone and pink bits, and letting out a lot of his blood. Experimentally, he pressed the edges of one slice together, and was hit for the first time by the real pain of the wound. It made him snap his fangs and dig his heels against the stone.

"Oh, Jesus." Harris was staring at him, his mouth open. "Oh fuck, Spike. Are you okay?"

He couldn't talk for a few seconds. When he could, he said, "I'm fine."

"I think you're hurt."

Spike spat blood to the side and wiped his mouth with a shaking hand. "You think?"

Harris was still holding the club at arm's length out into the darkness, staring at him in horror while on the other side of the fire the twin moons rose up and stalked a circle. Spike watched them go round, feeling his own fear drain away. That was it, the monster of his dream. It seemed so familiar now. Right, even. He wasn't afraid of it anymore, just worried that he wouldn't be able to kill it, and it would get Harris. There wasn't enough firewood to last all night. He just needed a little rest, and then he'd get up and have his go.

"Build that up a bit," he said, nodding at the fire. They had to keep the fire high to give him a chance to get back on his feet. An hour or two was all he needed.

Harris looked worried, but threw another handful of sticks on the flames. The moons receded as the fire leapt up. Spike used his palms to make a weak seal over his belly, and closed his eyes. For a little while he drifted.

When he heard Harris say his name again, he opened his eyes. Harris was crouched next to him, looking pinched and pale. The wood was all gone. Spike looked out into the darkness; the moons were still there, watching. He grimaced.

"Guess it's not going to just bugger off on its own."

"I tried foul language." Harris's voice was tight, and he was wearing the half-smile he got when he was really frightened. "So what's Plan B?"

Wincing, Spike unstuck his hands from his gut. "Plan B is, I go kill it."

"Uh-huh. And Plan C?"

Spike was too busy struggling to his feet to reply. Harris caught his arm and helped him. "You're hurt, Spike."

"I'm fine." It was agony to stand up straight. He had a bad moment of feeling like he was going to throw up.

"You're not fine. You're going to get minced." Harris was holding onto him, making things difficult, and he felt a flash of irritation. "Spike, you can't go out there."

"We can't stay in here." He nodded at the fire. "That goes out, we're mole food."

"There has to be—" Harris broke off and looked around the cave. "Okay, there's a switch, right? Secret passageway. Chopper pad, I don't know—"

"I'm going out while there's still a fire," Spike said. "I'm going to kill it. And then we're going to eat roast fucking mole for supper."

Harris stared at him, clearly trying to think of something else to suggest. Finally he said, "Did I ever tell you you're sexy when you're heroic?"

"No."

"Well, now seemed like a good time to mention it."

Spike smiled and held his hand out for the club. "Mind if I take that?"

Harris looked at it almost ruefully, then handed it over. "Spike—"

Spike took the club, examined the burnt-out end, and pushed it into the fire. They should kiss or something, he thought—it would be good to do that one more time. He should say something about the sex, about how it didn’t matter, it was good just the way it was. He should say something true and important, something Harris would remember if he got out of this alive. The kind of thing you said before you went out to kill a giant naked mole rat. All he could think of was, Next time, get more firewood.

"Spike—" Harris's tone was different, a warning now. Spike looked up. The moons were still there, but the fire was dying down. He raised the club, and saw that the end was burning pretty well now. Well, all right. He turned to Harris. Who wasn't looking at him at all. Who was looking out into the darkness, but not at the golden moon-eyes. At something else—at a faint pale shimmer in the darkness beyond them.

"Is that," Harris asked, "what I think it is?"

Spike squinted at the shimmer. It was growing, getting closer or bigger. It was so dark, and what he was seeing was so unexpected, that he couldn't make it out at first. After a few seconds it stopped growing and just hung there, trembling slightly like a bubble waiting to be blown. Maybe thirty feet outside of the cave, half that from the monster.

"I believe," Harris said, "that that is what we call a deus ex machina."

"''s a portal," Spike said, swinging the club experimentally.

"Potato, potato." Harris was rooting in the fire for another stick; he came up with a little one with a good flame on the end. "Are we running for it?"

Spike gauged the distance again, and pressed his lips together. "I'll back it off, you go through."

"And here I was thinking we should just scatter willy-nilly." Harris lifted his stick high and squinted out into the darkness. "Where is that big fucking nightmare?"

"Don't worry about that. Just go." Spike was already walking out, the club in front of him like a sword, blood pattering in the dust. From the corner of his eye he saw Harris start for the portal at a sprint. His torch went out almost immediately, and he was just prey again, helpless and running.

The monster crouched, coiled, and went for him in silent leap. Spike got between and swung with the club, connecting with a solid, bone-jarring thump. It squalled and hit the dust with its legs pedaling madly, its eyes wide. Then it was up again, impossibly fast, ignoring Spike but going for Harris with its long black claws extended, hooking for him like a bear hooking for a fish. Spike ducked his head and launched himself, crossing its trajectory, the muscles in his belly pulling apart. He meant to connect with it, slam his body into its noggin and knock it down again, but at the last moment it flinched back and he was free and clear. Harris was safe in front of him, the portal right there.

There was just enough time to feel a flash of incredulity, and to wrap his arms around Harris from behind. He twisted them so he passed through first, taking the shock of the crossing in his shoulders and back.

They hit a floor together and slid until they jarred up against something hard. For a few seconds, things were dark and loopy and he couldn't move. He couldn’t unlock his arms from around Harris's body. All he could think was He's alive.

Then he heard voices, trickling into his head like radio. His eyes cleared. They were lying on the floor of the training room, up against the base of the wall. There was a streak of blood across the court where they'd slid from the portal circle. Harris was coughing, trying to move.

"Oh my God—" That was Red. She was crouching down, touching their shoulders, smelling like electrical magic. "Xander. Spike? Can you hear me?"

"He's in game face," someone said, and Spike thought, Really? He couldn't feel the fangs.

"They're hurt," someone else said. "There's blood—"

Spike's hands finally unlocked, and Harris rolled out of his arms and lay coughing on the floor. Red patted him down nervously, then looked at Spike and gasped. "Oh my God, Spike." She turned and said to someone he couldn’t see, "Get the first aid kit."

I'm fine, he tried to say, but his mouth wouldn't work and Harris kept coughing, and all he could feel was a leaden sense of loss, as if somebody had already died.

"There's another one," Red said, pointing around the back of the crypt. "He went that way—"

"I got him." Buffy pulled her stake out of the one she'd just dusted, and was immediately tackled from behind by the big one with braces. "Hey, watch it!"

"I'll handle it." Spike left Red and Buffy smashing the big vamp into the granite, and went around back. The vamp he was after was leaping headstones for the woods, his cheap nylon jacket flapping. Spike caught him just before he got into the trees, jerked him around by his hood, and snapped his neck. He crumbled to a fine powder in silence.

Walking back, Spike brushed dust off his shirt and tried not to feel depressed. He'd mostly stopped having the dreams now, the ones where he was broken in half under twin gold moons. His belly had healed ages ago. And things with Harris were more or less ironed out. I think we should just let it go, Harris had said, the day he'd come over and sat on the sarcophagus. I'm okay, you're okay. The whole pon farr thing was just kind of…

Spike had waited, staring at the ceiling with the whiskey bottle in his hand. Red had given him a bunch of painkillers, but they weren't working very well.

I'd be dead if it wasn't for you, Harris said at last. I know that. I owe you…well, feel free to work out a monthly installment plan.

You don't owe me anything. Spike took a swig from the bottle, enjoying the burn. I don't know what the fuck I was doing.

Well, frankly, I'm a little baffled by some of it too. Harris wore a rueful half-smile, running his thumb along the edge of the stone lid. But I know you didn't mean it. It's okay, Spike.

Spike had a brief flash of clutching a warm body against his belly, and couldn't tell if it was from the dream, or the afternoon in the cave. Maybe it was just the memory of holding Harris as they went through the portal. He frowned and took another drink. So we let it go, he said.

We do, Harris said firmly. He got up and started for the door, moving a little stiffly. Then he paused and looked back. You sure you want to stay here? I mean, you're all racked up…I've got a spare room if you want—

I'm fine, Spike said. Just need to sleep. Tell them I'll be around again in a few days.

Harris had left, and Spike had dragged himself down to bed and fallen into a deep, dark hole. He'd stayed away from the Scoobies for almost two weeks, waiting for his brain to sort out what had happened. The differences between the desert world and this one. He felt so weak here, like a lightly-sketched outline of himself. No depth, no strength. Running other vamps to the ground was like flipping goldfish out of a bowl.

But he was getting used to it. The dreams were almost gone and his gut was healed and Harris was acting normal around him again. So it was all right, it was all turning out all right, and there was no reason to feel depressed. Portals were a tricky game. A few days in the desert world had been six months here, and Red had been half-crazed with worry by the time she'd finally found them. Besides, it could have been worse. He could have gone through the thing with the Slayer, who probably would have staked him the minute he tried to lay lips on her.

He came around the side of a crypt and almost walked into somebody. Two somebodies, actually. One was a big vamp in an Oakland Raiders jacket. The other was Harris, dangling against the wall of the crypt with his feet three inches off the grass, his stake hand trapped behind him, his head jerked the other way so his jugular was exposed. The vamp was holding him in a full-body press, leaning in for the bite.

Without thinking, Spike reached out and grabbed the vamp's hair at the forehead, snapping his head back. The vamp yelled, dropped Harris, and turned. Spike gave a deep snarl and broke its jaw with his fist. Then he grabbed its hair again, yanked it to its knees, and smashed its face into his knee. It reeled backward and he kicked it over, bent down, and staked it so hard he got six inches of turf.

He pulled the stake free, stood up, and saw Harris still lying on the grass a couple of feet away. No bite marks, no bruises, just a look of confusion on his face. Spike walked over and held out his hand.

"You okay?"

Harris stared up at him, his eyes huge. He seemed taken by surprise, as if it had all happened so fast he couldn't tell quite what was going on. Then his gaze dropped to Spike's hand, and he brought his own hand up automatically and caught hold.

At the same moment, Spike was hit by a wave of sudden lust in the air, like the salty smell of the ocean. It was instantaneous—Harris's eyes on his, their hands clasped together, an immediate, unspoken connection. Spike stood there dumbly while Harris pulled himself to his feet. Their hands stayed latched together. Harris's skin was warm, almost hot.

"Yeah," he said. His eyes were urgent, his breath fast in a new, different way.

"Good," Spike said. They stared at each other. Spike couldn't hear anything except Harris's breathing, Harris's heart.

"Do you want to--?" Harris started, then broke off.

"Yeah."

"Me too."

"Where?"

Harris looked around quickly, as if he thought he might find them a motel in the cemetery. "My place. But we have to tell them—"

"Right."

"Okay, yeah. Come on."

Harris started to go, then turned suddenly back and they were kissing. Harris's mouth was hot, desperate, his hands hard against Spike's jaw. Spike growled in his throat and kissed back, pressing forward so Harris stumbled. That made his heart kick up another notch, and Spike grabbed for his belt. His brain was a confusion of images—the red dust, the body moving beneath his, the tiger writhing in his arms.

"Jesus Christ," Harris gasped, shoving Spike away and wiping his mouth. "I'll meet you there, okay?"

"Yeah, okay." Wiping his own lips, Spike turned and started walking in the direction of Harris's apartment. In the back of his head, he kept replaying the scene: the skin of Harris's neck laid bare, the crunch of bone under his fist. The urgent jab of Harris's hip and dick against his hands.

He lit a cigarette as he walked, and noticed that his fingers were shaking.

Harris's place wasn’t far off, and he only had to lurk a couple of minutes at the bottom of the stairs before Harris walked up past him.

"Hey." He stepped into the light, and Harris stumbled back against the railing in surprise.

"Holy shit. What are you, Lord Voldemort?"

"Not my fault you don't look where you're going."

"You could try to be a little less…sinister."

"I'm sinister?" Spike felt genuinely surprised, and a little flattered. "You're just saying that."

Harris paused, his brow furrowed and his mouth half-open. Then he shook his head. "No, you know what? I'm not even going to get into that. Because that way lies a long and frustrating wrangle, and what I actually want is sex."

"Sex I can do." Spike flicked his cigarette into the darkness and started up the steps. "I'm good at sex."

"And you're classy, too," Harris muttered, sorting out his keys. But at the same time, the smell of lust came off him a little stronger. Spike walked up the steps and stood behind him, watching while he tried the key in the lock. The back of his neck was fascinating, bare and personal. Spike leaned forward and breathed in.

"You're smelling me," Harris said.

"Yeah."

"That's…not unhot."

"You smell good."

Harris left the keys hanging from the lock, turned around, and said, "Bingo." His pupils were huge, his cheeks were flushed. Spike pressed him to the doorframe and kissed him hard.

Harris's hands were on his face, in his hair, digging under the collar of his coat to get at his shoulders and neck. It felt fucking amazing. The porch light was too bright, and he could hear cars in the street below—it wasn't anything like his dream. But Harris tasted familiar, and his tongue was hot and insistent in Spike's mouth. He was making a low groan in the base of his throat, almost a protest. It was a very good sound, Spike thought dimly, plucking at Harris's shirt.

"Whoah." Harris freed his mouth and used his right hand to scrabble behind him for the key. "I'm thinking we should take this inside."

Spike reached behind Harris's back, pressing their bodies together while he turned the key and opened the door. Harris was radiating heat, throwing it off like a furnace. When Spike pushed the door open, he stumbled back a step and caught himself on the doorframe.

"Tell me something," he said earnestly. "Is it weird to get turned on by someone killing something for you?"

"Depends."

"That's what I thought." Harris took another step back into his apartment. "I figure I'll work it out in the morning."

"Might have a lot to work out." Spike had been in the place before, but he still paused before stepping over the threshold. "Me killing things might be the least of your worries."

Harris frowned slightly. "I've slept with guys before, Spike."

Spike tried to look like he'd seen that coming. "Right, sure. I knew that."

"In Africa. And here, a couple of times. It's not—whatever, it doesn't matter." He pulled his keys out of the lock and held the door open. "Anyway. Yes. Sleeping with you may be a bad idea, but not because I'm straight."

"Yeah?" Against his own better judgment, Spike stepped inside and glanced around. Still the same messy bachelor flat, with the unread newspapers piled by the door. "Why, then?"

"Because you're you." Harris swung the door closed and tossed the keys onto the end table. "Because you're kind of a friend, and you saved my life, and when you do that thing—" He paused, swallowed, and flushed a little more. "That nutty protective thing…"

Spike, smelling lust, sidled closer. "Yeah?"

"It makes me want to, uh…"

"Yeah?" They were so close now he could see the vein pulsing in the soft skin of Harris's throat.

"Do stuff," Harris breathed, and wrapped his arms around Spike's shoulders. They stumbled backward, kissing and stepping out of their shoes. "Bad stuff." They ran into the couch, Harris on the bottom. He let himself fall backward over the arm, pulling his shirt over his head in one motion.

"Bad stuff," Spike said, shucking the coat. "That sounds good."

"Uh-huh." Harris's fingers were on Spike's belt, working fast and clumsily. "That was my thought too."

Spike helped with his belt and zipper, and then he was losing the jeans, and Harris was struggling out of his own trousers, flopping like a fish. Naked, he was fucking gorgeous. Broad-shouldered and solid in the middle, with a solid line of dark hair from his navel to his crotch. Mouth open, eyes wide, smiling. Legs splayed.

"I changed my mind about the jewelry," he said.

Spike smiled and crawled onto the couch, feeling warm skin against his belly and chest. Harris bucked up against him, his dick hot and hard in Spike's groin. It felt incredible. As good as being king of the desert, as good as being the great white shark.

"Listen," he said, one last hesitation still there, like a veil keeping him from the clear view. "What I said, that night—"

"Yeah." Harris's mouth found his throat, and for a second Spike closed his eyes in bliss. Then he opened them again, and pushed Harris away.

"About loving you." He got that far, then just hung there. Harris's face was open, expectant, almost fond. Spike tried to think of something to say, but there wasn't much he knew that could follow that up.

Harris smiled. "You took a mole for me."

"Didn't mean to."

"And yet." Harris's fingers found their way up the back of Spike's neck, into his hair. Soft teasing touches. "If it makes you feel any better, I don't think I've listened to anything you've said in years."

Spike considered briefly, then nodded and bent to the pressure of warm hands on the back of his neck. A warm mouth meeting his, warm skin against his own. Somewhere, a red desert wavered into the horizon. Right here, though, was perfection.

The End