Red Right Hand

by
Witling

Part Three

Say what you would about being drained, dead, and revived as a soulless creature of the night - it was a better deal than lugging I-beams and living in fear of the bank for thirty-five years solid. And really, it wasn't like the Scooby gang needed him for anything. Anya'd find somebody fast; she looked great in black. Buffy'd blame herself, but that wasn't new. Giles would repress. And Willow... Well, thinking about Willow still sometimes gave him a little pang. He wished he'd known it was coming, so he could have said goodbye. Told her to sell his Captain America collection on eBay, because seriously, it was worth cash by now. Told her he was adjusting fine, and now that he thought about it, she'd look fucking great in black leather, maybe they could turn the car around and just -

"You coming?" Spike was back at the edge of the roof, staring down at him. And oh yeah, he was supposed to be thinking about how the hell to get up there. Adjusting fine. Right.

"Yeah, I'm just - " He should have paid attention to how Spike did it. Except it had happened kind of fast, and he hadn't really thought they were going to go up, he'd been thinking more around, which was a habit he was going to have to get over, apparently. But really, how hard could it be? "Uh, yeah. Be right there."

There was an iron fence next to the building, about six feet tall - he could use that. Stand on it, maybe, and, uh - he'd figure that part out once he was up there. He grabbed two of the iron bars and stood there a second, wondering where his feet went.

"What are you - " Spike sounded exasperated, which was pretty much the status quo these days. "Look, it's simple, just get on the fence and hop up."

"Yeah, thanks." Xander studied the top of the fence, which was even with his eyes. There was nowhere for his feet. "Listen, how do I get on, exactly?"

"Jump, you idiot."

"Right." He tested the bars in his hand, thought he felt a little give, and almost backed off. But Spike was standing right there, and he'd done it like it was falling off a log, and okay, what if he just -

He lunged and leapt without much clue where he was going to end up, and somehow, against all laws of physics, he was on top of the fence. For a brief, startled second. Then he was heading right over it, facefirst toward the cement on the other side, still clutching the bars in both hands. Something hardened from his shoulders through his fingers, and he found himself hanging upside down, gasping, the top of the fence digging into his gut.

After a few seconds, he realized that sound somewhere above and behind him was Spike. Laughing.

"Very. Fucking." He shifted his grip and started to haul himself back up. "Funny." God, he'd been inches from racking himself. He paused to assess the goods, sighed with relief to find everything still in place, and stood up slowly on top of the fence. It was easy, now that he was up here. "Asshole."

"Come on, Balanchine. Unless you're punctured somewhere."

"Yeah, come on down here and I'll show you punctured." The roof was ten feet above the top of the fence, and there were no handholds. He studied it, feeling the back of his neck start to crawl. "I can jump this?"

"Like I said, just hop up. Pillock."

"Someday," Xander said, stepping back and scratching the back of his neck. "I'm going to look that up. And you're going to be sorry." Okay, so far the best strategy had been not to think too much. So -

He jumped, expecting to hit the wall and slide straight back down with a squeegee noise. Instead he was over the roof, past Spike, skidding to his hands and knees on the tarred gravel. Rocks in his kneecaps, skin off his palms. It hurt, but not so much that he had to pay attention to it. Mainly he felt...high.

"Holy fuck." He stood up shakily, staring down at his shoes and then turning to look back. He was ten feet from the edge of the roof, easy. Spike was walking toward him with his hands in his pockets and an amused expression on his face.

"Who's a clever boy?" he asked, smirking.

"Holy fuck," Xander said again. He couldn't help it; he had to walk back and take a look over the edge of the roof. It was a long way down. As soon as he noticed that, his neck was itching again, because how the hell did he get down, exactly? "Spike?"

"Yeah?" He was lighting a cigarette, walking away to the far edge of the roof, as casually as if they were on the sidewalk in Sunnydale. Instead of on top of a systems supply warehouse, whatever the hell that was.

"Where are we going?" Spike was at the far edge of the roof now, standing with his back to Xander, looking down. He lifted his arms lazily, the cigarette jammed between his left-hand knuckles. The duster made him look like a big bat.

"Out for a walk," he said, and smiled at Xander over his shoulder. Then he stepped out into the air and dropped from sight.

Apparently, going for walks was Spike's way of teaching Xander the ropes. And there wasn't much walking involved. Sometimes it seemed like Spike's world was just a giant obstacle course, just a bunch of stuff to get over and around and through, usually while chain-smoking Marlboros and providing a running monologue about how the media machine had ruined rock and roll.

"It's all a sales pitch," he said, stepping up onto the bumper of a parked cark and starting to walk up the windshield. "Nobody's actually making music anymore. Just products, like bloody cheeseburgers. Here, we're going up." Up meant the fire escape; before Xander could even double back to get onto the sedan, Spike was halfway up the building.

"It's all just a big Habitrail to you, isn't it?" Xander gasped at the top, watching Spike study the distance to the roof of the building opposite. Then he jammed a hand into Spike's pocket and stole a cigarette. He liked smoking, he'd realized. It tasted good, and it was almost like eating, which he didn't actually like anymore, but which he sometimes missed. And the smell was familiar. Comforting, for some reason.

"Could you make that, you think?" Spike pointed at the far roof, ignoring the cigarette and letting Xander slip his lighter back into his pocket without comment. Xander squinted at the roof. Thirty feet, maybe forty.

"No way."

"What if you had to?" Spike cocked his head and studied the gap some more, then turned and walked back a few paces.

"Come on, Spike. No way, that's too far."

"I bet I can do it."

"You bet what, the use of your limbs? We're four storeys up."

"If I don't make it, you'll nurse me back to health, won't you?" Evil grin, and Xander just stood there silently, feeling the back of his neck prickle up. Don't do it, he wanted to say. Come on, don't do it, you're going to get hurt - The thought of Spike getting hurt kicked in suddenly, and the prickle went to a full electric shock. "Spike, cut it out."

Spike dropped his cigarette and ground it out under his heel, then craned his neck to gauge the distance again.

"Spike, no." He tried to make that sound firm, like a command, but it came out sounding desperate. "Quit being such a jerk - "

Spike was running before he could say anything else, and it was like the air woofed right out of Xander's gut, like he'd been punched and could hardly stand. Spike was at the edge in a second, and then he was in the air, big black bat, sailing. Then he was on the far roof, right on the lip, stumbling forward and laughing, turning around. Arms out, look at me stance.

"Made it!" he called, grinning.

Xander stood where he was, everything locked, his brain still treading water. Something in his spine and belly was curdling, tight and sour and frantic. Spike had landed a couple of feet from the edge of the roof. No more than that. Could have missed it. Easily.

"Fucking idiot," Xander whispered, and saw that he'd made fists of both his hands. Crushed his cigarette right in half, nothing left in his fingers but paper and dry shredded tobacco. A second later, he realized he was in game face.

"Told you!" Spike called. Pulling his cigarettes out of his pocket, digging for his lighter. "Easy as - "

Xander started running without even thinking, and it was perfect, his stride was just right for the edge of the roof, he hit it right on the ball and flew out, no hesitation. That was how you had to do it, he realized immediately - that was how it was supposed to feel. Like flight. Then he realized he wasn't flying, he was falling. And he was going to be just short, he wasn't going to make it.

He hit the edge of the roof and scrambled for a handhold, a toehold, anything. Four storeys up. God, what if he broke his back? He was such a fucking idiot. His fingers dragged over concrete, brick, and where the hell was Spike? - and then suddenly he caught hold. With all ten fingers, right on the lip of the roof, his legs dangling free. He hauled, got one elbow up and then the other, and then he was standing on the edge of the roof, panting, his chest and belly and knees ringing from the impact.

Spike was standing right there, cigarette jammed in his mouth, staring at him.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he asked.

Xander raised one hand, pointed a finger at Spike, and then couldn't think of anything to say. "You fucking idiot," he said at last.

"I'm an idiot? You just jumped forty feet for no reason."

"So did you, dickhead. And what if you didn’t make it?"

"I wasn't going to not make it."

"You could have - " He was buzzing all over, still in game face, he couldn't seem to shake it off. He wanted to throw a punch, and he wanted to tackle Spike down onto the roof and lie on top of him, smell his cigarettes and blood and skin. "God, Spike, what am I supposed to do if you get dusted?"

"I wasn't going to get dusted jumping a gap, moron." Spike looked confused, a bit pissed off. "And if I did, you just...carry on. We're not joined at the hip, are we?"

"You - " No, right. They weren't. And Jesus Christ, Spike was right, he'd just jumped forty feet for no reason. He'd almost killed himself. Again.

"Look, you're all right." Spike clapped him on the shoulder, but it felt a little uneasy, a little forced. "I would have pulled you up if you'd really lost it. Just don't do that kind of thing again, all right?"

"What kind of thing?" Xander asked, stepping back and rubbing his forehead. He felt strangely off-balance, almost woozy, but he couldn't quite put his finger on why. Adrenaline, probably. Did he still have adrenaline?

"Don't go thinking you can do everything I can do," Spike said, kindly enough. "You're new at this, remember? No reason you should be able to do everything right off."

"No." He took another step back and tried to make the game face go down. Slowly, it started to soften. "Right."

"Good jump, though."

"Thanks."

There was a pause, and then Spike's hand appeared under his face, offering a cigarette. Xander shook his head. "No, thanks."

"Take it for later."

He took it and put it behind his ear, not caring one way or another, just so he wouldn't have to talk about it anymore. The game face was gone, and now he felt weirdly soft and empty. He'd been hungry an hour ago; now the thought of blood was just tiring. He wanted to go back to the motel and bury his head in the pillows and sleep.

"Up for a meal in the suburbs?" Spike's tone was light, casual. "There's a fire escape right over there."

"I'm not - I'm not really hungry," Xander said, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "You go ahead, I think I'll head back."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm gonna just go back and...I don't know, sleep." He started for the fire escape, already thinking about the silent room, the smell of strangers, the Bible radioactive in its drawer. There was an ache in his chest all of a sudden. Maybe he'd cracked some ribs.

"You all right?" Spike was following a few steps behind, sounding perturbed.

"I'm fine, yeah. I'll see you later."

He started down the fire escape, dropping from level to level without using the stairs, because it was faster and he just wanted to get back. In a few seconds he was on the ground, and couldn't hear Spike following. Okay. All he wanted to do right now was sleep, anyway.

He started walking for the motel, on foot like any regular person. After a minute or two he took the cigarette from behind his ear and ditched it.

At about a half hour to dawn, the motel room door opened and Spike came in. Xander didn't bother opening his eyes; he had his back to the door anyway. He'd been trying to sleep for the last five hours, and so far all he'd got was hungry and baffled. He kept seeing Spike make the jump, over and over, every time he closed his eyes. It kept cinching his chest tighter and tighter. Like the way he used to feel in the basement, sometimes, listening to the yelling upstairs.

He heard Spike drop the duster on the chair by the door, flip the deadbolt and the safety on, and toe his boots off. The curtains were drawn tight; the room was black. There was a faint smell of blood, which made him even hungrier. He should have gone with Spike; coming back here by himself was definitely sulky girlfriend behavior. And he wasn't Spike's girlfriend. He was his...well, he wasn't sure what he was, exactly. He was still figuring that part out.

He heard Spike go into the bathroom, brush his teeth in a cursory kind of way, futz with the tap, and then suddenly there was weight on the bed behind him and he jolted fully awake.

"What - ?"

"All right," Spike said. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, smelling like toothpaste and blood and cigarette smoke. "Look. First off, you're right, I wasn't thinking too well when I did that jump."

Xander turned and lay on his back, still trying to make his eyes focus properly. Spike was studying him with a sober expression, as if they were in the middle of a conversation that frankly, Xander couldn't remember starting.

"I was?" he said vaguely. Then, "Oh. Right. That was fucking stupid, Spike."

"Yeah, I know, and if you keep saying that, I'm going to smack you in the head. I won't - " He paused and looked away, clearly choosing his words. "I'll try not to do too many stupid things like that while you're around, all right?"

"While I'm - " Right, yeah, because they weren't joined at the hip, so sooner or later he wouldn't be around. This wasn't the time or place to think about how that made him feel. "Okay. Good."

"Second." Spike stared at him a few seconds, then went back to looking at the wall. Silence.

"Second?"

"Second, I haven't done it from this side before, all right? I've been on your end of the thing, but I haven't ever been on this end, and frankly I never thought I would be, and it's not the easiest thing in the world, all right?"

Xander lay still. "What thing?" he asked, after a minute.

"This whole - " Spike made a frustrated, back-and-forth hand gesture between them. "Siring you. God. I don't know what I was thinking, I really don't - "

"I've been meaning to ask, actually."

"Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time, and to be honest it was touch and go right up to the final inning. I was going to just kill you outright, and then...I thought it'd be nice to have someone to watch telly with - "

"You turned me into a vampire so you'd have company watching television?"

"Look, the point is, I've never done this before, and there isn't a manual."

"Yeah, believe me, I get that."

"Right, so if you could stop being such a little prick for one minute, I could say I'm sorry I gave you a scare, and I won't do it again." He sat looking uncomfortably at the wall for a few seconds, then added quickly, "If I can help it."

Xander blinked, rubbed his hand over his face, then sat up. "Can I have a cigarette?" he asked, propping himself against the head of the bed.

"No. And while I'm at it, let me just point out that it could be a fuck of a lot worse."

"What could?"

"Having me as your sire. I mean, look at who I had."

Xander frowned. "Well, I was never very clear on who exactly that was, but either way, point."

"At least I'm not chaining you up in cellars or beating you with, I don't know, knotted ropes, right?"

"Uh, right."

"So my point is, it could be worse."

"Absolutely."

"All right then." Spike nodded, spread his hands on his knees, and looked at him. "Anything else we need to get straight?"

Xander opened his mouth, then closed it. The tightness in his chest was gone, but now he felt jittery, nervous, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. He had a weird feeling there was supposed to be something else, something more. But all he had was that same weird urge he'd had before - to fall down on top of Spike and lie on him, smell him, feel the whole length of his body and know he wasn't going anywhere.

"No," he said, and wiped his palms on the blanket. Old habit; he didn't sweat anymore.

Spike studied him with a slight squint, as if waiting for him to go on. "All right," he said, and started to stand up. Xander sank back down into the pillows, fighting the tremor in his chest. He was breathing, he realized. What the hell was the matter with him?

"Oh, for Christ's sake." Spike was standing next to the bed, looking down at him with resignation or disgust or fondness, hard to say. "Right, well. In for a penny, I guess." He sat back down on the bed, put his hand to his mouth, and went to game face. His teeth popped into the flesh below his thumb and next thing Xander knew, there was a bloody palm in front of his face. "Go on."

For a second he didn't know what he was supposed to do, and he just stared. Then the smell hit him, and he leaned forward automatically and started sucking. Like a baby, like a petting zoo fawn at the bottle, sucking and jerking and grabbing Spike's hand in both of his to keep it there, in his mouth. The blood was cool and rich, it went straight up his nose to his brain and everything floated in it, he was floating in it, it was exactly right, everything was right. Spike was his sire. A quick flash of Spike making the jump again, and he instinctively sucked harder, cramming Spike's hand into his mouth, his shoulders tight and shaking, his fangs sliding down.

"Ow, fuck - " Something flicked him in the forehead, right between the eyes. "That's it, that's enough. Off." He ignored it, buckled down harder, started to chew on the cool smooth smoky skin around the wound. Spike's skin, Spike's taste. Sire taste. He was never, ever, ever going to leave -

Something whacked him in the back of the head and he coughed and lost his place. His mouth was empty, Spike's hand was gone. He scrambled for it and Spike got a hand tight around his throat, pinning him down into the pillows.

"I said, get off." When he didn't stop struggling, he got a hard shake and another flick between the eyes. "God, you're greedy."

"Give it back," he gasped, and Spike frowned.

"Give you an inch and you take a yard. That's enough, Harris. Go to sleep." A last rough shake that made the mattress creak, and Spike let him go. Xander lay still on his back, licking his lips, while Spike stood up, stripped off his shirt and jeans, and got into his own bed. The whole room was buzzing. The whole world was buzzing. He wanted more.

"Spike."

"No."

The ceiling was bumping, rippling, radiating happiness. He watched it with a smile on his face. He could feel his fangs against his lips.

"Spike."

Pause. Sigh.

"What?"

"Can we get me some new clothes tomorrow?"

"Christ, yeah." The buzz was declining, tapering down to a warm glow all over his body. His chest and belly, his dick, his fingertips. "Now go to sleep, pillock."

He closed his eyes and floated while the sun got ready to rise.

Part Four

They didn't seek out the bikers; the bikers found them. Karma, maybe. The ghost of Samoyed Man grabbing the giant heavenly Magic 8 ball in one pissed-off, bloodless fist and shaking it like a mother until it came up on You lose, suckers.

Or maybe that was sucker, singular. Because really, Spike didn't seem to have too much of problem with them. He dodged the bat, ducked the punches, hopped onto the hood of the DeSoto without missing a beat. From there, he had a good vantage point to kick heads in. So he did that, while Xander got pummeled against the chain link by a big guy with hairy shoulders and a prison tat. San Quentin - that was interesting, he thought, while the guy drummed on his kidneys. I wonder if he ever boxed Danny Trejo.

"Fight back!" Spike yelled finally, and more or less automatically, Xander snapped around and caught the guy with a...well, maybe it was an uppercut, he didn't really have the taxonomy down, but anyway, it snapped his Corey Harts in half and dropped him like third period French. Spike whooped. "See?"

"See what?" Xander mumbled, touching his jaw, slewing back toward Spike to try to re-establish contact. "What are these guys even - " The guy behind Spike was pulling something out of his jeans, and it wasn't a fifty. "Spike, gun!"

Spike got lively at that. He was off the hood in a second, down in the stumbling gang, everyone clutching a jaw or a shoulder or a gut, and the guy with the gun - was there just one? did they all share a gun, or something? - waved it around in a crazy, I've-seen-too-many-standoff-flicks kind of way.

"Spike," Xander yelled in what he hoped was a heartfelt and convincing tone. "Let's go."

Spike gave him a sharp frown - the DeSoto, he wouldn't leave the DeSoto to these tools - and tossed one of the littler bikers over the hood, into the gun-wielder. They collided with a grunt, and it was like Xander saw Spike start forward with the soles of his feet, because somehow he was already moving forward too. There were half a dozen guys still standing up, and Spike was heading for the guy with the gun.

Don’t go game face, don't go game face, Xander's brain babbled down his spine. You can have a beer later, you can have blood sausage and pay-per-view porn, just don't go to game face. Spike was over the hood, laying out, he thought he was fucking Gabrielle Reese or something, that was a gun, he was diving for a gun, the stupid prick -

Spike, biker, and gun disappeared behind the DeSoto, and Xander landed on the hood with a crunch of angry metal.

"Spike - "

There was tussling down there, and as soon as he saw it he relaxed. Nobody beat Spike at tussling. The gun was more or less in Spike's hands, and it wasn't even pointing at him, it was pointing up in the air, no, wait, it was pointing at Xander, and wow, it was kind of big, he could see right down the barrel -

Something punched him in the gut and then he was lying on the pavement, sodium arc lights in his eyes, and his elbows hurt. Someone was snarling. His body was tight, electroshock tight, and his throat was wet and full and then the boots around his head were gone and Spike slid into view like he'd been out for a fly.

What the fuck - Xander tried to say.

"Oh, shit," Spike said.

Spike hauled him into the passenger seat, handed him a not-very-clean towel that he'd produced from somewhere, and jogged back around the nose of the car to the driver's side. Seeing Spike jog was a little disturbing. But by now Xander could talk, and talk he did.

"You shot me," he said, as soon as Spike's door opened. Sliding in fast, Spike gave him a brief, guilty glance. "You asshole."

"I didn't mean to." The windshield was starred where the baseball bat had cracked it, and for a second Spike paused with his hands on the key and steering wheel, studying the damage. About to get out and rub it with his thumb, maybe.

"Do not start with the car," Xander snapped. "Don’t even fucking think about thinking about the fucking car right now, Spike."

"Right, right." A quick, guilty shake of Spike's shoulders as he banished all thoughts of glass filler, and the engine roared to life. "Look, overall I think it went pretty well."

Xander sat open-mouthed, clutching the blood-soaked towel to his gut. Spike got shifty-eyed.

"Must have been a dozen of them," he said quickly. "Only two of us, and you can't fight for piss - " He must have caught the slight, incredulous widening of Xander's eyes at that, because backpedalling commenced. "I mean, did you see the size of that git you dropped? Ruddy monster. Try not to bleed on the seat, right?"

Xander turned his head slowly away, his neck stiff, possibly broken, and stared out the window at the alleys flying by. Under the towel, he was starting to feel things. So far it'd just been numbness, a sense of impact, like he'd been winded with a Nerf bat. Now he was starting to get tingling feelers, like the nerves were reeling back to their feet and looking around at the wreckage and starting to hyperventilate -

"This isn't good," he said faintly, lifting the towel to check beneath. When he let the pressure off, blood came out like there was a tap in his stomach. "Spike - "

"You're fine," Spike said firmly, his knuckles white around the steering wheel, his foot through the floor. "You're fine, Harris. We're taking you home, and you're going to be fine."

Home was the roach motel du jour, and by the time they were there he was writhing and gasping, biting his own mouth to keep from yelling. The seat was soaked in blood, the towel was just a gesture. It felt like someone had a hot poker in his belly, like he was being roasted from inside, Satan's own marshmallow.

"Fuck you, Samoyed Man," he gasped, when Spike opened his door and hesitated, his hands wavering in midair. Then his mouth filled up with blood and he had to lean out and spit. He managed to get a good percentage on Spike's boots, which was something.

"Okay, how about we try this - " Spike was still maneuvering, trying to decide where to grab him, so Xander just tipped and fell and let Spike catch. It hurt like hell, and he lost the towel with a wet thump and a spattering of stuff he really didn't want to think about, but Spike kept his lunch down and somehow got them through the door to their room. He put Xander down on the nearest bed and disappeared. Xander bled into the sheets.

He may have greyed out for a bit, if he still had the capacity to do that, because when he checked in again he was lying on his back and there were cleanish motel towels packed against his belly, and he felt like he was being sawed in half. "Jesus fucking Christ," he whispered, grabbing his gut. Then he rolled over and threw up a bunch of blood onto the mattress. Housekeeping was going to be pissed.

"You're going to be fine," Spike said, appearing beside him at eye level, which must mean he was crouching down. "You want a slug?" Incredibly, he was holding a flask.

Xander used his super laser eye beams of death to burn twin smoking holes in Spike's forehead. "You shot me in the gut," he hissed. "No, thank you. I do not want anything to drink."

Spike shrugged and took a slug, himself. "'s just a bullet," he said after a minute, settling down cross-legged on the carpet and starting to sort through his pockets for his cigarettes. "You'll be fine in..." He paused and gave Xander a critical look. "Three days, tops."

Xander freed one bloody hand to claw uselessly in the air in front of Spike's face. Going for the eyes. Spike ignored him.

"Tell you what," he said, popping a cigarette between his lips and lighting it efficiently. "I'll go out, find you some morphine. That make you happy?"

Xander hesitated. "Does morphine work?"

"Christ, yeah. Knock you right out, make you king for a day."

"Can you actually get some?"

Spike considered. "Where are we, again?"

"Oklahoma."

"Oh, sure, yeah. No problem." He levered himself to his feet, taking his flask and cigarette with him. "Don't go running off, all right?"

Xander clawed for his knees, but it was too late. A cool hand ruffled his hair, paused a minute on the back of his neck, and was gone. The door closed with a quiet click.

He curled in on the white-hot stab in his belly, and tried not to breathe.

It was almost dawn before Spike got back. Which was another way of saying, almost three hours. Which was another way of saying, a million billion years. They were past pain and into some kind of hallucinatory alternate dimension, where the giant fucking needle in his stomach was the be all and end all, and everything else was just little paper cutouts in black and white.

"Sorry," Spike said, shrugging off the duster. "Guy moved house since last time I was through."

Xander just lay there, staring at the black blood stains on the white comforter, second to second, hearing the words like cartoon captions floating in one ear, out the other. Spike was back. That was great. Great, great, great. The pain in his belly was like a friend now. He was busy chatting with it.

Dimly, he heard Spike uncrumple a paper bag, take some stuff out, futz around. Then there was weight on the bed beside him and his hands were being lifted off his gut. That was bad - he had everything balanced. He tried to resist, and Spike didn’t let him.

"Come on. I know. Let's see your arms, though."

He could barely feel his arms, let alone his hands or feet. They were like T Rex hands, sad little claws hanging off the huge swollen agony of his monstrous T Rex Torso of Pain. He had to remember, Spike did this to him. All of it. Spike vamped him, then shot him in the gut. When he was upright again, he was so going to kick Spike in the shins.

"There we go," Spike said, and Xander realized his left sleeve was up, and there was a pinch in his forearm. He canted his head down and saw that Spike was shooting him up. Great. If only his mother could see him now. When the plunger was all the way in, Spike slipped the needle out and let his forearm fall, then rooted in a paper bag beside him on the bed and took out another syringe, capped and ready to go.

"You trying to kill me?" Xander said. Slurred. He didn't feel any different. Still in agony. Fucking morphine. Fucking Spike.

"Trying to knock you out," Spike said, reaching over him for his right arm. Xander graciously let him have it, and Spike did that side too, then kneeled back on his heels as if he'd done something worthwhile. "Right, move your arms a bit."

Xander plumbed his depleted inner reserves, and managed to get both arms up to double-bird him.

Spike didn't pause, just took hold of his wrists and raised his arms a couple of times, like an old-fashioned resuscitation attempt. The movement went straight to the hot knife in his belly and twisted it into his spine. He gasped and tried to yank free.

"Fuck, Spike - " Then the weirdest thing happened - it was like numbness just dripped down his arms into his chest, and in a minute it was flooding his belly, and the knife melted free and washed downstream and his whole body was a beautiful salmon swimming in cool, clear, dioxin-free waters.

"Gotta get it through your system," Spike said, from somewhere far, far away, on the tree-lined Canadian shore. "Wait till it really kicks in, you're gonna love it - "

A moose raised its sodden beard from the eddies and watched him swim between its knobby forelegs, and a beaver sculled busily beside him, and a Canada goose took off flapping and soaring, through the wide cool blue sky, into the great beyond. Somewhere, a Mountie yodeled.

"I had the weirdest...thing," Xander said, into the pillow.

"Yeah?" Spike wasn't really listening - he knew that, he could hear it in Spike's voice. Spike was thinking about his hair, or the duster, or the stars in the DeSoto's windshield. Or how soon they could get on the road again, probably. Oklahoma was old.

"This whole...fish thing."

"Morphine does that." Sound of Spike shaking his packet of cigarettes. Not more than three in there, at this point. Serious. "I had this thing one time, I thought I was a badger."

Xander lay silently, taking that in. After a minute, he said, "So, anyway. What happens now?"

"Now..." Spike trailed off, and the Zippo fired up. Xander turned over with an effort. It was amazing how fast he healed. Two days, and he'd sealed right up like a Ziploc bag, nothing but a red flower on his belly to show that Spike owed him one. Well, that and the fact that he'd be setting off metal detectors till the day he was dusted. "Now we get you a meal, and hit the road."

"A meal," Xander repeated vaguely. He was exhausted, and also half-starved. The thought of blood made his mouth fill up, made his stomach curl tight and bitchy. "God, yeah."

"Right." Spike was standing by the dresser, Big Bad, ready to go. Smoking his cigarette and looking down at Xander a little oddly. Xander blinked and tried to look back. He was the kind of weak that you could call kitten, if you weren't a guy and a vampire and really fully not in need of any more emasculating epithets, thanks.

"Right." He hauled himself up to sitting, dropped his legs over the side of the bed like lead sinkers, and fitted his feet into his shoes. "Cool. Let's blow this popsicle stand."

Spike hesitated, seemed about to say something, then just hovered until they were both in the DeSoto and Xander was slumped against the passenger door.

"Right," he said again, irrelevantly, and stalled the engine, and finally got them out of there.

"Frankly?" Xander said, peering through the patches of clear, unbroken windshield at the bar across the street. "I don’t know."

Spike accepted that without comment, and they sat there for a few more minutes, watching people trickle out in pairs and alone. It was half past two. Not a great part of town. Sooner or later, they'd get a meal out of this.

"Maybe - " Xander tried to think, tried to figure out how this was going to work. "What if you dropped me off, and did a little herding?" That might work - if he didn't have to chase, he might be okay. He could stand up, and if he smelled blood he was pretty sure he'd feel strong enough to grab.

"You think you can take a punch?" Spike's tone was neutral, and he didn't look away from the bar. Xander thought about it.

"Take one, yeah. Remain standing...I don’t know."

Spike shook his head. "Bad idea."

Okay. Well, then... "Shit, Spike. I don't know."

They sat there a few seconds, and then Spike put the car in drive and they rolled away down the street. Xander sat crumpled against the door, a dark weight in his belly, fighting with the hunger. He was thinking of all those nature documentaries Willow used to watch on the Learning Channel - how when the wolf got sick, it starved to death. Somehow that felt like a newly relevant fact.

A few blocks up, Spike turned into an alley and parked midway down. When he cut the engine, Xander put his hand on the door handle. They were going to have a shot at it, apparently. Okay, he'd see how far he got, and if all else failed, it looked like an excellent location for rats.

"Stay here," Spike said, getting out on his own side. Xander frowned, hand still poised, and Spike leaned back in. "I'll take care of it."

"You'll - " You'll what, pick up a couple of pints from the cold beer and blood store? He didn't have a chance to say it, though - Spike was already gone.

Under better circumstances, he'd have gone with tradition and ignored Spike, popped his door, followed along. For some reason, though, he didn't do it. Maybe because his entire body was made of lead and asphalt. Maybe because the drugs had fried his brain. Maybe because you never knew when Spike was going to shoot you in the gut.

"You'll take care of it," he muttered sourly, and sank down in his seat with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. "This I have to see."

The driver's side door opened and he scrambled up out of sleep, hands on the dashboard and the seat belt, sure they were going to have to make a break for it. With Spike you always had to make a break for it. Or be prepared to, at least.

But Spike just slid in and looked at Xander as if he were more than a little eccentric. "Everything all right?"

"Everything's - " Xander paused. Spike smelled of blood. Low, velvety, rich. Strong. He stank of it. Like he'd drunk a family. His eyes were bright, dancing, the I've-got-a-secret look. "Jesus Christ, what did you do?"

"Told you," Spike said smoothly, starting the engine and pulling out. "Took care of it."

It took twenty minutes to find an out-of-the-way pull-out, a little public park with bushes and trees and probably a lot of gay guys getting up to no good. Xander couldn't have cared less where they were. His head was full of the smell of blood, and his belly was writhing in an all-new dance of pain. The feed-me dance. His belly had no memory at all, and thank God for it.

"So - " When Spike cut the engine and killed the headlights, it was will alone that kept him from reaching over and jerking the duster open. He must have blood bags on him. God knows how, but he found a source and he had some bags, and God bless soulless, conniving, undependable, pain-in-the-ass Spike for always knowing where to score. "Come on, Spike. I'm dying, here."

Spike gave him a slight, amused glance, then shrugged and sat back. "All yours, then."

Xander just sat there for a second, nonplussed. Then he lost patience with that and yanked the duster away from Spike's side. Nothing. Just skinny ribs under a trademark black T. He checked the other side, while Spike's smile grew. "What, asshole?" He plumbed the pockets, felt a lot of stuff he was pretty sure he didn't ever want to feel again, and came up empty. "Spike, come on. I'm serious. Where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"The blood, dickhead."

Spike raised his eyebrows. "Thought you knew, mate." He let his head fall back against the window, and the smile flattened a little. "In me."

Xander sat still, one hand still wiping something sticky off on his jeans. "Yeah," he said slowly, after a second. "I get that you already ate, Spike. What I want to know is, where's mine?"

Spike just looked at him. The car was very quiet and dark. After a few seconds, a funny warmth started in Xander's belly.

"Okay," he said, raising one finger. "Okay, hang on."

"Thought you were hungry."

"I am." His eyes were on Spike's throat, he couldn’t help it. Long white throat, strong and thin and there was blood just under the skin. Blood that Spike owed him. He pulled his eyes back up to Spike's face, and realized in an instant that that was the point, that was why Spike was sitting like that, to show his throat. "Spike, come on, I'm not going to bite you." At the same time, the warmth curled down from his belly toward his groin. He took a deep breath, and Spike smiled.

"Yeah, you are," he said, and put one hand out in invitation.

Xander wavered a minute longer, trying to think of rational objections, and everything he could think of was shot down by the B-52 of Vampire. I'm a vampire.. Spike was right. Spike was right there. Spike was, in his fucked-up way, taking care of things.

Xander leaned forward and pressed his hands to Spike's chest, his cock to Spike's thigh, his lips to Spike's throat. No game face, no fangs. Just soft lips, touching soft skin. Spike stiffened, seemed for a second not to know what to do. Then his hands came around Xander's shoulders and the back of his neck, and they merged into a silent, urgent, compact body. Parking, some part of Xander's mind thought. They were parking. He was parking with Spike.

When he finally bit he did it carefully, two neat reverent holes that ran sweet over his tongue while Spike's cock shoved wetness over his own bared belly. When he came, he buried his head in Spike's neck and clung.

When it was over they were both a mess, damp and exhausted and quiet.

"I can't believe you shot me," Xander said from his side of the car, his eyelids sliding closed.

"Whiner," Spike said, and ran a hand over Xander's face in tender mockery.