Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,209
Feedback: Yes please. Concrit is very welcome by email.
Disclaimer: Sadly not mine, Joss own them.
Summary: Yep, it’s a routine. And routines are good, right? That’s what Xander tells himself, anyway, because otherwise … well, it’s better not to dwell.
A/N: Thanks to spikedluv and truly_tazi for being such fabulous mods and for the opportunity to participate in fall_for_sx.
Thanks to the completely awesome and wonderful savoytruffle and spookymonkey for their invaluable pre-reading, betaing and support. Any mistakes are mine.

It's Not

by
Cordelianne

Part One

Alarm. Snooze. Alarm. Snooze.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Wake up, stumble into shower, grab something to eat on way out door. Go to work, try not to fall asleep. Pass out in front of TV.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Yep, it’s a routine. And routines are good, right? That’s what Xander tells himself, anyway, because otherwise … well, it’s better not to dwell. Better just to grab the briefcase, flick the lights off and go to work.

Red light. Xander picks up his shiny travel mug – a gift from Willow – sips and winces. He so needs to buy more sugar. Black coffee? Not his thing.

Green light. He puts the mug back in its holder, taps the steering wheel. The blue Impala in front of him takes its usual extra few seconds, doing god knows what, before driving.

Leaving two minutes earlier would mean not waiting behind the most careful driver in the world. Or maybe the other driver’s just spaced out. Spaced out is something Xander gets. He wants to be back in bed and not be on the losing end of his standoff with the alarm. Still, he takes his victories when he can. If he gets two more minutes sleep, it’s worth being stuck at the same light behind the same car every day of the week.

Driving, finally. He turns his head to see the “Reliable Fish & Chips” sign and grin. Gotta find the funny where he can. Attention back on the road. One-eyed drivers have to be alert.

Snow flurries drift through the air, dotting the landscape with white. Wipers are turned onto the lowest setting and Xander is relieved that the snow’s melting when it hits the ground. Mental note: winterize the car. The phrase sounds silly, like he’s accessorizing or italicizing or something else with a flourish at the end.

After California and Africa, the first winter in Cleveland had been weird. What with the cold and the snow and the ice. And did he mention the cold?

No more dreaming of a white Christmas. Cars not starting, skidding on icy roads and feeling cold all the time took care of that. No more chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Freezing rain, scraping ice off his windshield and nearly losing a toe to hypothermia took care of that too.

And no one roasts chestnuts in Cleveland anyway.

It makes him wish for the heat of Africa. A wish he never thought he would ever have.

But he is here. Wishing won’t change it. And isn’t a good idea on a hellmouth.

Work parking lot. Usual space. He turns off the engine and stares at the chain link fence.

A car door slams nearby. Xander stops watching the fence like it’s showing porn. He grabs his briefcase and steps out of the car.

Here comes the rain again. Falling on my head like a memory. Falling on my head like a new emotion. Madison’s greets Xander with the worst possible music for a cold, gray night and he pauses, hand on the door. Almost leaves. But it is Monday and he’s not missing out on his half-price wings and beer. Usual table it is.

He sits down and Carol has his beer in front of him.

“Wings coming up, Xander.” She smiles, disappears.

He drinks his beer, turns his attention to the game. He’s not sure who’s playing and he doesn’t care. It’s all a blur – big guys running, wings slathered with BBQ sauce, and cold beer. It’s like meditating. Focus on games, food and drink until that’s all there is.

The world is now a happy warm place. He stands up. Good to stop now, the next stage is less … good. He throws money down – doesn’t have to count, it’s always the same – and pulls his coat on.

Walking. The brisk wind sobers him so he doesn’t stumble on the block back to his apartment. Heads straight to the bed and collapses, clothes still on. Xander reaches up, turns the alarm on.

It starts all over again tomorrow. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

He splashes water on his face, then leans his forehead against the mirror, resting his hands on the sink. His right eye stares into the blackness of his left.

This dream was different from the others. This time he failed to save Anya in a Tolkien-like landscape instead of the usual Sunnydale setting. He still feels armor weighing on him. And the blow that knocked him down. Anya’s mouth open, no sound coming out, as a dragon rips her in half and drops her broken body to the ground.

He blames Andrew.

This is the result of their Lord of the Rings marathon: more interesting settings but more gruesome deaths.

And, wow, this is morbid. He shakes his head, turns on the water and drinks from the tap.

Xander falls back into bed, stares at the ceiling and waits for sleep.

Willow waves and steps into her building. He glances at the clock, 9:00PM. Still time for a beer at Madison’s but a yawn decides against.

Weird to be heading home so early from the Summers’. Well, Dawn and Buffy's new place, the Summers' place will always be in Sunnydale. They used to strategize, research and hunt till the wee hours, but now it’s updates on slayers, magic, studies and the Cleveland construction scene – no wonder they have early nights.

These days it’s just pizza and TV, hold the life and death.

Well, Buffy and Willow still do that stuff. With the back-up of a slayer army. But Xander’s no longer needed, except for the occasional repairs.

He glances at the empty passenger seat, turns on the radio. Some hit song by some American Idol plays and it’s times like this he misses Anya the most. So I prayed I could break away, I’ll spread my wings fills the car, but it's empty without her laughter.

It’s not like he’d imagined some white picket fence future with Anya – definitely not that, that kind of thing still fills him with fear – but it doesn’t stop him from missing her.

Missing what they could have had.

There’s a guy sitting by Xander’s door. He fumbles for his stake, feeling out of practice, stops when he sees the red glow of a cigarette. Right, if a demon wanted to attack it would probably choose a stealthier maneuver than sitting in plain view in front of its victim’s door.

Unless it’s a really cocky demon.

“Hey buddy, no smoking in the hall.”

“Let me in and I’ll smoke in your place.”

“What? … Spike?” Xander rubs his eye. Maybe it’s a wacky dream, not that he dreams about Spike, well, except for that one time. Eye open again and Spike’s still there. Now standing and ashing on the carpet.

Of course it’s Spike.

He’s been thinking about someone who died in Sunnydale. So of course a different dead person – and dead dead, not just undead dead – shows up. Fate has always had a sense of humor as far as Xander Harris is concerned.

“Don’t just stand there gaping. Let me in.” Despite the demanding tone, Spike’s shoulders slump just a bit and he looks down.

Xander sighs. “Come in, Spike.”

Part Two

Xander takes a shot of whiskey and winces. Hard liquor? So not his thing. But he’s not turning down alcohol since Spike is suddenly here.

And, boy, is Spike here. Feet-on-the-coffee-table, cigarette-smoke-blowing here. There are no half-ways with Spike. Not even a soul and going to hell and back – if Spike can be believed – can make him a conscientious houseguest.

Xander finds this oddly reassuring.

“…ripped its bloody head off.” Xander tunes back in to Spike’s story of a battle that sounds like one of those apocalyptic ones no one lives through. Of course Spike wasn’t alive going into it, so maybe that’s the trick. If you’re undead you can keep staring death in the face and walking away. At least that explains why Spike and Angel continue to be pains in Xander’s ass. And why Spike still looks good, not that Xander has ever noticed something like that.

Not that he’s noticing now.

Xander tries to concentrate on what Spike’s saying. “So you’re still working with Angel? That’s gotta be fun. Like audit fun.”

Spike shrugs. “Keeps me busy.” He exhales smoke and taps his cigarette over the ashtray – courtesy of Togo, West Africa – that Xander has shoved in front of him. “Still got time for fun though.”

Did Spike just leer at him? He’s not sure his brain can handle that level of weirdness. Demons who can bend time and party-loving zombies, Xander can handle. But Spike shifting closer to him, and him wanting to close the rest of the gap, is freakily reminiscent of him and Cordy before the frantic groping.

Must change the subject. “Angel’s not gonna show up here too, is he?”

“Nah, you’re safe from the brooding avenger.”

He stares at Spike’s lips, curled around the cigarette. “You both still avoiding Buffy?”

Spike’s leg twitches and he straightens it. “She’s moved on. We should too.”

Xander’s mind flashes on Anya dancing when she won at Monopoly. “Yeah, moving on. That’s good.”

Spike pours more whiskey and Xander gulps most of his down, still wincing. Maybe the trick to moving on is to follow Buffy’s example. Rebound with an immortal, or the Immortal in her case.

He glances at Spike who’s staring intently at him, and is that concern on his face?

Screw it. Xander wipes his hands on his jeans. I’m jumping on this crazy moving on train.

He leans forward and kisses Spike. On the mouth. He’s pressing his lips against Spike’s and it’s actually good, not that he thought it would be bad, more that he wasn’t sure he’d like it. And, boy, does he like it.

Xander eases back and tries to ignore the hysterical accusatory voice in his head demanding to know why he just macked on Spike. It’s also asking why he wants to do it again.

At least Spike’s not hysterical or accusatory. He is sitting very still, but not moving away or hitting Xander. If anything, he looks startled. Then a smile spreads across his face. Xander’s cheeks flush red and he feels that familiar anger towards Spike – always close to the surface – bubble up.

“Hey! Just because –” His anger fades when Spike, still smiling, kisses him.

The kisses are slow and tentative, like a first kiss at the eighth grade dance. It’s easy to get lost in the sensation and Xander feels like he’s falling into a feather bed. He doesn’t want this feeling of discovery and newness to end. He wants to keep tasting and touching and kissing and feeling.

But this isn’t either of their first kisses, and they haven’t been innocent for a long, long time. And even if Spike has surprisingly soft lips Xander wants more.

He can’t remember the last time he wanted that.

Xander shifts closer and bites Spike’s lower lip, and Spike moans. He leans back, pulling Spike down on top of him. He’s blanketed by Spike, who’s pressing down into him and sliding his tongue into Xander’s mouth. Now he knows what people mean when they say sinfully good.

Even though he has more, it’s still not enough. He shivers and pulls Spike closer.

He moves so their cocks are aligned and presses up. Oh wow, that feels way better than … really good things I can’t remember right now. His hands grip Spike’s ass. Spike rubs against him and kisses him deeper, fucking his mouth.

Xander moans.

It’s all about the rhythm now: kiss, press, rub, grind.

He’s clutching at Spike. Wants him even closer. Spike’s on the same page, pressing Xander into the couch as he kisses and bites down his neck.

It’s hard to believe Spike wants this, wants him. But Spike’s dick and his frantic touching make him believe it.

Kiss, press, rub, grind.

Xander reaches for something to hold and Spike’s hand grabs his, pushing it against the armrest. He comes, gasping against Spike’s shoulder, seeing white behind his eyelid.

He’s still lying there panting when Spike comes and collapses on top of him.

He drifts into sleep, vaguely wondering how he’ll set his alarm clock.

Xander pulls into the work parking lot, grabs his briefcase and hurries into the building. No time for fence porn today. Five minutes doesn’t count as late, does it?

He’s impressed he isn’t later considering he woke up in the living room, covered by a blanket and wearing sticky clothes. Spike wasn’t around but Xander figured he was off tracking down the demon, or whatever reason he’d given for why he was here.

Xander flattens his hair as he flops into his chair and logs onto the computer.

Payroll. Scheduling. Revenue. Bidding on the hospital job. Nope, nothing new here. Oooh, donuts!

Xander’s happily biting into a jelly-filled donut and pouring bland work coffee when he’s joined in the kitchen by one of the engineering guys.

“Looks like you had a good night.” The engineer - Bob, or maybe Carl - snags a sprinkled donut. “Finally got lucky, Harris?”

“What? Yes. I mean, no.” Xander wipes powder off his hands. “Just enjoying a tasty treat. Best way to start the day. Sure doctors and people in white coats disagree, but what do they know?”

Bob – Xander’s sure it’s Bob – shakes his head and leaves. Xander grabs another donut, stirs sugar in the coffee, and slowly heads back to his desk.

It’s time for a day of simple math and boredom. Xander’d threaten to poke his eye out for some excitement but, hey, been there and over that.

Spike’s sitting on his couch when Xander gets home. Well, it’s more like sprawled out like he owns the place, but Xander’s distracted because Spike’s on the couch. The couch from last night. He’s remembering writhing and gasping against Spike, and yet again he’s blushing because of Spike. It’s becoming a theme.

He accepts the beer Spike hands him and relaxes back onto the couch, closing his eye.

“Job’s done. I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow.”

Xander resists replying with I like you in my hair. Even if he did like Spike’s hands running through his hair last night, he’s not ready to share something like that. Also, it’s a dumb line. Instead he goes with, “Oh yeah?”

They watch a Steven Segal movie where he runs around being a badass chef. During a commercial break, Xander wonders if Spike misses Buffy. And if Spike’s happy. But he doesn’t want to field any questions, so he surprises himself by keeping his mouth shut.

They watch in silence.

Once the movie starts over again – because it’s one of those networks that repeats the same program for days on end – Xander decides to do something. Problem is, he has no idea in hell what to do. He’s been dealing with last night by not thinking about it, because thinking about it would be bad.

Very very bad.

Lifetime-movie-about-coming-out bad.

Besides, a one-night thing that involved no one naked… oh god, now he has an image of naked Spike in his head, something he pulled up a little too fast for his liking. Great, now all he can think about is touching Spike’s skin. The naked skin of Spike. Okay, that’s what skin implies but the whole naked –

“Harris.” Spike is waving a hand in front of his face. “Haven’t lapsed into a coma there have you?”

“No! I’m fine. Finest, in fact.” Spike raises an eyebrow. “I’m just … long day. So bed, time for bed.” He stands up, trying to look natural as he covers his partial erection.

Spike stands too. “Bed it is.”

And Spike walks into the bedroom. Xander’s bedroom.

Xander stares after him, now convinced that he and Spike speak completely different languages – like Klingon and Greek. He meant sleep – innocent, very very innocent, sleep – but does Spike think he meant sex? He gulps the rest of his beer and wracks his brain for a plan.

“Bathroom!” he says as he rushes past the bedroom. He hopes Spike doesn’t interpret that as bathroom sex.

The peeing calms him a bit, but not much. He drops the soap in the sink and gives a short nervous laugh. Oh yeah, he’s not cool at all. No one will be asking him for seduction tips anytime soon.

Okay, he can’t hide in here forever. Time to face the music. Music that is really naked Spike. If he continues to be this suave things should go well.

Part Three

Spike’s already in bed, covers pulled up.

Xander fumbles with zippers and buttons and sleeves and socks. Decides that boxers and a t-shirt are a good plan for bed. At least he has a plan, even if it’s just a clothing plan.

He slides into bed and glances at Spike out of the corner of his eye. It’s good that Spike’s not on his blind side. Spike’s watching him so he darts his eye to the ceiling and fixes his attention on the weird shadow cast by the streetlight.

He’s so far outside of familiar territory, it’s a whole new world.

Xander quickly suppresses the Disney song that phrasing evokes. At least Spike in bed with him, beside him, is plenty distracting. If only he knew what to do about it.

He can feel Spike’s weight on the mattress. It’s nice to have someone here, even if it’s not who he wishes it would be.

Right, that’s what he’s doing, the whole moving on train thing which, he admits to himself, is a lame analogy. But bad analogy or not, he’s not applying the brakes just yet. It’s full speed ahead.

Xander rolls over to face Spike.

“Listen, Harris. We don’t have to –”

“Shh.” Xander kisses Spike because it’s weird to hear him being all sensitive. And, okay, since this is the second time Xander has kissed Spike, maybe, just maybe he likes kissing Spike. His erection suggests it’s definitely like, but he doesn’t trust its judgment. It can be easily persuaded.

Once again, the kissing starts off gentle, as if both of them are afraid the other one might push him away at any moment. That’s how Xander feels anyway.

Instead of away, Spike pushes closer and deepens the kiss. That’s all Xander needs to reach over and slowly run a hand down Spike’s back. Touching him, caressing him.

And his imaginings about Spike’s skin?

Nothing like the real thing.

Xander presses his chest against Spike’s. Oh god, Spike’s naked. This is like jumping into the deep end off the high diving board when he should be wading in the shallow end and learning how to breathe underwater. He pulls back, but not far, and Spike pushes Xander’s shirt up.

Spike’s touch is light, yet firm.

Xander shivers and lifts his arms without thinking.

Pressing against Spike with their clothes on was good, but this? This is his thing.

Spike pushes Xander onto his back and starts kissing down his neck, his hand stroking Xander’s chest. He gasps and grabs Spike’s hair when Spike bites his nipple. Spike’s fingers push at Xander’s boxers. He lifts his hips and lets Spike push them off.

He takes a breath.

Okay, so now he’s naked with Spike and that’s really freaksome territory, and – holy crap, Spike’s mouth is around his dick. Wow, Spike is good at this. And Xander’s way too excited.

He starts breathing through his nose the way Dawn says they do in her yoga class. He squelches the Dawn thoughts because he really doesn’t want to be thinking about her right now.

Very very wrong.

But what Spike’s doing with his mouth and tongue?

Very very right.

It has Xander grabbing at Spike’s hair and at the pillows.

Far too soon for Xander’s liking – because he wants it to go on and on – he comes. He blames too long living an accidentally monk-like existence. And he blames Spike for making it too good.

Spike languidly slides up Xander’s body and kisses him deep, tongue really getting to know his mouth. Xander tastes himself on Spike and it’s another of those It’s been too long things. He pulls Spike closer and feels Spike’s hard cock against his thigh. Oh god, he should do something about that.

His mind’s a blank slate.

And once again Xander Harris’s brain isn’t there for him.

Oh well, he was never so good with the planning and thinking anyway. He brushes his hand down Spike’s side and touches the tip of Spike’s dick. Spike shudders and grinds against him.

“Have any lube?” Spike asks in his ear.

“Lube?” Xander’s mind, inappropriate as always, visualizes an oil change at the local Lube Stop before realizing what Spike means. “In the bedside table, top drawer. Cliché, I know. But it’s a cliché for a reason.”

Spike sits up and leans over to the table. That’s when Xander’s mind catches up to why Spike’s asking. “Wait. Um. See, the thing is, this is virgin territory for me.” He starts laughing.

“Having a comedy show for one there, Harris?” But Spike’s lips quirk.

“That was more true than I intended it. And if you’re going to fuck me, you should call me Xander.” His mouth definitely has a mind of its own. At least this mind knows what it wants.

“Yes, Xander.” Spike gives a small salute. Then his face becomes intent, and he kisses Xander hard, reaches down and squeezes Xander’s ass.

When he feels a finger ease into him, Xander surprises himself by feeling calm. He opens his eye and watches Spike’s movements. Okay, he’s calm and very turned on. He’d expected this to be scarier, or maybe more dramatic.

Instead all he can think is good and more.

Good and more circle through his head as he gasps around Spike’s increasing number of fingers. Sparks of light dance in front of his eyes – yes both, because the missing eye can see the sparks too.

Then everything stops.

“Fuck,” Xander says, eye flying open.

“We’re on the same page then.” Spike teases his cock along Xander’s perineum. “Ready?”

Ready? Xander rounds up his remaining brain cells. He has a vague memory of being asked this type of thing before. How does he know if he’s ready? Ready is what they say before a race. But Xander hasn’t trained, he doesn’t know what the race is or how to run it. He feels like he’s stumbled onto a track by accident. Ready? No, he’s not ready. He’s so far from ready he needs binoculars to see ready. This isn’t what he does. This is very very new. Does he really want new?

His body decides for him.

As it arches into Spike, he finds himself nodding and pulling his legs up and apart.

When Spike enters him – slowly but with an inexorable force – he crazily thinks Ready, set, go!

And go Spike does.

Once he’s fully inside – and Xander’s over the initial pain and desire to say stop – Spike is no longer gentle. Now he’s wilder, rougher.

There’s no more fear. Just want.

God, does he want him now. Even with Spike thrusting, Xander can’t get enough of him. His hands grasp at Spike’s back and he frantically, greedily kisses Spike’s mouth, neck, wherever he can reach.

He’s back to good and more.

And yes and god and fuck.

And even a few of Oh god, Spike.

He thinks that Spike is saying his name too, but he can’t concentrate enough to be sure.

He’s on this pleasure high that doesn’t end.

Xander’s just feeling.

It’s fucking incredible.

Spike’s hand wraps around Xander’s dick and the sensation’s too much. He comes. Far off in the distance he feels Spike thrusting a few more times and then coming with him.

As Xander fades into sleep he realizes he hasn’t set the alarm. Again.

And he just can’t make himself care.

Part Four

The freeway stretches out in front of him. There are a couple of cars ahead, but he’ll leave them in the dust.

Spike turns up the Ramones, hits the gas and laughs. Those suburban suckers are sitting in a sea of SUVs and minivans, not moving, as they flee the city.

Spike’s going the opposite direction.

He wonders if Harris does that back in Cleveland. Day after day driving the same route, buying coffee from the same place, grocery shopping on Saturday, laundry on Sunday or whatever the fuck normal people do. Boring as hell, if hell were actually boring. That must explain Harris’ sudden interest in gay sex. But he’s not thinking about Harris. Harris leads to Sunnydale and that leads to Buffy. Spike’s been avoiding Buffy for a couple of years now and that’s working out for him. It’s how he wants it to stay.

He pulls up in front of a boarded up and graffitied former office building, now home to rats, squatters and Esanthal demons. He grabs an axe from under the seat and hopes Angel’s sources can be trusted.

He kicks the door in. The air is thick with piss, rot and blood.

Time to do his thing.

The motel’s a step up from the abandoned building, but not by much. Spike tries to care, but can’t. He falls onto the bed and turns on the TV.

He flicks past sitcoms and game shows, settles on a teen show. He gets caught up in the story even though it’s basically the same as other episodes he’s seen. There’s cheating, sex and angst. In other words, good TV.

Just when the fresh-faced blonde is about to choose between two identical looking blokes, Spike’s cell rings.

He flips it open with a scowl. “This better be important, big guy.”

“You think I call for fun?” Spike hears Angel sigh. “Just checking if you’re okay.”

He mutes the TV. “Yeah. The Esanthals on the other hand ...”

“Good.”

He waits for Angel to say more because he doesn’t normally check up on Spike. But Angel doesn’t say anything. Just sits there like an unhelpful blob on the other end of the line.

“Right,” Spike says. “’M in the middle of something so why – ”

“One Tree Hill?”

“Fuck off.”

“It’s a rerun. She doesn’t choose either of them.”

“Yeah?” Spike sits up and pulls out a cigarette.

“She says she needs space and some of that other empowering stuff.”

“She evolve in one episode?” Spike slips his lighter back into his pocket and inhales, savoring the tobacco.

“The next week she starts dating the new guy.”

Spike exhales. “That wanker. Hate him.”

“Yeah.” Angel returns to his annoying silence.

“Listen –”

“Did you see Buffy?” Angel gets it out quick, as if trying to avoid getting an answer he doesn’t want to hear.

“Steered clear.”

He hears Angel’s soft exhale. “Good.”

“Saw Harris.”

“Xander?”

“Yeah. Stayed with him. Nice place if you like beige. But better than a crap-ass motel.”

“Mine has a mini bar.”

“Bet it’s still crap-ass.”

“No, it’s … okay, yes. But the alcohol helps.”

Spike shifts the phone to his shoulder and pulls out his flask. He raises it as if he’s toasting the Queen. “Right you are, big guy.”

He takes a good long drink.

The shade of the I-55 rest stop outside Memphis is a good enough place to wait out the daylight. Necro-tempered cars can only take him so far.

He watches frazzled parents open their car doors and let their kids run free. One of them, a boy with an afro, runs over to Spike’s car and peers in at Spike who has his foot stuck out the window. The kid’s small enough that he can barely see into the car.

“You can’t drive like that.” The kid frowns, hands on hips. “Put your foot back in the car.”

Ballsy kid, Spike muses with appreciation. “Not driving.”

“But you’re in a car.”

Can’t fight the logic. “Got me there, kid.”

“Marty, get over here!” His mother shepherds the kid away.

Buffy would be that kind of mom. Not let her tyke talk to strangers and teach it how to be tough. Course she’s probably not ready for mother stuff yet. Or maybe she is. It’s not like Spike knows.

He’s not supposed to be thinking of the slayer. It must be the crosses everywhere. He can’t wait to leave the South.

Spike never should have stayed with Harris, it's not helping him forget about her. Just giving him something else he needs to forget. Not that the sex was bad …

The thought’s enough to get him reaching for his flask.

Back on the road he passes a seventy-foot replica of the Statue of Liberty, clutching a bible with one hand and holding up a cross with the other.

Good to know the people of Tennessee have their priorities straight.

He spots an open liquor store and makes a U-turn. Better restock – place like this, they probably don’t sell spirits on Sundays.

He reaches for the whiskey he drank with Harris, stops, and grabs another brand instead.

Bloody South, Spike decides.

When the demons he and Angel are tracking head to Cleveland – hellmouths are like magnets for baddies – Spike surprises himself by volunteering. Angel’s only too happy to keep avoiding the city.

The gray sky and banks of snow have him reconsidering his dislike of the South. And the salt’ll ruin his boots.

He finds himself turning onto Buffy’s street and doesn’t know why he’s here. Or what he’ll do.

Spike just couldn’t resist – not a second time – following the directions Angel had given him. In case you want to see her, Angel had said, pain in his eyes. Spike had crumpled up the paper and stuffed it deep in his duster pocket. And not removed it until today. He blames the snow, it brings out his romantic side – something else he’d shoved deep inside.

He parks a few houses away. The light from her front window shines onto the snow-covered lawn.

Spike smokes a cigarette and watches. He sees no one.

He finishes his second cigarette and tosses it out the window. It’s red against the snow for a moment and then snuffs out. It lands beside his first one. Spike starts up the car.

No way in hell is he becoming that loser again.

His car skids as he drives away.

Harris’ shoulders are hunched. The McDonald's bag swings in his hand like he’s forgotten it’s there. He stops when he sees Spike and gives him that same confused look from last time.

“Not expecting to see me again?” He sidles up to Harris. “Or do you think I’m not real? Been fantasizing about me?”

Harris snorts. “You really know how to get on a guy’s good side.”

But he opens the door. Lets Spike in.

They skip the foreplay. The McDonald’s bag falls to the floor.

Harris is bent over the table. Pants around his ankles. Gasping.

Gasping and pushing back. Spike fucks him harder.

He comes, grabbing Harris’ hand.

Spike sits straight up in bed. Reaches for his weapon, but it’s not there. He’s at Harris’. In Harris’ bed.

Beside Harris.

The boy twists and moans, and not in the good way. Spike watches him until there’s a sob. He shakes Harris.

“Harris. Wake up.” The twisting continues. “Harris. Xander.”

Eye flies open. The familiar stunned look greets Spike.

“Alright?” he asks, grabbing his cigarettes.

No response. He inhales on the cigarette, offers it to Harris who shakes his head, but a second later takes it, inhales and coughs.

Harris stops coughing and they share the cigarette back and forth.

“Are you –” Spike starts.

“I’m ready for sleep.” Harris rolls over.

Okay, boy doesn’t want to talk. Spike gets that. He sinks back into the bed, welcoming the blankness of sleep.

He’s drifting off, thinking of how he’ll kill the demons when he hears a quiet Thanks.

That’s it. Never again is he volunteering for something just so Angel can avoid an old flame. The blood pooling out of the cut on his side makes him wish he hadn’t decided to fight the good fight. Being a bloody hero can be bloody awful.

He stumbles into Harris’ apartment. Harris pauses with fork half-way to his mouth and glances at Spike. “Spike. You look horrible.” He returns his attention to the food.

Spike wants to be annoyed that Harris won’t really look at him, but his actual pain in the side is distracting. He collapses on the couch and manages, “Thanks for the concern.”

“What?” Harris actually looks at him for more than a second. “Are you – wait, are you bleeding on my couch?”

“Hope so.” Spike glares at Harris.

“Oh!” Harris jumps up. “I’ll get bandages.”

“While you’re at it, get me some back-up too. There’s still 3 more demons need killing.”

Harris stops. “I’ll call Buffy.”

“No.”

“No? That’s just silly, we –”

“No.”

Harris crosses his arms. “Listen. I’ll call her. Give her the info.” Spike wishes he was evil so he could kill Harris just to stop the you’re an idiot tone. “This way you can continue to hide out and be avoidance guy.”

“No. No contact with the slayer.”

“You do remember that there’s more than one now, right?”

“Just need back-up. You’ll do.”

“Me?” Harris actually sounds surprised.

“Yeah. Why not? Could use a good laugh.” Spike presses his hand on the cut.

“Wow, I feel so needed. I can see why you and Angel work alone.” Harris turns and goes into the bathroom.

He returns a moment later and tosses some gauze at Spike. It lands on his stomach. “Alright I’ll help. But only ‘cause you asked so nice. And I’m driving.”

Part Five

Click. Increased terror threat level. Homeland security urges extra vigilance and reporting of any suspicious persons …

Xander wants to smash the alarm. Throw it across the room. Bask in the sound of it hitting the wall and falling to pieces.

Instead he hits snooze. Alarm. Snooze.

Fighting demons and sex with Spike were a blip. The adrenaline rush of being back in the fray lasted one night. Spike’s left town. Again. And nothing’s changed.

Nothing’s changed except Xander can’t snooze. He’s awake and staring at the ceiling, pretending that his bed doesn’t feel huge with just one person in it.

Damnit. He’s tired of feeling crappy and doing the same thing day after day.

He shuts off the alarm. Calls in sick.

Dawn’s home researching the latest threat so he grabs a book and joins her. It feels like old times.

Except it’s not.

Dawn’s looking at him like he’s crazy. Which, okay, is probably the right reaction since he hasn’t researched in … so long he can’t remember the last time. But it’s not something you forget how to do or anything. It’s like riding a bike, only with no physical exertion required.

Dawn has put down her book and is staring at him.

“What?” Xander puts his hands up. “Can’t a guy take a mental health day and help out the gang?”

“R-ight.” Her eyebrow’s raised. “You do know you have my Organic Chemistry text book?”

“Science. It’s poetry in motion.” Okay, the bike riding analogy didn’t hold up. Xander shrugs and hands the book over. Dawn gives him Apocalypses, Prophecies and You.

Xander stares at the book. “Really? That’s a title?”

“Really. But, yeah, lame.” She flicks her hair over her shoulders. “Chapter four will bring you up to speed.”

Xander opens the book, starts reading.

He’s still reading when Buffy arrives home.

“Xander?” It’s not an unhappy sounding question.

And he’s not unhappy to be here. “Hope you don’t mind me crashing the research party.”

“Party? Does this mean there’s cake?” Buffy sinks down on the chair beside Xander and leans against him.

She’s warm. He wraps an arm around her shoulder. “There should definitely be cake.”

“Geez guys, you’d think we’re a cake-free house or something insane like that.” Dawn rolls her eyes. “There’s Sara Lee in the freezer.”

They eat directly from the pan, forks scraping up the last crumbs.

Cake for dinner is good, but giggling at MTV reality shows with Buffy and Dawn is better.

He stumbles out into the cold night feeling drunk, that I-love-everyone-and-the-world-is-a-shiny-happy-place drunk. He doesn’t want to go home.

Xander drives in the opposite direction.

He ends up at Edgewater park, walking on the beach. The city skyline glitters on the water.

It’s like he’s in some really lame personal ad. I like movies, music, cuddling and long walks on the beach. Looking for a long term relationship with someone who likes the same. He can’t decide if it’s lamer that he knows what a generic personal ad looks like or that he’s actually doing the long walk thing.

Alone.

Maybe he would have been alone even if Anya had lived. Maybe they would have parted as friends with an awkward hug and a joke about Andrew. Maybe … maybe he’s caring too much about maybe. He’s sure Dr. Phil would tell him to get over the maybes, but who cares what Dr. Phil thinks?

Maybe he should go home now. And since his toes and fingers are cold, and his stomach’s grumbling, he does.

The next day he arrives home from work to a postcard. From Spike. A postcard from Spike that’s not signed but Xander knows it’s from Spike.

Who else would send him something that says Greetings from Gayville – Castro Street, San Francisco on the front? All it says is Should have seen Angel here.

Xander keeps turning it over in his hands.

Buffy’s staring into space. The table is covered with books and an empty donut box. A lone plain donut sits inside. Xander flips the pages of his book, not reading. It’s like they’re back in the library but with the addition of some gray hairs and scars. And minus an eye.

“This sucks,” Buffy says.

“Oh yeah. This is high with the suckitude.” Xander shakes a nearby soda can, but it’s empty. “You’d think all these smart people Giles recruited would have found a solution already.”

“Sometimes I wish for a simple apocalypse. Just one.” She reaches for the donut, stops, and rests her chin on her hand instead. “And, like, all we’d have to do is give the big evil thing a pie and it’d stop its nefarious plans. It’d be as easy as pie!”

Xander grins despite himself. “What kind of pie?”

“Raspberry-Peach. Or maybe Key Lime.”

“What about a Chocolate Pecan pie?”

“That’d work too.” Buffy stretches. “Better than poring over a bunch of dusty, useless books.”

“And you wondered why I stopped doing the research thing.” Xander runs a hand through his hair and eyes the donut.

“Why’d you start again?”

Xander grabs the donut and breaks it in half, giving one part to Buffy. He bites off a piece, taking his time chewing. “I got bored with normal. And it’s better than doing nothing.”

Buffy nods, mouth full of donut.

“Do you ever feel like you peaked too early? I mean, we saved the world at 17, how do you top that?”

“By saving it again?” But Buffy’s brow is furrowed. He has her full attention.

“It’s just that … I’m not complaining that we did all that good stuff. I just didn’t expect to feel like the high school football star who reminisces on that winning touchdown while working at Pizza Barn. I didn’t even get the popular perks.”

“You did date Cordelia.”

“True.” He still marvels that Cordy made out with him. “Of course that ended badly.”

“Hey, you’re talking to the girl who had to kill her boyfriend.” Buffy hits him on the arm.

“Ow! And, okay, you win.” Xander rubs his arm. “I’m not sure what you win, but I don’t think it’s good.”

“Tell me about it.” Buffy rubs her finger along her collarbone. “You know, I don’t think we can top that. And that’s okay, ‘cause now we can do different things. We’re not in Sunnydale anymore … or something.” She sighs. “I don’t know. Maybe you should have asked Willow. I’m sure she’d have a good answer.”

Xander reaches over and squeezes Buffy’s shoulder. “I like yours.”

“Oh!” Buffy beams a bright Buffybot-type smile at him. “Speaking of bad relationships, at least you didn’t sleep with Spike.”

“Um.” Xander clears his throat. “Actually …”

It figures that Spike would show up at Xander’s door later that week. Xander wonders if Spike’s here because of Buffy exclaiming Oh my god. Is there anyone who hasn’t slept with Spike? and Dawn – who’d just arrived – raising her hand. Spike had better not be here to sleep with Dawn.

His anger at this made-up worry disappears when he sees who’s standing beside Spike.

“Xander,” Angel says.

“Spike. Angel.” Xander leans against the door frame. “Let me guess, you both like long walks on the beach.”

Spike rolls his eyes and brushes past Xander on his way into the apartment. Angel hovers by the barrier.

Xander waves Angel in. “Yeah, yeah. You can come in too.”

They sit in Xander’s living room. No one says anything.

“This isn’t awkward at all,” Xander says.

“You saying three isn’t a crowd?” Spike slouches down, spreads his legs and leers at Xander.

“What?” Xander hears his voice squeaking and winces. “Three is definitely a crowd. No threeing.”

Angel looks back and forth between them, closes his eyes for a second. “We’re here with information you’ll need for this apocalypse.” He holds out a folder to Xander.

Xander takes it without thinking and looks down at it. There’s always some folder with crucial info that arrives at the last second.

“Thanks.” Angel stands and heads towards the door.

“Wait. You’re just giving me this and leaving?”

Angel nods. Xander looks at Spike and gets the same response, although Spike hasn’t made a move to leave yet.

“No.” Xander tosses the folder back to Angel. “This is stupid. I’m not passing notes for you two like we’re in grade school.”

“Hey!” Spike’s tone is full of indignation. “Just trying to help. Don’t attack the messengers.”

“You two aren’t impressing anyone with your heroic avoidance of your ex-girlfriend. I’m sure you both have good reasons to not see her, but, you know what? I don’t care. At least your ex is alive to see. And if you’re really these big champions, or whatever the cool kids are calling themselves these day, you should be acting the part.”

Angel’s staring at a spot on the floor a few feet in front of him. Spike’s sitting up, flicking his lighter open and closed.

Xander stands up. “We’re going to see Buffy.”

Once they’re at Buffy’s, Xander regrets his plan. Now they’re both focused on Buffy. Typical. Not that he wants Angel’s attention, but Spike’s …

He slips out and drives home.

Xander slumps on the couch with beer and the remote. He channel flicks but can’t stick with a show. He’s moping, and he’s pretty sure he’s moping about Spike, which is enough to make him really depressed.

Alright, that’s it.

He puts the beer down. Stands up. Pulls on his coat and leaves the apartment. He’s a man of action. A man on a mission. Except he’s not sure what his mission is. Doesn’t matter, he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it, and he doesn’t care that he’s using one of his grandma’s sayings.

It’s one of those quiet, clear nights, almost pretty with the moon shining on the snow. The crunching of his boots seems to echo throughout the street. He stops beside his car and digs in his pocket for the keys.

He whirls around at a sound behind him. Clutches his heart when he sees it’s just Spike leaning against a tree, smoking.

“Spike.” His heart’s still pounding. “What’s with the lurking? Thought you’d given that up.”

Spike shrugs. “Just finishing my smoke.”

“Outside my apartment?”

“Yeah.” Spike tosses the cigarette away. Approaches Xander. “Going somewhere?”

“Oh, um, yes, I was …” Where was he going? He brushes loose snow away with his boot. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be reconciling with Buffy? Or is Angel doing that?”

“Not exactly the returns from war welcome. More like awkward conversation with an ex. But the info should help.” Spike rests a hand on Xander’s side. “Angel’s gone to a motel.”

“And you’re here.” Xander tries to stop himself from smiling.

Spike closes the distance between them and presses against Xander.

“Wanna come inside?” Xander asks.

Spike kisses him and it’s kinda sweet. And just when it’s not sweet anymore, and is the good kind of dirty, Spike pulls away. “Inside’s good. Too cold to shag out here.”

They arrive at his apartment, breathless and laughing. Xander kisses Spike as he swings the door open.

It’s a good night.

There’s no alarm. No snoozing. No big, empty bed. Xander wakes up draped in dead guy – heavy dead guy – but since the dead guy in question is running his hand down Xander’s side – really waking him up – he’s not complaining.

And he’s not complaining when Spike rolls on top of him either. He’s actively participating.

The heavy-breathing, naked touching kind of participating. If this had counted as participation in PE, Xander would have been all over it. Well, not in high school because he was so very not ready for the gay sex. But now? He’s all about the participation.

Once the active participation is over and Xander’s breathing has returned to normal, he turns to face Spike.

“So …” Xander tries to think of something to say that’s not dorky or lame. The thinking’s not going so well. “This is fun. And when I say fun I don’t mean theme park fun. It’s more like porn magazine fun without all the bad airbrushing. Not that I jerk off thinking about you … and oh god, I can’t believe I just said that.”

Spike now has a very smug smile on his face.

“It’s just that this is good. Like really good. And I don’t just mean the sex. I mean, the sex is good. Obviously. I’m sure you know that.”

“Xander.”

“I know you’re leaving soon. And that’s okay but I –”

“Xander.” Spike places a finger on Xander’s mouth. “Shut up.” He takes his finger away. “’M staying for the big battle. Not missing that.”

“Oh yeah, that’s good.” Xander answers automatically.

“After that, thinking of heading to Oklahoma City. Big demon influx there.” Spike rests his head on Xander’s shoulder. “You could come.”

“Yeah?” He traces a finger along Spike’s hairline.

“Could be fun.”

Xander grins at the ceiling. “Fun is good.”

The End