As Two Such Men Should Be

by
Mwrgana

Part Four

I slam the door behind Harris, shooting the bolt across the solid oak barrier between us. He's still out there, I can sense him, trying to pull 'imself together, re-adjusting his bits, those ones I just stirred up so nicely for him, so's he can walk. I grin smugly, the wanker won't have an easy job of it; he'll be poncin' around worrying that he's not presentable for public view right up until he gets home.

I don't for a moment think he'll want to come back in but I don't relax until I know he's gone; then I let myself collapse against this door, resting my forehead against its coolness. My arms are high and wide above my head, elbows, hands and fingers spread, pushing hard against the ancient wood - craving its support as if I could absorb it through my skin.

My opinion of Harris has, in words of simplistic understatement, done a complete arse about face. There's been a change in him, slow but steady, the past few weeks; I doubt if any of the other bleedin' Screwbies have noticed but it's not been difficult to see - if you were watching. But the others don't take the time even to look at him much nowadays, never mind watch. Except, of course, the Watcher, he sees a lot, lot more than he likes to let on. He might have retired from the profession but old habits die hard and he absorbs knowledge like a hurricane can absorb a fart. He'll have some words of wisdom to bestow on the kid's new sexual proclivites, might just be worth asking him what he thinks of the situation.

Finally I'm able to peel myself away from the door to sta... walk slowly back to the sofa. I let myself drop down on to it, stretched full length with my head pillowed on the arm and light another cigarette. Damn, my hands are shaking, who'd have thought? I grope under the cushions and pull out a reasonably full bottle of Jack, take a few healthy swigs and start to with some serious thinking.

Yeah, the brat's whole attitude has been shifting recently. The first thing I noticed was the usual acerbic banter he delights in throwing at me was losing its malicious edge. In the last week it's all but dissolved into… embarrassed bravado is the best I can think of. I've been expecting him to start chucking handfuls of mud at me - the tried and tested way to start a wrestling match with the one you want to get close to. Aah, the tactics you grow fond of during puberty are hard to let go.

Got to admit, it's been fun seeing how far I could push him before he cracked. His burning stare has been keeping me cock warm for weeks now - and when I bent over to look in Rupert's fridge last night, thought he was going to choke. Silly sod didn't notice that the beer I was supposed to be unable to find was right there on the middle shelf. Damn, it didn't even click when I went back to fetch it 10 minutes later and drank it in front of him. Too busy pretending not to watch what I was doing to notice what I was doing it with.

But fuck me sideways seven times from Tuesday, who would have thought that less than 24 hours later he'd have been around here with a bit of the old follow-up? Lad's got a pair after all - I wonder if they're still as uncomfortable as mine? Ah, that's better. Sometimes all you need for sweet relief is the feel of a zip going down. Oops, going down, that's made me think of what I was saying to Harris and, while he's hardly my chosen fantasy, thinking of a mouth on a cock is a sure way of building up any man's sexual tension. I might not admit it often but this isn't the first time motormouth, here, has talked himself into an uncomfortable situation. Perhaps if I stroke the er, situation, gently, I can get it to calm down a bit.

First step in soothing an uncomfortable situation: get patient comfy. Jeans off, one foot on floor and the other up on sofa, legs floppin' wide an' relaxed. Yeah, that's feelin' good. Just stroke, now, nice an'easy. One hand playing my balls, pressure just hard enough for that lovely ripple of pain and the other hand finding a nice even rhythm up and down my cock and, yes, stroking is good.

I sink in to the moment: mind pictures flash across the silver screen that's the back of my closed eyelids to re-enforce the bolts of sensual hunger that my hands are sparking through my body. Images back through the years, back through the decades: so many bodies, single or multiple; so many places; so many positions; so many hands and mouths and deep, grasping, soft bodies; soft, full breasts and perfumed hair and deep, grasping, soft, pliant, generously-giving bodies.

My hand speeds up and pleasure roils through me as I think of the strangeness of firm male lips, strong male tongue, desparate against mine. And so what if I can't banish the phantom I conjured, of watching a dark-eyed youth wrap his mouth around the head of my cock, sucking, sliding that for-once-silent mouth further and further down, pulling back up a little way then pushing back down, teasing inch by inch, finally taking me all in until we become one seamless being joined lips to torso, then sliding back up, teeth scraping against my screaming flesh until he reaches the head again, tongue pushing into my slit, lapping the first drops of pre-ejaculate, then curling under the foreskin, orbiting tightly around my increasingly weeping head and oh god, yesss, harder please harder, an even-more powerful sucking as he repeats the sweet torture again and again, dark hair falling over his face, his head bobbing faster and faster, and yessss, please, oh fuck, suck me, yessss, oh god yesss, Xander, god yes, oh god, jesus Xander, yeah, just like that, christ don't stop, up and down my cock, this manchild's muscles-tongue-teeth all conspiring to pull me up higher and higher, think I'll never reach, body twitching, pulling, straining to hit that summit, throat raw with silent howling, tension higher and higher and tighter and blinding and screaming and jerking and shooting, spurting, splashing and shaking and bloody-holy-jesus-mary-and-joseph that boy can give head!

Xander's POV - Thoughts Away From The Crypt -

One thing hasn't changed - I still have no idea what to do.

I have to assume, from what I can see of me, and what I can feel - still feel - that what happened, um, happened and wasn't the result of an another-knock-out-blow-to-the-head dream.

What the hell was all that about? Was that good or bad? Did I really kiss Spike? Did he really kiss me back? Did he really play footsie with my cock? Did he really make me almost come just by talking to me?

So what the hell *was* that all about?

Should I be thinking, 'Hey, yeah! sexy-vampire sex games' or, 'Yeah, yeah, sexy-vampire mind games.' ? For the sake of my own sanity, er make that remaining sanity, I refuse to think, 'Oh, sexy vampire mind-sex games'. Should I be thinking sexy vampire at all? OK, that's an easy one, I can do this one. Clue: two-letter word begins with 'n' ends in 'o'. Answer: too late.

Did he mean it when he said he'd consider it - us doing what he talked about? - cock , mine - mouth, his - gnargh! - letting me - mhwmm, oh, god, his legs, my shoulders - open to me - and him and looking and doing and - beautiful? Did he mean I was beautiful - or looking at - or doing - or can I take the knocked-out-dream option, please? I can do unreal. Unreal good, unreal friend, unreal nice and warm and fuzzy and unreal never answer back and kiss back and talk back what you want to do so badly you wish it was unreal…

Umm, yeah, OK, losing it a bit here. Don't know which is more frightening, me understanding me, or me not understanding me.

Mwaah, my magnificently mangled moral-mind-maze, marking maudlin meanders, making me more madly moronic, muddling mawkish manly-musings; muddying mesmerising memories.

OK, a lot, losing it a lot. (Did I really *think* a semi-colon? Willow would be soo proud!)

And I still haven't got any further, I'm still standing here not knowing what to do. First steps, little steps, easy steps. Fingers through hair, hands across mouth, adjustments in pants. Good to go.

Little steps is right. That son of a bitch has left me with a boner that makes walking next to impossible. And he just stood there as icy cool as, as, yeah OK, the corpse he actually is.

So how come, if he's so damn cool, did he manage to burn every part of me he touched, just by touching me? Hah, think you're so smart? Go figure that one out, Mister Cool-walking-dead-vampire-guy. And you needn't think you're going to get away with distracting me by having hands and lips and… feet.

I don't believe he's got me thinking erotic thoughts about feet - one foot, anyway, with fine bones and strong muscles that push against and up and down and across what is preventing me from getting home as quickly as I need to in order to be able to think about that foot pushing against and up and down and across what is preventing me - aghh! Just. Don't. Think.

*****

Home, at last. It never used to be this far away. When did they move my apartment all the way to Pittsburgh? And why didn't someone tell me?

When I finally close my own front door behind me, I slump back against it unable to take another step. Nice door, good door. Just stay there, nice-and-good and still-and-strong door, so you can prop up poor little Xanny, 'cos he can't do 'stand-up-by-himself' right now.

I'm a trembling mess of two emotions: gibbering terror and pheromonic first-base buzz (are there are any moans like phero moans?) Oh, look, they're coming up to each other and talking, oh they're agreeing on a merger. Yup, they've shaken hands on the deal and they're gonna call their new joint emotion "Is-Spike-gonna-kiss-me-again-or-kill-me-just-the-once? anticipation". OK, that's cool, now I've got just the one emotion to beat me up. Got to be an improvement there, somewhere.

Ya know, I like this door, we could become buddies. I stretch my arms up and wide, elbows spread and splayed hands almost meeting above my head. The burning pull in my shoulder muscles is good and I try to picture my tension as water rolling down from my hands, along my arms, dropping onto my shoulders, then finally falling from me altogether to disappear in to the floor. Yes, I do like this door.

This must be what gets people hugging trees. It's easy, right now, to imagine I'm absorbing a powerful, primal strength pulsing out of the wood behind me, restoring my own exhausted energy reserves.

I still can't move away and I feel guilty that I haven't taken more notice of this nice door in the past. Wonder what its name is? Hmm, it's a front door so I'll call it FD for short.

I'll have to make up to it, somehow, for my thoughtless neglect - perhaps we can watch TV together some nights, have man-to-portal chats, go shoot some pool. Ah, not a good idea there. Could be related to the cues and might not feel too happy about how small they've been chopped up. Just a beer then, that shouldn't be a catalyst for any unpleasantness about things-they-do-to-you-when-they-stop-letting-you-be-a-tree.

Do appreciate your help here, pal, no way can I stay up by myself yet - oh, except that bit of me. That bit is standing up by itself very-well-thank-you. And give it its due, it's standing up under pressure.

At last, a really good idea, a practical idea moreover!

Aaaah... that's better. Why can't they make jeans that stay the same size all day? A man can't be doing with undoing his zip at all hours of the day and night just to correct stupid mistakes made by over-paid designers.

Okay, we have ignition. I peel myself away from my friend, FD, and stag… walk with dignity to the sofa.

Letting my pants drop to the floor, I step out of them and give them a nasty look. They choose to ignore me. I throw my shoes at them. Still no reponse. Just so they realise who's the boss around here, I bombard them, item by item, with the rest of my clothing and there's only one thing to do now.

I drop on to the sofa - mmmh, nice an' comfy and relaxing, might just lie here, stretched out like this, all night - and indulge myself by allowing me to think of everything I know I shouldn't be thinking of.

And as I run my hand up and down my aching cock, I proceed to bask in the ministration of my five-fingered fan club.

Later that same night:

GILES was working out in the magic shop's back room. When sparring with Buffy he seemed almost comically vulnerable and fragile under the onslaught of her slayer force and speed; in normal human terms his strength and delivery were remarkable. If he were still fighting other humans, rather than demons, his tally of concussions suffered would be around nil.

After getting his own back on all demon-kind and more than a few humans - who unfortunately, or fortunately depending on your point of view, were presently out of his reach - Giles stepped away from the heavy punch-bag that had suffered his therapeutic berserk. Pulling his sweat-soaked T shirt over his head he slumped down, trembling arms sharing his weight with trembling legs as he leaned on the vaulting-horse. It was while he was using his bunched-up shirt to wipe the sweat from his body that he heard an unexpected voice, "Nice to see you still keep in shape, Ripper."

Giles spun round to face the door, "You!"

His visitor paced deliberately and predatorily towards him, "I'm afraid so... but isn't it nice?"

Giles snorted at the quotation but refused to go further down that Rocky path. "What are you doing here and how did you get in?"

"Oh, sorry old boy, of course the door was locked wasn't it? Ah well, what's a locked door between old... friends? Time was, the securest of bank vaults couldn't have kept us from each other if one us were other side of its door."

"And time was, not so very long ago, I'd have cheerfully locked you in said bank vault and sent the key spinning through several particle-absorbing dimensions."

"But, ultimately, it wouldn't have done you any good, would it?" They were now eye-to-eye and toe-to-toe and Giles found himself enclosed by a pair of arms which leaned on the horse behind him, mirroring his earlier position, "Face it, old man, 'When the song of lonely love invites me on, I must go to his side.' And you are, Ripper, aren't you? Lonely? Nothing's changed - we're neither of us complete without his other half are we? I'm tired of being lonely wherever I go and with whomever is there at the time."

Giles eyed his friend deliberatingly and, reaching his arms back, grasped the pommels behind him and slowly and effortlessly lifted himself up before sinking down to sit on the horse. The arms that were previously either side of him, now displaced by Giles's moving, came to rest on one hip and one thigh. "The gymnastics were always fun, weren't they Ripper?"

One hand pushed thighs apart; one pace forward brought hs unbidden guest between Giles's legs, leaning closer until lips met.

Giles's hand came up to clutch the back of the other man's head and his legs wrapped around the body in front of him, pulling it even closer, as the two men took the first steps in an old and familiar dance. Fingers played, lovingly and viciously, across skin and muscle, through hair and across scalp, as tongues stroked and battled against each other: a visceral metaphor for their haunted love/hate co-dependent relationship.

"Well, well, the Watcher and his wanderin' Warlock. Find a wardrobe, you two could come out in proper style - you've got the witch already."

"What is this, tonight, bloody open house? Don't tell me: the door was locked but that's never bothered you yet."

"I'm impressd - spot on, Rupert. Anyway, I'll go, um, don't let me interrupt the proceedings. I'll just go... over here."

Finding himself a place against the wall bars and close to the other two men, Spike sank cross-legged to the floor with a lithe strength and grace that put Giles in the shade. Retrieving cigarettes, he lit one, caught Giles's look, regarded the packet momentarily then threw it across. Giles caught it without taking his eyes off the vampire who was now lounging back against the wall bars one leg streched out, the other pulled up to support his arm - cigarette casually dangling from its hand. Reaching his other hand up and above his head lightly grasping one of the bars, Spike tilted his head to one side resting his face in the crook of his elbow. The hand carrying his cigarette to his mouth stopped as he saw Giles's expectant look. "Bloody hell, take advantage of a broken, broke vampire why don't you?" Snarling, cigarette between teeth, he dug into his pocket again then threw his lighter over. "Bloody OP smokers, they're the ones should carry the bleedin' health warning."

Giles lit a cigarette and put both pack and lighter down beside him. Ethan remained where he was, encircled by his lover's legs, one arm encircling his lover's body. His face was set in its typical expression of amused and interested irony as he regarded the figure draped provocatively against the wall bars; he took the cigarette from Giles, took a drag and returned it. He was getting more entertainment than he had expected, tonight. And the unexpected had long been one of Ethan's favourite entertainments.

Neither men was concerned at the interruption to their mutual re-introduction. They had gone through the procedure many times before and would do so again; any novelty factor was to be appreciated rather than resented. And the vampire certainly was not the slightest bit concerned about their feelings either way. Ethan could only stand back in awe of the blond's complete disregard of the tradition of the interloper's self consciousness in such a situation. Along with altruism, embarrassement was obviously nothing more than a word which started with a vowel in Spike's dictionary. Ethan mentally bowed his head to a true master of the art of unconsidered arrogance.

"What is it, precisely, that you want, Spike? It's obviously not your usual larceny or you'd have been in and gone without our knowing."

"Oi, watch it with the larceny, Rupes. I'm the only one 'ere been robbed tonight. You should be supplying your own after- or instead-of -shag fags, not taking advantage of a serendipitous visitor. Bit of gratitude here? What'd you have done if I hadn't come along to enjoy the show, eh?"

"Spike and serendipity - two words unlikely to come together in any thought of mine. Besides…" Giles raised an eyebrow at Ethan. Ethan, glancing over at the indignant vampire, obediently patted his back pocket indicating the presence of a pack of cigarettes and threw Spike a consolitary grin.

"Bloody hell, two scrounging bastards," Spike grumbled.

"So, Spike, are you here for a particular reason or just to annoy?"

"Well that's nice, innit? You're winning on the annoying front, today, pal. But, yeah, as a matter of fact I have got something special in mind. Came here to have a man-to-man chat with you about a certain young man and his man-to-man proposition... think I ought to forget the talking, though, and just watch the action. Pick up on the practical. I did say not to let me interrupt," Spike leered at the two men.

"What is this sudden incapacity of the sexually active of Sunnydale to know what to do with hormone surges? Why is everyone coming to me? And you, why the hell should *you* want *my* advice? God, I must be getting old; I'll have to start looking for a condo in Florida or some sheltered housing, complete with potted palms and Merrie England, in Budleigh Salterton." Giles sank his head despairingly onto Ethan's shoulder and the vampire smirked.

"Well, you know, like I said to young Xan, you shouldn't believe all you read in your books, Rupert. Some just need the voice of experience to guide them along the path of alternate sexuality. I'm a perfectionist, me; if I'm gonna do it I want to do it right. Wouldn't want to frighten the horses, would we?" Spike ground out his cigarette against the sole of his boot and looked cheerfully up at Giles, winking amiably at Ethan.

Giles's expression, as he raised his head, was wary, "Is there some subtle cultural implication I'm missing, here? Why the references to Victoriana homosexuality, with both you and Xander, on the same day?"

"Wouldn't hazard a guess 'bout Harris but I am a Victorian, got lots of cultural memories, from all sortsa times, packed away in here," Spike patted his head with one long finger and chuckled. "Lots of nasty fates doled out, in the form of legal justice, to a load of dozy geezers, back then. Wankers. Me, I got more sympathy with the horses."

The other two were left to guess whether 'wankers' referred to the judiciary or its victims. Stretching both arms up straight, Spike grasped the highest rail he could reach and pulled, barely lifting himself out of his seated position to thrust his hips up and forward for maximum stretch along his body, arms and legs.

"At least *you'd* never suggest that Oscar Wilde was a founder member of Frankie Goes to Hollywood," muttered the beleaguered watcher handing the stub of his cigarette to Ethan, to step on. Ethan and Spike exchanged bemused and amused looks before turning to Giles for an explanation. "And, no, I am not going to expand on that. It was painful enough the first time around."

"One of Harris's little gems, eh? So, he came to you for a similar chat, then Watcher. He's certainly grown a pair; at least he did between talking to you and... talking to me."

Balancing his weight on his heels, the blond grabbed a higher rail then lifted his lower body up so his legs were straight out in front of him, his back flush against the bars. "So, now we're all here - little innocent ol' me and you two.... hands-on experts…" Spike quirked an eyebrow, folded his body in half so that his feet were level with his hands, then simultaneously released his grasp, pushed with his feet, flipped and landed lightly and perfectly balanced on his hands. Another flip and he was on his feet again looking encouragingly at the two men staring at him from twin expressions of reluctant and pissed-off admiration heavily tinted with envy green.

"Hmm, what? Oh, just a vampire thing," he shrugged. "Dynamic tension and all that, s'easy enough to do, all you need's the supranatural strength and muscle control and excessive natural co-ordination and anyone can do it." One of the men watching him had yet another emotion building in him and Spike held his look for just a little longer than necessary.

"Right then, Watcher, about that man-to-man, man-on-man talk..."

As they left the gym for the kitchen's greater comfort and convenient liquid refreshment, Ethan fell back a few paces. Watching the vampire walk in front of him, he pondered the opportunities that might present themselves in the next few weeks after the talking was over and this new re-union with Ripper was getting old.

---

 

still later:

"…So then, after all these weeks of gormless staring and slaverin', out of the blue he grabs hold of me, kisses me - bloody good kiss, too, give 'im that - lands me with a stiffy like the Rock of Gibraltar and sits there calmly drinking my beer as I try to frighten him off. A few more years and I'll make a poker player of him yet…"

"And you really want my words of wisdom on what to do and how to do it? I'm still surprised at your coming to me for advice. I *am* getting to be the father figure."

"Yeah, summat like that, don't get carried away on the paternal theme. So, you know him, do you reckon he's serious about all this?"

"Oh yes, from what he's said I'd have to say that he's quite serious. I would also say that as he's made *his* move, it's time for you make *yours*. Just, whichever... whatever you decide to do… nothing harsh, hmm? He is rather vulnerable at the moment. More so than usual. I really would *not* like to see him hurt. Just remember that, Spike - for your own benefit as well as his."

---

 

Later again - so late that it has become now:

Giles, whisky in hand, standing in the darkened window of his sitting room, looking out at stars disdainfully painting infinity. He grips the arms wrapped protectively around him and pushes back, more tightly, against his once-again re-discovered lover. How many times over the years have they parted, only for one or the other to find his way back again? Pop-song references aside, it has always been thus: as their being together has a finite survival time, so their separating cannot overcome the constant bond pulling them back, each to the other.

Giles smiles nostalgically. He is hearing in his mind a song that reminds him of the time when he and Ethan were first discovering their hunger for the power that dwells in the shadows. He is hearing the pure and plaintive voice of young, blonde girl, from a little town called Pontardawe in a small but ancient country called Cymru, who sings to each succeeding generation the bitter-sweet pathos of human ephemera.

He looks at, rather than through, the window before him and sees '... a strange reflection'. His lover's lips caress his neck and murmur his name. He sighs. 'I saw your face and heard you call my name. Oh my friend we're older but no wiser, For in our hearts the dreams are still the same.'

He is remembering occasions, in a packed and overburdened life, and situations similar to the one he had been discussing today. 'Leave your flowers at my door, I'll leave them for the one who waits behind.'

He is wondering if he has said the right things today, to the right people

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