A Lesson in Principles

by
Annie Sewell-Jennings

Part One
A Lesson in Principles

Xander really wishes Spike hadn't gotten his voice back.

"Oh, come on! Untie me! This is ridiculous, I'm not gonna hurt you! These ropes are itchy and this chair is uncomfortable. Got a fucking spring poking me right in the ass! I swear it, Harris, if it weren't for this sodding chip, I'd rip your throat out and eat your esophagus...."

Was it really necessary? Wasn't there some way that Buffy could've let everybody but Spike have their voices back? The Gentlemen didn't seem like such bad guys. Sure, there was the whole thing with the cutting-out of hearts, but they'd been snappy dressers. And at least they were quiet. But Spike?

He doesn't know the meaning of the word.

"I mean it, you know! Fine, don't take me seriously, just because old Spike's not up with the killing nowadays. But you'd better believe I'm gonna get this blasted thing out of my head, and when I do, I'm gonna remember that you kept me tied up to a bloody recliner for hours on end and...."

Two hours. Two hours of this. It's impossible. Xander tries to turn the television up louder. He'd put on MTV in the hopes that shiny videos and pretty boobies might somehow distract Spike from his current mission of complete and total irritation, but Spike just won't shut up. Not even when The Real World came on.

Anya's already come and gone. It's extremely difficult to try and score with your girlfriend when there's a running commentary in the background. Don't touch the tits, boy. Ah! Saw your hand! Don't do it... don't do it... ha! Again! After Anya had slapped Spike around for a couple of moments, to Xander's immense pleasure, she'd then stalked out on her too-high heels and said that his blowjob could wait another night.

Great. So now not only is he annoyed, he's horny and annoyed.

There are more sounds coming from Spike's vicinity. More struggling. More grunting and snarling. If he spits on Xander's floor one more time, Xander is going to mop it up with Spike's stupid, annoying face. Three times was plenty, thank you very much.

"Come on, Harris!" Oo, a note of desperation. Spike's changing his tactics. "I was up and about over at the Watcher's, didn't hurt a thing, not even your little trollop. Let you smack me around and everything, and I didn't lift a bloody finger!"

Yeah, Xander thinks wistfully. Those were good times.

"So give me one good reason why you won't untie me!"

Finally, Xander turns his head away from the television set and in Spike's direction. His fists are all balled up, and he's straining against the ropes with a glare on his face. Just looking at Spike is enough to make Xander rethink the whole let's-not-stake-Spike policy.

"Oh, the ropes?" Xander asks innocently. "That's not about restraining you. You can't hurt me. You're all impotent."

"Hey!"

"Yup," Xander says cheerfully. "Impotent. You can't hurt a hair on my head without getting zapped by the chip of poetic justice. Kind of makes me feel better about paying taxes. But hey, that's beside the point. It's not for protection. Nope, this is about principle."

At this point, he's given up the thought of having a good night's sleep, or a nice roll in the sack with Anya, or even a nice date with the sock puppet of love in the bathroom. Even the television is ruined. So hey -- if he's going to have to put up with Spike annoying him all night, he might as well annoy him right back.

And the best part?

It's actually working.

Spike's pissed. His fingers are flexing, and he's got that look on his face that says he's all ready to kill. "Principle," he spits. "You're keeping me tied up to this disgusting chair because of some fucked-up sense of principle? What about me? I haven't had a cigarette in four goddamn hours!"

"Oh, I'm sorry! Were you under the impression that I cared about you?" Xander rolls his eyes and starts flipping channels. "There is not a chance in hell I'm letting you out of those ropes. Whine and bitch all you want. I don't care. I'm not scared of you."

And then, something amazing happens: Spike shuts up.

Oh, it's glorious. Absolutely wonderful. Just the sound of the dripping water pipes and the blare of the television set. Happily, Xander closes his eyes. He won. He fucking won! Score, Team Harris!

And the crowd goes wild as a victorious Mad Dog Harris crushes his opponent, the Bleached Blunder, into the ground! And there's blood everywhere and money rains from the sky and oh, sweet victory! Sweet, sweet victory!

"So. That's the way you want to play it."

Uh-oh.

Slowly, Xander opens his eyes and turns his head to the side. The look on Spike's face isn't a good one. It's a dangerous one. That's the smirk right there. The one he gets when he's up to no good, which naturally means Spike smirks a lot. But it doesn't ever fail to impress.

Spike cocks his head at him. "Won't let me get up and walk around," he says. "Won't let me have a smoke. Won't let me do anything but sit here and stew in this stupid chair, right?"

Suddenly, the smirk gets darker. A little more... wicked. This isn't the I'm a very bad man look. This is the I'm a very bad man and you like it look. His hand slowly, almost lazily moves off the arm of the chair and dangerously close to Spike's lap. It's like time freezes. Xander can't stop staring as Spike slowly, effortlessly brings his hand to his crotch and strokes.

The smirk is now officially lethal. "Well, that suits me just fine," Spike purrs. "Just fine indeed."

Instantly, Xander begins to panic.

He wouldn't. Would he? Who am I kidding? Of course he would! He's Spike! He'd do anything! He eats babies! Oh my God, he's not serious. He's just dicking with me. Dicking! Gah! No! Bad word! Stop! Bad mental picture, bad mental picture!

Horrified, Xander jumps to his feet and points a shaking finger in Spike's direction. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me! No way! No way are you going to really do that!"

Spike just arches his eyebrow at him and gives him a look that might be considered innocent if it were on someone else's face. "Oh, I'm not?" he says silkily. When did Spike start talking like this? What the hell is going on here? "Got nothing better to do. Bored out of my skull over here, I am, and it's been such a long time since I've had anyone."

"Spike! God, that's disgusting! You can't be serious!"

A hint of tongue between the teeth. The patented Spike sneer, but... different. A little slower. A little more honeyed. Still predatory, oh yeah, but in a less-than-murderous way. "Oh, I'm dead serious, Harris. What, you think I'm afraid of having a wank in front of you? Please. Won't be my first time, won't be my last."

Xander pauses and frowns. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

That sly grin that says that Spike knows what all sorts of different things mean. "Oh, and I suppose you thought me and Angelus were just good friends."

What? What the hell? Spike and Angel were... oh, wow... they were all with the....

Spike's thumb is sliding over the seam of his zipper. Up and down. Up and down. Why is he watching this? Why is he looking at this? Why is he listening to any of this? Quickly, Xander raises a hand to cover his eyes. "Stop that! Spike!"

"Mmm, keep saying my name, you stud."

Goddammit! Why him? Why do things like this happen to him, Xander Harris? Why couldn't this have happened while Spike was chained up in Giles' bathroom? But no, nooo, this could only happen now. Here, in Xander's cellar.

No. No way. This is not going to happen. He is going to stop this. He's going to untie him, and...

And then he'll lose. And Spike will have won. And he'll be an asshole about it and he'll probably take the opportunity to try and jack off on Xander's bed, and there is no chance in hell Xander's going to let that happen. No. He has the power now. He's the one in control.

But when Spike makes a little, soft noise in the back of his throat and arches his hips in the chair, Xander wonders who's really in charge.

He can't stop looking. Can't stop watching. It's all little movements; the ropes bound around his chest will only let his forearms loose. But it's still loose enough for this. For these little, slower-than-molasses strokes of his thumb against the straining bulge in his jeans. And oh, boy, but those jeans are tight and that bulge is big.

Suddenly, Xander forgets how to breathe.

Spike's making noises. Strange, deep noises that sound kind of like growls. Shifting his hips around and squirming in his seat. His eyes are right on Xander. The smirk never falters. "You know," he says, "you could just untie me. Wouldn't have to watch then...."

Xander feels a little weak. A little warm. His mouth is dry and hot, and Spike's toying with the buttons of his fly while one black-tipped finger snakes between his legs to stroke his balls through the denim. Oh, God. And the first button pops open, and....

Oh, no. Not now. Not this. Anything but this.

But blood is much more stubborn than brains.

He can feel it. That pulse under his skin. The quick rush of heat in his groin, and the twitch of his cock. Feels himself getting hard already, swelling and rising in his sweatpants. Everything feels dizzy and hot, and his heart is racing as he watches Spike bite down on his lower lip and smile with pleasure.

This is very, very bad now.

"Stop it," Xander says. His voice comes out shakier than he'd like it to be.

Spike's voice is rich and creamy. Dark like brown sugar. "Untie me."

God help him, but Xander couldn't untie him even if he wanted to.

Not while Spike is doing this.

And because Spike is one of the biggest bastards ever to roam the face of the earth, he knows it. He gives Xander that famous shit-eating grin and wriggles around some more. Xander desperately wishes that Spike would stop moving around. It's something about the way Spike moves, like every little action is deliberate and effortless all at once, that makes Xander's skin crawl in a way that's far, far too appealing.

Oh my God. Spike is going to jack off in front of me, and it's turning me on.

Another button, and then another, and then another. The wicked arch of Spike's eyebrow. "Why, Xander," he murmurs, "I thought you'd have untied me by now, being that you're all macho and straighter than yuppies. Maybe you're enjoying this. Maybe you like the thought of me tossing off right here before your very eyes."

The terrible thing is that Spike is right. Even though it's horrible and wrong and dirty and Very, Very Bad, Xander cannot look away. His heart is pounding. His cock's so hard that if he doesn't touch it soon, he's going to die. There's a slow, steady ache throbbing under his skin. Everything in his body wants this, even though his brain is screaming against it.

Another button, and Xander barely bites back a moan. Darker-than-whiskey hair running in a thin, fine line down the flat of Spike's belly. Oh, God, he wants to do bad things to that thin trail of deep blond. Wants to lick it.

Bad! Bad body! This is wrong! This is vampire, vampire with a penis! Think of boobies! Boobies! Naked chicks!

"So that's it," he purrs malevolently. "You want a taste. Could do that for you, you know. If you untied me. And it'd be good. Better than anything you've ever had before, that's for certain."

Xander wouldn't doubt that. Spike probably knows all sorts of terrible things. After all, he's been around for a hundred-odd years, and he spent most of that time with a crazy vampire and, apparently, Angelus. He could probably write an entire book on fucking, and the look on Spike's face backs up Xander's very wrong train of thought.

"Oh, yeah," Spike says, his fingers reaching up to stroke that fine strip of skin showing between the edge of his tee shirt and the waistband of his jeans. "See, you've never had nothing like me before, Harris. Got your demon girl, yeah, but she can't move the way I can. Got all these limber muscles, I do. Could bend and turn and twist to your heart's content."

Spike twists a little in the chair, raising the hem of his tee shirt and showing off his flat stomach. God, there's not an ounce of fat on this guy. He's all lean and hard, sinuous and oh, wow, those muscles can move. Spike starts drawing little circles around his navel with one hand, the other hand undoing the rest of the buttons on his fly, and Xander can't help it. It escapes him. Everything escapes him.

He moans.

So hard. He's so hard. God, he's going to explode in his pants soon, everything throbbing, and he feels dizzy. Like the world he knows is just getting whisked away by Spike and his evil, nasty movements. Goodbye, Anya. Not thinking of you right now. And goodbye, morality and sense of self. This is all about Spike now.

Xander can't take his eyes off him.

And then the last button is undone, and Spike reaches inside his pants and releases his erection. Xander gasps at the sight of it, long and hard, and thick. So dark with blood, and Spike's uncut, the foreskin peeled away from the purple head. Dark blond curls around it, and the hint of tight, hard balls. "Spike... please...." he whispers. He's down to begging right now.

Spike, being the shithead he really is, only chuckles as he slides his palm along the length of his cock. "Come over here and untie me," he purrs. "Show you the time of your life, if you do. You've never had it as good as me, and you know it, don't you, Xander? Kiss you so hard you'd forget about breathing. And me, I don't have to. Could kiss you for hours, if you liked."

God, that mouth. How did he not notice Spike's mouth before? Silky lips, all pink and moist. Pretty, like a girl's mouth. He bets he kisses so soft. What would it be like to kiss him? Just a kiss. No one would ever have to know....

The tip of Spike's tongue peeks out between those sweet lips, and that smirk makes his hips arch in spite of himself. "You're shameless," Xander croaks. "Absolutely shameless... bribing me... oh, God...."

"Go on, Harris. Keep talking. Love it when they talk to me. Give me all your dirty words. I'll be your whore if you want it that way. Call me your bitch, call me your da, I don't care."

His fingers are itching. Begging to untie the knots that hold Spike back, just so that he could kiss him. Just so he could touch him. Have his hands all over him, and at this point, Xander would willingly sit at Spike's feet if he'd just touch him. Little gasps are falling from his lips, and even though Xander hates himself, his hand is moving towards his lap.

"Could do this for you," Spike continues, his hand closing around his cock. One long, heavy stroke from base to tip. "Toss you off. Look at my hands, Harris. Don't you want them? Want my hands on your prick, want my fingers in your ass. Bet that's your dirty little secret, ain't that right? Always wanted someone to lick you right there."

"I hate you," Xander moans. "I hate you so fucking much."

"Good. Hate me. Hate me and fuck me harder."

He's got his fingers on it now. God, oh God, he's so hard. And Spike's stroking himself, arching his hips and gasping for unnecessary air. Why does he have to look so human when he does this? Why does he have to look so good?

"Gonna come soon," Spike sighs, his pale fingers reaching down to touch his balls. "Oh, yeah, gonna come. And so are you, aren't you, you pillock? Can see your hands on yourself. You're all hard and heavy for me, you stupid git, and you want it so bad. I can tell."

"Arrogant," Xander gasps. He's practically doubled over with the force of his erection. "Arrogant fucking asshole."

"Oh, yeah, you bitch. Talk dirty to me."

Oh, he'll talk dirty to him. Real dirty. He'll tell him he's worthless, tell him he's a mistake, tell him he's an abomination. A monster, nothing, a piece of shit. He'll tell him that he's not going to do anything for him, because Spike is not worth his time, and he'll be right back on the old high horse again.

It's really a shame that he doesn't have any control of the English language at this point.

They're arching together now, moving in perfect synchrony, as Spike's hand becomes just a blur around his dick and Xander's hand slips into his sweatpants, gasping as he finally makes contact with his aching erection. "So hard," Spike gasps. "So hard, I am, and I want you, Harris. Untie me. Untie me so I can fuck you."

He's almost dying. He thinks this is what it feels like to die. But he can't, he can't do that. If he does, then things will go too far and he'll never be the same. He can already feel a part of him dying, and he thinks that might be the part of him that's sane.

Because if this isn't insanity, then Xander doesn't know what is.

"Please, Harris. Please."

Startled, Xander turns his head to look at him. Spike is staring at him, his eyes so blue and full of need that it almost takes his breath away. Begging him. He's begging now. Squirming inside of his restraints, his dick so hard, and the tip is glistening with precum. Suddenly, Xander sees something he's never seen in Spike before.

Vulnerability.

"I need you," Spike whispers raggedly. "Please, Xander. Just untie me."

"I can't," Xander rasps back. "If I do, you're going to... oh, God, I can't...."

"Then kiss me. Just a kiss. Lick my palm. Touch me, do something, help me. Help me."

If I do this, there's no going back.

Oh, hell. I crossed that line a long, long time ago.

He almost stumbles over himself as he makes his way across the room, and then Spike's mouth is on his and Xander is in heaven. Oh, God, he was right, there is no one on earth who can kiss like this. There's nothing held back. Anger, desperation, need, desire, hatred, love, so much love, and it's all teeth and sweet lips, and--

And then there's nothing.

They come almost at the same time, so close that it's hard to tell who went when. But Xander's gasping and moaning, arching his hips as he spills his load. His hand is all tangled up in Spike's short hair, and it's so soft. How is it so soft?

Oh, fuck it. It's useless to try and understand anything at this point.

When he's done, Spike bites Xander's lower lip. Not hard, no. Just a nip. But oh, God, it sends shivers down his spine.

Oh, no, what have I done?

Terrified, Xander opens his eyes and sees Spike smirking at him. Blue eyes all smug with satisfaction. "Well, look at you," he drawls. "Kissing men and coming all over my jeans. Now you have to untie me so I can clean up."

"No."

Outrage suddenly floods Spike's eyes. "What do you mean, 'no'? Brought you off nice and proper, I did. Better than that skinny little bird would've done, I guarantee."

But Xander just turns his back and walks towards the bed. His legs are shaking, and his knees are weak. He thinks he feels a little crazy right now. A little less than stable. "Nope," he says, and he hopes his voice isn't trembling. "Not going to do it."

"Why the hell not?" Spike yells, and Xander climbs in the bed and gives Spike a look just before he turns out the light.

"Because I won."

It doesn't matter that he just kissed him. Doesn't matter that he just watched Spike get himself off in his basement, or that in some weird-ass way, Spike just got him off. Nope, none of that matters right now. Because Xander won. Spike's still tied up. He won.

I want to touch him right now. I want to run my hands down his chest. I bet he has really sexy nipples. Can guys have sexy nipples? I bet Spike does. And then I want to kiss him some more, and I want to lick his neck, and oh, fuck, his cheekbones....

As he feels himself getting hard again, a silky, cocky laugh floats to his ears.

"Yeah. But at what price, Harris?"

The question keeps him up all night long.

Part Two
Orange Crush

So, this is what it feels like to lose your mind.

Funny, but it's nothing what Xander thought it would be. He thought it'd be more fun. You know, chasing imaginary butterflies and saying funny, random things like "The glue! We have to save the glue!" But it's not like that at all. It's not funny in the least.

And it's all Spike's fault.

"Now," Giles says, pointing to a location on the map with his ruler, "from all reports we've heard from the underground, it appears that the Hydrangi nest is right here in the Halloway crypt. Apparently, there's a secret chamber that we'll have to find. Now, listen closely. This is very important. When we go in ..."

Xander tries to listen to Giles. He really does. This is big, important Scooby stuff. But it's hard. Really hard. Hard to pay attention to the shiny map or the hard voice of Buffy in warrior-mode, or even Anya's pretty, slender hand on his thigh. Hard to focus. Hard to do anything.

Especially when Spike keeps looking at him like that.

Off in the corner, back in the shadows where he belongs. Stirring his cup of blood with slow, calculated movements. Round and round, that little silver spoon in those slender hands. Long fingers. Spike has very long fingers. And he's staring at him with his eyes all burning and hot, a fiery shade of blue. Stirring. Caressing the spoon. One slender finger. Up and down. Up and down.

Just like that night.

Slim, pale fingers moving up and down the length of his swollen, aching member. The thrust of narrow hips. Long eyelashes falling down over gasoline eyes. "Know you want it, Harris. Come untie me. I'll show you how good a vampire can be."

And Spike just looks at him, that smirk growing wider, because he knows he's thinking about it again. As if he could think about anything else.

The night where Xander really should've untied Spike from that chair and let him do whatever he wanted. Smoke. Kick puppies. Whatever. Anything other than what Spike ended up doing, and what he made Xander do in the process. God. Even just thinking about it. Just remembering. It's enough to make his dick twitch. Enough to bring him almost to tears. He just wants to forget it. Just wants to go back to normal.

But Spike won't stop reminding him.

Every day. Every day for the past six days, he's been reminding him. Staring at him. Giving him eyes that speak of hunger. The kind of hunger that a burger or a cup of blood won't satisfy. Smooth, sotto voice remarks. The casual brush of a hand over his bare skin, so fast that he wonders if he imagined it, but substantial enough to let him know that yes, indeed, it was there. If he didn't know any better, he'd think that Spike was hitting on him.

And the worst part? Xander kind of likes it.

Buffy's talking now. Pointing at the map. "It's no good, this window," she says. "I mean, even if we did manage to get through it, it's too narrow. We can't fit the whole team in there. Unless ...."

Spike's doing that thing again. That thing with his tongue. Poking just the tip of it, all pink and wet, between his bright white teeth. Looking him up and down. Scouring his body with his half-lidded eyes. Like he's touching him. Those cool, flat palms, running up and down his chest, tweaking at his nipples, and down to his lap where his cock's so hard ...

"Xander? What do you think?"

Guh? What? Huh? Blankly, Xander looks up to see all of them staring at him. Waiting for a response. It's a real shame he doesn't have the slightest idea what they're talking about. "Uh ..." He leans forward and points at the map. "We could ... um ... get in here ..."

Buffy rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "We've already gone over the window, Xander. It's no good. It's a nice thought, but there's no way we can squeeze through there. I still say that the best entrance is through the sewers."

Sewers. Sure. Whatever. "And those are right here, right?" Xander asks, trailing his finger along the map.

There's a sigh from Spike's direction. Irritated and bored. "No, you stupid git," he says and stands up, leaving his now-empty cup of blood on the coffee table. He walks over to the map and kneels down right in front of Xander. So close he can smell him. Cigarettes and aftershave. Jesus. He crooks his fingers and points to a location on the map. "See, right here. That's where the bloody things are."

And then, something happens. It's just for a moment. Fast enough so that the others can't see it. But Spike brushes his fingertips over Xander's knuckles, cool and feathery, like a gust of air. Like a ghost of breath, raising all the hairs on his arms and legs, making him think of those sweet fingertips crawling down his back, towards his thighs, towards his ass ...

When Anya's dainty little fingers brush his cock, Xander jumps.

Straight to his feet, while everyone stares at him, confused. Except for Spike, of course. Spike just grins. "Um ... I ... have to go pee," he says dumbly, and Buffy gives him a solemn nod.

"Then go pee."

The minute he gets into Giles' bathroom, Xander starts gasping for air. Braces himself against the countertop and closes his eyes. His blood is racing. His body's alert and aching. Wanting. Needing. And all he can see is Spike, dancing around in his head, mocking him, teasing him, seducing him ....

"Is it time for the sex?"

Fuck. He forgot to lock the door, and now Anya's standing there, her eyes bright with hope and glee, that broad, stupid smile stretching across her face. "You have an erection," she says flatly. "I felt it. You're very hard."

"Yes," he says weakly. "So I am."

Another broad, sunny smile. "Good! Then we can have sex."

Yes. Yes! That's exactly it. He'll have sex with her. Lots and lots of sex, with her vagina and her boobies and her girl-softness, and that'll put the thought of Spike out of his mind once and for all. So he pulls her tight to him, closes his eyes, and starts to kiss her soft and slow and hard and fast ....

Cool lips sliding across his. That dart of a talented, pink tongue. Hands on his ass, strong hands, supple fingers. Hard cock against hard cock, hard body against hard body, kissing and moaning, and Spike-

The curt sound of knuckles rapping against the door, and Xander stares at it, his eyes bulging as Giles opens the door. There's an exasperated look on the librarian's face. "Oh, for the love of God. In my bathroom, Xander? My bathroom?"

Anya gives him a frank look. Well, all her looks are frank, really. "Your bathroom is very conducive for sexual behavior," she says. "It looks like a bordello."

Another wince. "Yes. Good. I think that means the meeting's over." He gives a look at Xander. "And as much as it pains me to separate the two of you, I'm afraid I'll need you to take Spike home with you again tonight."

No. No no no. This was supposed to be his free night. The night of freedom and independence. Spike would be gone, and he would have a chance to rest, and maybe have some good old heterosexual boinking to cure himself of this weird, horrible thing.

"No way," Xander says. "No how. Come on, Giles, he's stayed with me over a week, and I can't handle it anymore. I really can't."

Giles sighs irritably. "Xander, I know he's a nuisance, but there's no way around it. I have to supervise Buffy's patrol tonight so we can deal with this demon infestation, and I can't leave Spike here unattended."

Xander thinks he might start crying. "Please, Giles. Please, you don't understand ..."

Finally, Giles loses it and snaps at him. "Really, Xander. What sort of trouble can he cause?"

A weak, desperate laugh. "You have no idea."

As soon as they get out into the living room, Xander can feel Spike's eyes on him. Burning through his clothing. Burning through his skin. Anya stands on her tiptoes and puts a kiss on Xander's cheek. Spike smirks all the while.

"Well," she says airily, "since you're on vampire patrol tonight, I think I'll just go home and masturbate."

With that, she turns on her stiletto heel and walks out while everyone stares after her.

Sometimes, Xander wonders if Anya is really the lesser of two evils.

A slap on the back. Cool hand. Spike-hand. Xander suppresses a shudder. "Well, then," Spike says jovially. "Guess it's just me and the monkey again." That hand starts to wander down Xander's back, dangerously close to the flare of his ass. He doesn't have to see the leer on Spike's face. He can hear it in his silky voice. "Probably gonna do some tossing of his own tonight ...."

When Spike's hand grabs at his ass, Xander almost passes out.

But he doesn't. He manages to control himself long enough to say a hoarse goodbye to his friends, wishes Buffy the best on patrol, and then hightails it out to his car. Walks stiffly, because all the blood in his body is currently concentrated in his crotch, and Spike just whistles all the while as they walk to his car.

There's something about the way Spike flops himself down in the bucket seat that does terrible things to Xander's nerves. Sprawled out in the passenger seat, long legs all spread out, his hand absently caressing the parking brake in a sinfully phallic series of motions. Black-tipped fingernails. Stupid hair gel smell. Long, lazy smile.

For about fifteen minutes, there's total silence. Xander's grateful, because he doesn't have a clue as to what he would say to him. All his words are jumbled. He tries to keep his eyes on the road. Yellow lines. Stay within the yellow lines, and everything will be okay. Just keep driving, and ignore the pretty vampire in the seat beside you.

Xander shifts the car from third to fourth. It's not a good shift, and the car jolts. Startles Spike, and for the first time, he glances over at the transmission. A slow, sly smile spreads over his face. "Well, well," the vampire drawls. "Should've known you'd drive stick."

And that's the last straw.

The tires scream as Xander brakes hard and fast, and Spike yelps as he falls forward and hits his head on the dashboard. "Hey!" he says, rubbing his forehead as he glares at Xander. "What the bloody hell is wrong with you?"

He can't believe this. Can't believe Spike is staring at him like he's the one doing all the bad things. "Me?" he asks in disbelief. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"My damn head's what's wrong with me! Stupid wanker, can't even drive properly, and if I get whiplash-"

Exasperated, Xander grits his teeth and glares at him. "Not the car," he hisses. "The other stuff. The way you keep touching me, and looking at me, and talking to me."

There's that slow, caramel-drenched smirk dancing across Spike's mouth. Xander doesn't know how he does it, but all of a sudden, he's back in whore-mode, giving him bedroom blue eyes and those delicate, dangerous cheekbones. "What?" he murmurs. "You mean ... this?"

Xander forgets sometimes that Spike's a vampire. A vampire who can move very, very fast. Quicker than lightning and softer than air, Spike's fingertips suddenly reach out to touch Xander's wrist. That bare, sensitive strip of skin. Tracing the veins. Touching the fragile bones. Soft, so soft, and he just wants to melt into it.

Instead, Xander swats his hand away. Hopes Spike doesn't notice that his own hands are shaking. "God!" he exclaims. "Are you out of your mind? What the hell do you think you're doing?"

There's that wicked, happy look on Spike's face. Probably the same expression he wears when he eats babies. He giggles, high-pitched and wild, and then points a finger at Xander. "Oh, the look on your face," he laughs. "Fucking priceless. Here, keep that look. We'll stop by a convenience store, buy one of those disposable cameras. Make a smashing Christmas card, that face of yours."

Xander can't believe this. "Is this funny to you? Oh, ha-ha, big joke. I mean, are you trying to drive me crazy?"

Spike keeps grinning. "Well, yeah. Can't kill anything anymore, so I thought I'd have a couple of jollies with you. You're just so easy, you know? What with you being so obvious about it."

"Obvious about what?"

A shrug of one leather-clad shoulder. "You know. The fact that you're gay."

The fact that I'm ....

Xander explodes. "WHAT?!?" he shrieks.

Spike just rolls his eyes, nonplussed. Starts fiddling with the radio. "Oh, come off it," he says dryly. "You're gayer than a two-dollar bill, Harris. Look at you, all boiling with repression and righteous indignation, and you're always giving me those fancy eyes. Checking me out and the like."

"Hey!" Xander says. "You're the one who keeps walking around all half-naked and with the touching! If anything, I think you're the gay one!" Suddenly, a light goes on at the back of his head, and Xander nods his head as a dim realization sweeps over him. "Yeah, that's it. You're a big gay vampire, and you're trying to sleep with me."

Spike snorts. "Oh, yeah, I'm sure that's it. Just can't resist your splotchy man-boy blubber. Come on, now. Me, the gay one. Right." He frowns at the radio. "God, does every blasted radio station in this stupid town have to play this same godawful dreck?"

"You said you'd had sex with Angel," Xander points out. Ha. He's got him trumped this time.

But nothing seems to faze this guy. Absolutely nothing. Which kind of makes sense, since he's been around a hundred and twenty years and seen a lot of stuff. "Yeah, so? That doesn't make me gay."

Xander frowns. "Uh, actually, Spike, having sex with guys pretty much makes you gay."

"No, it doesn't," Spike says simply, turning the dial back and forth with those long, clever fingers. "Makes me sexual. Makes me hard. Makes me hot. See, that's the problem with you bloody humans. It's all black and white for you. Gay and straight, good and evil. Like any of that rot really matters when you get good and down to it. See, sometimes, Harris, a fuck is just that - a fuck. Sometimes you need a cunt, sometimes you need a cock."

An appraising look up and down Xander's body. That wicked, malevolent grin. One pale finger again on his arm, sliding up from Xander's wrist to his shoulder. "And you, my friend, need a lot of the latter."

Yes, yes, your cock, my cock, hard and fast, slow and sweet, and I bet you kiss like there's no tomorrow, like it might be your last kiss, you're so hot and pretty--

Xander gasps and throws Spike's hand off him. He can't breathe. Can't think. All his thoughts are getting tangled up inside, and all he can hear is the sound of the Backstreet Boys on the radio and Spike's wicked, gleeful laughter.

"But why?" he asks hoarsely. "Why me?"

It's a dangerous question. Very scary. His heart is pounding in his chest like he's got a marching band under his ribcage, and he's really not sure if he wants whatever answer Spike's about to give him. But he knows that something's wrong. Something is very wrong, and he has to know.

He has to know something.

One low, rolling laugh that churns like thunder through Xander's blood. The flash of fire, one spark of bright illumination in the car as Spike lights a cigarette. Hand cupping flame. Head bowed in profile. A long, slow exhalation of smoke, and then those sultry eyes slide slowly in his direction. "You really want to know, Harris?" he murmurs. That voice. Like honey. Like hell. "Fine, then."

He's close. Suddenly so very close. Face right in front of his, so close that he can smell the cigarettes and the bourbon and that delicious leather coat. Long eyelashes, so dark, so pretty. When he speaks, Xander can smell his breath. Thinks it should smell stale, because it's not really breath. But it's not.

He wonders what it would taste like.

"Doesn't matter if I walk around you naked for hours," he purrs. Cocks his head to the side in that smirking, come-hither fashion. "Doesn't matter how many sexual innuendos I toss your way, or how many times I touch your dick when no one else is looking, or if I grab at your ass in public. Doesn't matter how bad you want it, because you'll never have the guts to take it. And in the meantime, you want it so bloody bad that it's killing you."

You're not too far from my lips. Come a little closer. Just bridge that distance, oh please, just give me one taste ....

Still wearing that wicked-panther grin, Spike moves away, back to his seat and takes another langorous drag from his cigarette. "That's why I do it, Xander," he says. "Because you'll always be too much of a ponce to take what you want."

Xander stares at him. Stares at him for a good long minute. All those words sinking in, all that blood churning in his body, and it's true. It's horribly true. He wants him. Wants Spike. And he'll never take it because he's scared, and lonely, and insecure, and ashamed, and-

"Oh, fuck it," Xander mutters.

He leans over, takes the cigarette from Spike's hand, throws it out the window, and kisses him.

Hard and fierce. Tongue and teeth, invading, tackling. His mouth gnashes against Spike's, and he obviously caught him off-guard because for a second, the vampire doesn't respond. Gives a strangled little noise in the back of his throat, and Xander just keeps kissing him. Oh, God, he tastes so good, like cigarettes and alcohol, like blood and sex. Like forbidden things. Things he's not supposed to have, but that doesn't matter, because he's got a fistful of Spike's leather duster in each hand and a soft, angry mouth pressed against his, and it feels so good that he's going to explode ....

With a gasp, Xander pulls away from him. Stares at Spike with wide, terrified eyes as his heart races and his blood pumps fast in his veins. Spike just stares back at him, his own blue eyes the size of saucers. Deer in headlights. He looks flabbergasted. Shocked. Stunned beyond belief.

Oh my God. I just kissed Spike. Me. Kissing Spike. He's going to kill me now. The chip doesn't matter, he's going to rip off my head and throw it out the window and steal my car and--

Suddenly, Spike's kissing him back.

He'd wondered about it, the past six days. Wondered what it would be like to kiss Spike. Now he knows that no amount of fantasy could ever describe it. It's like kissing chocolate. Like making out with caramel. Long and luxurious, but all the candy's on fire, and his mouth burns. His dick burns. Everything burns.

Spike's hands are all tangled up in Xander's sweater. Hungry, blunt teeth nip at his lower lip, and Xander moans and wraps a hand around the base of Spike's neck. Long, slender neck. So pretty. Soft, cool. Little curls at the top of his spine. A whimper. Whose? Doesn't matter.

So hard, oh God, Spike's kissing him so hard and his cock is so hard. Xander feels like he can't breathe, and when Spike pulls away, he gasps for air. But then Spike's mouth is at his neck, kissing and sucking, and Xander arches his hips, begging him for more. "Oh sweet Jesus," he gasps. "Oh sweet Jesus."

"Yeah," Spike hisses. "Oh, yeah, you brilliant boy, taste so good, and it's been so long ..."

Gasping, moaning. Blunt incisors scraping at his jugular, and Xander writhes and shimmies as Spike presses him harder against the back of his seat. "Not for you," he gasps. "Harmony. You had Harmony."

Up his neck, to his jawline. Kisses that could leave bruises, and probably will. "No," Spike sighs, "not that. Been so long since I had this."

When Spike's hand closes around Xander's erection, he gasps and jerks, stutters and moans. Sensation everywhere, and that knowing hand with all its crafty, sly fingers, wrapped around Xander's dick. Feels hot, feels dizzy. And Spike's got him in his grasp now, got him right in his clutches, and Xander can't say no.

He can't say anything at all.

More kissing. Hungry, animalistic. It's not like Cordelia's prim kisses, or Anya's frank, greedy make-out sessions. It's more like that time with Faith, that first time, when he'd been going out of his mind with lust and she'd scratched her claws down his back. Yeah, it's kind of like that.

But this is better. Harder. Nothing soft or compromising here. When he pulls Spike's shirt out from the waist of his pants, all he feels is hard, sleek muscle. Skitters his fingernails across Spike's abdomen, feels him gasp and jerk. Runs a hand up his chest, up towards his taut nipples, and Spike bucks and curses and says bad things.

"Oh, fuck, you bloody bastard, you sweet boy!"

It occurs to Xander that this is wrong. Very wrong. They're parked not ten minutes away from Giles' front door, in the middle of Main Street, and he's making out with Spike. Really making out. And he thinks that this isn't going to be enough, and he's going to have sex with him. Big gay sex in a car, with a Backstreet Boys song on the radio, and a vampire practically in his lap.

It's really a shame that the stupid steering wheel is in the way.

Gasps for breath. "Spike ... we have to get ... backseat. Now."

Deep, panting moans. "Yeah," Spike rasps against his throat. His hand still stroking Xander's cock. "Oh, yeah. You and your sodding Geo Metro."

"Don't ... oh God, your nipples ... make fun of my car ... oh, Spike ..."

He's not quite sure how it happens, but there's a bit of tumbling and some grunting, and then they're tangled up in each other in the practically nonexistent backseat. Spike's underneath him, his arm at an awkward angle, his eyes practically black with lust. Xander takes a moment. Looks down at him, panting, and for a moment, he pauses.

If I do this, there's no going back. If we have sex, or whatever it is we're about to do, there's no way on this earth for me to take it back.

But Spike starts kissing him again, and Xander stops caring.

Has to get out of these clothes. The jeans are too tight. Has to get Spike out of all that black, so he can see all that white skin. He tugs at Spike's duster and gets his arms out of the coat, so they're lying on top of the leather. When he can't seem to leave Spike's mouth long enough to take off his tee shirt, he rips it with his bare hands and makes the vampire groan.

"God, you're incredible," Xander gasps. Traces every sharp muscle with his fingers, feels them bunch and tighten under his hand. "So fucking incredible."

That dirty smirk. "Oh, love, you ain't seen nothing yet."

Another lightning-fast move and now Xander's on the bottom, and his sweater went somewhere but that doesn't matter. All that matters is that Spike's mouth is everywhere. Mouth and hands, how does he do that? Open-mouthed kisses on his collarbone. Little nibbles on his shoulder. When Spike bites down ever-so-soft on his nipple, Xander feels his dick jerk violently and almost comes.

"Now," he gasps. "Touch me, I don't care, I hate you, but touch me."

Fumbling with belt buckles, muttered curses at snaps, and then Spike's cool hand reaches in and grabs his cock. Cool fingers gripping the too-hot length of him, and the contrast in temperature makes Xander buck and swear. Ecstasy sparks through his veins, and Spike's face is cool and shadowed in the backseat, his mouth open and his eyes rolled back as he strokes. Over and over again.

"Like that night," the vampire hisses. "Just like that night."

It occurs to Xander for the first time that Spike hasn't forgotten that night, either.

Spike's hands are smooth. Smooth like silk, wrapped around his shaft, stroking so rough and tight that Xander can't think. Everything in his brain has been scrambled and fried, and all he can think is guh. Fingers cradling his balls, rotating the aching organs around in the palm of a cool hand, and Xander thinks he might be crying, it's so fucking good. Aching and arching, moaning and screaming, over and over, as the fire moves faster and the world explodes around him.

When Xander comes, he screams Spike's name.

It feels like the orgasm lasts forever. Over and over again, spilling himself in Spike's hand, gasping and arching and twisting in his grip, until everything is spinning and he's left gasping, blank and completely, utterly dazed. He feels Spike sag on top of him, his bright head buried in his shoulder. Gasping for air the guy doesn't even need. "Christ," he rasps. "Oh, fucking God, you sweet, stupid boy ...."

With a fumbling, shaking hand, Xander reaches for Spike's crotch. "But you ... you didn't even ..." Spike tries to jerk away, but his knuckles brush the denim and find it wet. Sodden, even. Soaked through with oh my God, I just made Spike come in his pants.

Xander opens his eyes, shocked, and sees bewildered blue looking right back at him. It catches him, that gaze. Electric blue. That's the color. Usually dancing with mischief, or hard with malice. But now, they're blank. Wide open, like a summer sky. It makes him think of that saying. You know the one. The one about the eyes being the windows to the soul. And even though Spike doesn't have one, not really, he can see right through to the core of him.

He sees that Spike is truly, terribly shaken.

A waver in that darker-than-wine voice. "Fuck," he whispers weakly, shaking his head against Xander's bare chest. "Oh, bloody, buggering fuck."

Xander knows exactly how he feels.

Neither of them say anything. They just silently get dressed. Spike won't look at him as he shrugs into his duster. Has to wear it bare-chested; the tee shirt's gone for good. Just a scrap of torn black on the floor. Did Xander do that? God almighty.

His fingers tremble as he grips the steering wheel and drives them back home. Spike's sitting as far away from him as possible, staring out the window, a cigarette burning between his fingers. Xander doesn't comment on the fact that Spike's hands are shaking, and he's getting ash all over the place.

Oh, God, I am so screwed. Literally.

About a block away from home, Spike finally breaks the silence. "So," he says in a dull, flat voice. "Gonna take me back to your pit and tie me up again, then? Back to normal."

He should tie him up. Should lock him up in a closet somewhere, where Spike can't be seen or heard. He's dangerous. He's bad. He has beautiful eyes.

Xander's voice sounds very small, even to his own ears. "No," he says. "I don't think I will. I think ... I think-"

"I think we're going to have to do that again."

He sighs. "Yeah. Oh, man, yeah."

Oh, yeah. Xander's definitely losing his mind.

More silence. Just a moment. And then there's a quicksilver grin from Spike's direction. "God, you're so gay," he says. Xander rolls his eyes.

"Oh, shut up, Spike."

Part Three
Say Yes

SUMMARY: The morning after, and Xander's less than happy.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This song title is ripped off from Elliott Smith's "Say Yes".

RATING: PG-13
TIMELINE: Sometime post-"Hushed" but before "Doomed"

Fresh-baked lemon squares. The kind Buffy's mom used to make. That's what he's dreaming about right now. Right out of the oven, all soft and gooey, yummy and delicious. And there's the smell of happy home, and kids laughing in the background, and he's got his mouth stuffed full of lemon bars and-

Xander wakes up in the basement and winces. He's still kind of in dream-land at this point. Smells something stale in the background. Something not bad and kind of nice. Sleepily opens his eyes, takes in his surroundings. Busted Too early. Turns his head to the side. 11:30. No, not early. Late. Should get up. Instead, he turns over and-

There's a vampire in his bed. Sprawled out on his back, one hand tucked under the pillow, the other resting on his still chest. Naked vampire. Long pale limbs, some of them a little bruised now, and come to think of it, Xander feels kind of sore, too. Spike's sleeping. He looks extremely dead. Black eyeliner all smudged and faded around his dark eyelashes. Pale lips slightly parted, but he's not breathing. It's like waking up next to a corpse.

A corpse he fucked last night.

It all comes rushing back in a horror show of memory, wiping away the innocence of the morning. That is Spike, naked in the bed next to him, and they had sex last night. A lot of sex. So much sex that the ping-pong table is now broken and leaning heavily to one side. Xander seems to recall Spike having some interesting ideas about the paddles.

Oh my fucking God ...

There's a bruise on Spike's neck. Right there, on the edge of his jaw. A little spot of broken skin. Xander did that. He bit Spike. He thinks he remembers that, when they were all tangled up on the beanbag chairs, his legs wrapped around Spike's narrow waist, thrusting their cocks together until they both came all over each other.

And the kissing! This wasn't just some kind of I-really-hate-you fucking. There were kisses, too. Lots of hungry, needy kisses that turned tender in something that might resemble afterglow. They'd fallen asleep in the same bed together. He thinks he kissed Spike good-night.

Oh, God. He's going to be sick. He did depraved and naughty things last night, with a vampire, with Spike, and now he's dirty and unclean. He's bad and wrong, and this is bad and wrong, a big mistake, and maybe if he kills Spike really quick no one will ever have to know about it-

Then Spike opens his cool blue eyes. Eyelashes all drooping down over the color, still heavy with sleep. He turns over onto his side, a candy-sweet and boyish smile tugging at his lips. He trails one finger down Xander's shoulder, so lightly that all his hair stands up on end. "Morning, sweetheart," he purrs.

Oh, shit!

Mortified, Xander leaps out of bed, desperate to get away from the vampire with the mushy eyes and the wandering hands. He manages a little squeak when he realizes that he, too, is naked, and quickly grabs a pillow from the ratty couch.

Spike, of course, finds all of this terribly funny, and immediately starts laughing at Xander, doubling over in the bed with vicious cackling. "Oh, I know that'd scare the fuck out of you," he howls. "Look like you were about to shit yourself."

He should be pissed off, but instead, he's too disgusted by what he sees around him. The basement is completely trashed. There are chairs tipped over everywhere, and apparently, they broke the beanbag chairs while they were all over each other. There are little tiny beans under Xander's feet. There's a new dent in the washing machine, and a couple of new broken springs in the mattress.

"Oh my God," he says queasily. "I think I'm gonna throw up."

This only serves to make Spike laugh harder, and he squirms a little in the bed, resting his head in his hands and smirking at the boy. Scrunches up his nose like this just tickles him pink. "Look at you," he grins. "All blushing and cute. Startles me, after a night like the last one. Certainly weren't blushing then, now were you?"

Xander doesn't think he's blushing. As a matter of fact, he wouldn't be surprised if he were green. Sickly, about-to-hurl green. "We ... we actually ..."

"Fucked?" Spike supplies helpfully.

Xander moans. They did. They really, really did. Several times. In various positions, in various places, saying dirty, nasty things he didn't even know he could say. They'd kissed and stroked, and licked and nipped, and sometimes, they'd even laughed.

It was the most incredible sex of his life. And he had it with Spike.

"This can't be happening," he whispers. "This is all a dream. A very bad dream."

"Want me to pinch you?"

Xander scowls. "No, I don't! I don't want you to touch me! You'll do naughty things to me."

Spike did some pretty naughty things to him last night. Like he tied him up in that chair, put him in his place, naked, and ran his hands down Xander's thighs until Xander begged him to touch his dick. And when he did finally touch-

Xander shakes his head, his eyes still so wide it hurts. "This is bad. Very very bad. So bad that I have to make up a new word to describe it. Gizzer. That's what this is. This is gizzer."

Spike's still laughing at him. All casual and relaxed, like there's absolutely nothing wrong with anything they did earlier. Of course he would think that. He doesn't have a soul to nag at him. "I can't believe you're getting this worked up about it. It's just sex, Xander. Yeah, it's some pretty bloody amazing sex, to tell truth, but it's sex."

But that's not it at all. The sex is puzzling on many, many different levels, but that's not the basis of all his panic. No, it's what happened after the sex that bothers him. He remembers finding himself plastered to Spike's back, arms wrapped tight around the vampire, kissing the sweet nape of his neck. That's something that frightens him.

Xander gives a watchful eye to the vampire as he picks up his boxers and carefully steps into them. He has to do something about it right now. Before this gets any worse. Take a firm stand, Xand, and see if you can hold your own against the naked vampire with the really great dick. "I have to kill you now," he announces. "Yeah. That's what I have to do. I have to kill you."

Spike doesn't really seem fazed by this idea. Just the arch of that really wicked scarred eyebrow and a spark in his big blue eyes. "Oh, so that's how you repay a fellow for giving you a great shag," he says. "See how many more orgasms I give you, then."

"No more orgasms," Xander says firmly. "Not ever, ever again." He runs his hands through his hair. His heart's racing, and he groans again at the sight of the apartment. "God, this place is wrecked. And shit! Buffy's supposed to come over this afternoon! I can't let her see this!"

A blink. "Why, because you don't want them to know that you're gay?"

"No!" Xander retorts. "I'm not gay! Not that there's anything wrong with that."

"Oh, of course you'd think that. Because you're gay."

It's way too early in the morning for Spike to be screwing around with his mind. His head hurts, and he's tired, and he just wants all this to go away. He shakes his head miserably. "For the last time, no. It's not that. It's because you're a psychotic serial killer and a member of the evil undead. That's why no one can ever, ever find out about this."

Spike snorts. "Oh, yeah. Right. Just lie to them for the rest of your life. That'll work out just smashing."

"I swear to God, if you ever tell anyone about this, I'm going to kill you."

"Thought you were gonna off me anyway."

Xander grits his teeth. "Well, yes, but still! No telling!"

He's getting freaked out. No, he is freaked out. This is what it's like to freak out completely. He can't think straight. Gah! Yes, he can! He has a girlfriend. He likes boobies and panties and girls. But last night ... and Spike ...

Spike yawns, stretches out in the bed. It's horrible, watching him. Like a big cat, all lean and supple. Not an ounce of fat on this guy, and delicious pale skin that makes Xander think sweaty thoughts. Slender limbs, slender wrists. Almost delicate. Skinny, this guy, all wiry and slim. The sheet inches down his waist as he kicks his feet out, and there's the very palest line of honey-gold leading down from his belly button down to-

Oh, shit. No, no, no. This cannot be happening. Xander starts hyperventilating, feels his palms itch as all the blood rushes south. His cock stirs in his boxers, aches for Spike's cool, white palms. One night was bad enough. Last night can never happen again.

Even if he wants it to.

"I have to kill you," Xander repeats. His voice is a little shaky. It doesn't bode well. "Because you're a sick, perverted asshole who made me do bad and evil things, and you're no good for me anyway."

One of those dark chocolate chuckles drifts across the room and goes right for his cock. Spike's giving him his most winning smile. "Oh, but that's where you're wrong, pet," he laughs. "Truth of the matter is, I'm exactly what you need."

He won't let himself think about how true that might be.

One more stretch of that sensual body and then Spike sits up. Swings his legs over the side of the bed, and of course he doesn't bother to do anything decent and grab a sheet. Just stands up, like being naked around another guy is something he does all the time. And maybe he is -- honestly, Xander doesn't know what kind of lifestyle the guy lives. But damn, some of the things he did last night ... Spike's really, really good.

And when he keeps talking, he's really, really bad.

Casually, Spike leans over and picks up his jeans from the floor. "You see, Harris, fact is, you need someone like me in your life. Keeps it from getting boring." He steps one leg at a time into his jeans, and Xander has to restrain a whimper when he tucks his half-hard cock into his fly. "You need someone who'll take your bullshit and shove it right back in your face when you need it. 'Cause you're a self-destructive little shit, and that's all you've learned in your stupid, sad life."

It hurts, hearing that. Hurts because maybe, okay, some of it might be true. Maybe that's what he craves in his lovers. Someone to beat him down with too much honesty and constant insults. That's what his parents gave him, that's what Cordelia gave him, that's what Faith gave him, and that's what Anya promises to give him if he keeps letting her come around.

Maybe all this getting kicked in the face, all this bad luck, is his own sorry fault.

Xander hates Spike. He's always hated him for being so cool, for being so cocky and self-assured, and, well, because he had a thing about murdering innocent people. But now, he hates him more than ever, for the simple fact that Spike is proof of a terrible, vicious pattern Xander's probably doomed to follow for the remainder of his life.

"Get out," he hisses. His fingers curl up into fists. "Get out of my sight, right now."

Another gleeful, evil laugh from Spike. A jeering look on his pretty face. "Oh, or you'll kill me? There's your other problem, Harris. You're the ultimate decent bloke. The kind of guy you easily sucker at pool. Bet you even hand out pennies to homeless people, too. And because of that, you'll never fight back against guys like me. And that's exactly why you need me so fucking bad. And furthermore-”

But Spike doesn’t get that far because Xander’s kissing him.

Hard and rough, like a challenge, like an argument. He forces him up against the wall, pushes his hands on the vampire’s stomach and pushes hard. Spike makes a strangled, startled noise against his lips, but Xander doesn’t care. He’s angry, and he’s hurt, and it’s all Spike’s fault, so he’s going to kiss him until the vampire shuts up.

And then, something strange happens.

Spike moans. Frail and desperate, and all the tension and resistence just falls away. He wraps his hand around Xander’s neck and opens his mouth to the kiss, making these soft, needy noises in his throat that only heighten Xander’s arousal. Hard flesh against hard flesh, hard mouth against hard mouth, and soon all the anger peels away, and all he’s left with is lust. Pure, animal lust.

With a gasp, Xander pulls away and looks into Spike’s wide blue eyes. Dilated pupils, so the black almost consumes all that pure, crystalline blue. Heavy eyelashes fluttering with want. Xander smiles a little, his voice hard when he speaks.

“So maybe you’re right,” he says. “Maybe I do need you. But why do you need me?”

Spike doesn’t say anything. Just gapes at him, his eyes all wide and blue, and then he starts to laugh. Not that wild, arrogant laughter he’d given earlier. This is a little higher. A little weaker. A little more desperate and shaky.

“God help me,” Spike rasps, “but I’ve got no bloody clue.”

And then Spike’s kissing him again, and even though Xander knows that this is bad, this is wrong, it doesn’t matter. He needs this. Needs the way that Spike kisses him, those elegant hands so cleverly touching every sensitive spot Xander owns. And kissing turns to other things, and other things turn to heaven, and then they’re right back to where they started.

Xander and Spike. Side by side, naked in the bed. Xander stares up at the ceiling as his brain starts to regain its senses, and Spike reaches over across the nightstand for his pack of smokes. “Well,” the vampire drawls as he exhales cigarette smoke, “don’t know about you, but I definitely needed that.”

Xander feels spaced out. Like everything’s moving too fast, and he has no idea how to catch up with the rest of the world. “I don’t know what I need,” he whispers.

A silky chuckle, like devil’s food cake, and then a kiss on his lips that tastes like ashes, and, strangely enough, lemon bars. “I know exactly what you need,” Spike murmurs. “You need me.”

A despairing little laugh as Xander turns his head to the side and strokes Spike’s cheek. “Yeah,” he croaks. “And you need me.”

Then the rest of the world falls away, and all they need is each other.

Part Four
Bowl of Oranges

It's just your typical Saturday morning.

Curled up in the fold-out bed, surrounded by half-eaten bags of chips and candy and half-torn clothes. The sheets are all sticky from fruit roll-ups and other kinds of fun. Xander's got his head on the pillow, eyes squeezed tightly shut. This is his sleeping-in day. The day for the sleeping in. No get up and go to work at 7. This is a good day. A day off.

"Bwahahaha! Take that, you wanker! Saw your balls off, I will, and paste them to your pointy little head! Bastard!"

But Spike won't. Shut. Up.

Reluctantly, Xander slowly opens up one eye, instantly wary of whatever mess Spike's made this time. The blond vampire is sprawled out across almost the entire span of the small, uncomfortable futon, his so-pale skin covered by the accidental folds of the bed sheets. He's lying on his belly, propped up on his elbows, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth as he furiously presses buttons on the PlayStation controller.

The television blares explosion noises as Spike manages to blow up a digital police car, and the vampire cackles as ash trickles from the end of his cigarette. "Got you again, you little fuck! Eat my ass!"

Oh, God, it is way too early to be dealing with all this.

Xander groans and covers his head with the pillow. "Can you please turn that down? It's giving me a headache."

"Quiet," Spike hisses, "I've got to kill fourteen more of these bloody gang members and then I get an Uzi." His voice turns wistful. "And I've always wanted an Uzi."

Xander still doesn't quite understand how all of this happened, and with each passing day, he's more and more certain that he never wants to understand it. It just happened. One day, Spike was all tied up in the basement, all nicely restrained so that he couldn't do any damage, and then the next, Xander was the one with rope burns around his wrists and the damage was already done. And now, he's got a naked vampire spilling ashes all over his less-than-clean bed and playing videogames way, way too loud for 7am on a fucking Saturday.

Nope, Xander doesn't understand it at all.

But he thinks there might have been beer involved.

Another eardrum-shattering explosion. Xander groans and tries to press the pillow harder to his ear. "I can't even believe this," he mutters. "I can't believe this is happening to me. It's a Saturday. It's Saturday morning. It's a weekend."

Spike grunts in irritation. "Will you knock off all your whining? It's breaking my concentration."

That does it. Xander spins around and sits up in the bed, staring bleary-eyed at Spike as he mows down an unsuspecting digital pedestrian and snickers with unrestrained glee. "Me? Breaking your concentration? What about you? You're the one who's getting all breaky with the concentrating?"

A snort. "Oh, and what were you concentrating on? Wet dreams about Captain Kirk? Pity."

"I'm trying to sleep! And you! What are you even doing up this early? I thought vampires were supposed to sleep during the day!"

Spike finally turns his head and gives Xander an indignant look. "What, and miss Saturday morning cartoons? Bugger that."

It's all too much. The empty bags of potato chips. The half-empty bottles of beer. The smoking. The videogames. Xander's head is about to explode, and here's this stupid-ass vampire that he can't kick out because they're both too lonely to be alone. Even if the company is killing him.

But dammit, this is Xander's house! This is his place! His basement of debasement, and why should Spike get to suddenly take it all over just because he's all chipped and maybe-kind-of-not-really dangerous and he can kiss without ever having to come up for air?

And then Spike shifts. Just a little. The bed moves underneath him, and the sheets pull down just a tad, and there's his smooth, perfect white ass, bare and beautiful in the dim light. All of those muscles, and he's such a tiny guy if you look at him just right. He can be such a tiny guy. And there's the nape of his neck, all vulnerable and sweet, and who knew that when Spike woke up in the morning or the night or whatever, his hair was curly?

But now Xander knows. He knows all sorts of things. Like that Spike has an absolutely incorrigible sweet tooth, and sometimes sprinkles Pixi Stix in his blood. Or that Spike laughs without any restraint, unlike anyone he's ever met before in his entire life.

Miserably, Xander slumps back against the pillows and closes his eyes. His head hurts already from the strain of all these thoughts and contradictions, and the constant noise from the television set isn't helping matters much. Nothing makes sense. It doesn't make sense that he's letting a vampire take all the covers, or that he's desperate for Spike to do that thing where he strokes his hands along Xander's inner thighs. Nothing makes any sense whatsoever.

Least of all this.

The sound suddenly goes away. Everything is quiet, and the only thing he can hear is the desperate hammer of his own heartbeat. Surprised, Xander opens his eyes. Spike's put the television on mute and the game on pause. It floors him. "Why'd you turn it off?" he asks.

Spike shrugs. Eyes so blue. Does anyone else know that Spike has blue eyes? Pretty eyes. And now they look so wide and guileless, like a child. The vampire with little boy eyes. God. "Don't know," he says. "You were pissed. I turned it off. Happy now?"

Oh, God, no. Xander's not happy. Not at all. If anything, he's more bewildered than ever. This isn't supposed to happen. Spike's supposed to sit around and eat all his food and be a pain in the ass. He's supposed to be mean and immature and get on everyone's last nerve. He's not supposed to have eyes like this, or skin this pretty, or lovely blond ringlets that Xander could twirl around his pinky finger. He's not supposed to be soft or sometimes sweet.

I think this is how it happened. He gave me those eyes, and I think I might've fallen in love with him for a second.

Xander groans. Covers his face with his hands. "You're not helping," he moans. "You're just making things harder. Stupid vampire, with the confusing double-talk."

One of those cool, strong hands snakes up Xander's calf. Instantly, his cock twitches like it's really not supposed to, not for him, not for this thing. But Spike's hand keeps touching and Xander's cock just keeps rising, and when Spike crawls up the length of his body like a lean, jungle cat, Xander knows that it's not going to stop. Spike is going to kiss him, and Xander is going to kiss him back, and then they'll be all with the fucking, just because Xander could never resist a set of big blue eyes.

Even when they're set in his enemy's face.

Especially when they're Spike's.

The softest, barest whisper of a kiss. "Poor little fool," he murmurs. His voice sends shivers down Xander's spine. "Can't suss out what you want, can you?"

"No," Xander replies weakly, his mouth helplessly responding to Spike's feathery kiss. "And I don't even know what 'suss' means."

Suddenly, Spike breaks out into one of those intoxicating, full-body laughs. His eyes twinkle with wicked mischief, and his smile's so bright with all those sharp, white teeth. Xander hates that he's starting to grow addicted to that grin. Those naughty, clever hands push him onto his back, and Spike growls. Oh, fuck. It's like honey. The vibration. The sensation. The sound itself.

Vampires should definitely not be allowed to sound this yummy.

The hint of tongue between Spike's teeth. Wicked eyes. That smirk that made Xander first think about boys in a less-than-wholesome way. He leans in and brushes the tip of his nose against Xander's, forehead-to-forehead, and the length of Spike's growing erection stirs against Xander's own stiff member. "Wicked boy, you are. Making me all stupid for you. Just because I can't stand that tired look on your stupid bloody face."

A sigh, a moan. Xander reminds himself to later smack himself upside the head for letting his hands wander over the smooth, sleek canvas of Spike's sinuous back. "Your face is stupider than mine," he sighs.

One hungry kiss. Just one. He's allowed to have that, right? Just one really desperate, really sultry kiss from a bloodsucking fiend.

And maybe one more after that.

"Yeah?" Spike breathes. "Well, at least I have an Uzi."

And then they're tangled up in the bed, kissing and touching, groaning and straining.

Yup, it's just your typical Saturday morning.

Part Five
Milkshakes & Honey

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The title of this randomly-named story is from Sleater-Kinney's "Milkshake & Honey", because it's a pretty title and a hot song.

Honestly, Spike has no idea how this happened.

Not supposed to be this way. He's supposed to be running about hitting things with sharp sticks or what have you, making nuns cry. Supposed to be killing things. He was supposed to come back here, get what he wanted, wreak havoc on this joke of a town, kill the Slayer, and go back to Dru, a triumphant and better vampire. And then again with the hitting things with sharp sticks.

But now? Impotent. Helpless. Living off the goodwill and good sex of a human boy, in a dilapidated basement that looks like it was decorated from someone's 1979 vomit.

No, Xander Harris never did figure into Spike's equation.

And neither did his dirty dishes.

Spike grits his teeth and grips the brush tighter. "Stupid bloody coffee stains," he mutters under his breath, scouring the circumference of the ceramic cup. "Stupid bloody chip, stupid bloody Slayer, stupid bloody Xander."

Boy's got it all backwards, he does. Thinks that it's Spike's fault all this happened. Ha, bloody ha. Like he planned this. Like he wanted this. Relegated to serving as bed-warmer and fucktoy to a neurotic nineteen-year-old geek. God, if Dru could see him now. Scrubbing out coffee stains from a novelty mug while the little tosser's off peddling hot dogs or some sort of greasy rot.

He growls under his breath, attacking the mug with the stupid brush. "Get out, you fuck, get out!" he snarls, and then, with a snarl, he throws the mug to the floor.

It shatters into pieces in a satisfying clatter, and Spike smiles. Always liked the sound of breaking things. Nice stress reliever.

"God, you really are the worst housewife ever."

Spike whirls around to see Xander standing at the foot of the stairs, dressed in the latest humiliating fast food uniform. Brown and neon orange this week. Spike glares at him. "Not your bloody housewife, you sod," he growls, throwing the brush down on the floor.

But now Xander's on a tear, looking around the apartment with a horrified look on his face. "Cleaning!" he says. "Cleaning, Spike! You were supposed to pick up while I was at work!"

Spike shrugs and flops down in the recliner. Tosses a leg over the arm, picks up a TV Guide and idly flips through the pages. "Started. Got bored. Watched cartoons instead."

Sneaks a peek at the boy. Watches his mouth open and shut, like he's got something to say, but doesn't know how to say it. Finally, Xander just throws up his hands and starts picking up the chipped mug. Spike hides a snicker.

It's funny, the way this thing works. Still hasn't quite figured it all out just yet. Hasn't figured out why he sticks around, or why Xander even keeps him around. They spend seventy percent of their time just arguing. And yeah, half the time that's when they're fucking, and it's more fun if they're swearing at each other, but still. This shouldn't be happening.

But here it is. Happening. Right in front of him.

And Spike can't quite seem to make it stop.

"So, oh great undead waste of space, how did you end up spending your day?" Xander asks as he tosses away the pieces of broken cup. "Since you obviously didn't do anything I told you to do before I left this morning ..."

Spike rolls his eyes. "Oh, please. Like you could tell me to do anything."

Xander jabs a finger in his direction. "You know, I'm a man!" he declares. "A man with credit card debt and a job, and a car!" His face falls for a second. "Well, I used to have a job."

Spike frowns for a second, and then a smirk blossoms on his face. Sticks his tongue betweens his teeth and sneers at Xander. "Oh, so that's what's stuck up your ass today," he says, and then smirks. "Well, other than me, that is."

Distraught, Xander slumps down on the bed and takes off his ugly Taco Shack visor. The boy's all sweaty and dirty-looking. Smells like greasy hamburger meat and suspicious taco seasoning. Spike really wishes that Xander would've stolen him one last burrito before he got fired.

Sulky brown eyes lift up to meet his. "You know, this is all your fault," Xander says. "If you hadn't gotten in the shower with me this morning, I wouldn't have been late to work. And I'd still have a job, and a paycheck, and friends, and a girlfriend, and something of a life."

"And I'd still have free burritos," Spike says wistfully.

Instantly, Xander throws the visor at him, his face twisted in fury. "Goddammit, Spike! Don't you get it? Everything I've lost? And it's all because of you! Because you had to get all flirty and bored and now we're having sex! And my friends won't see me, and I don't have a girlfriend anymore, and I've lost my job because I stole burritos for you!"

"And because of the sex in the shower," Spike adds helpfully.

It earns him a withering glare. Spike cocks his head at him, grinning thoughtfully. Funny, you wouldn't think it at first, but that indignant look on his puffy little face starts to grow on you after a while. Starts getting cute.

"Are you completely missing my point?" Xander asks.

"Probably."

"My life is shit."

Spike shrugs. "Then do something about it."

Xander gives a small, desperate little sound. Strikes Spike in a funny place, that noise. Like breaking things, again, but not in a good way. He hides his head in his hands and closes his eyes. "I don't know what to do."

Bewildered, Spike stares at the boy. Doesn't know what to do. His first instinct is to point and laugh at him and call him a sad little bitch, but then something else pipes in. Something ... strange. But not foreign. That feeling that's been creeping in and out ever since this idiotic thing started up.

He thinks it might be sympathy.

Big gold hands in curly brown hair. Got good hands, this one. Square and large. Carpenter's hands. But now, in this doubled-over position, the boy just looks small, and young, and very, very fucked-up.

"Oh, hell," Spike mutters under his breath as he gets up from the armchair and crosses to the bed. Sits down next to Xander, wincing a bit at the blaring colors of his taco uniform. His hand hovers uncertainly over the kid's shoulders, his neck, his back, before finally deciding on the base of his skull. Thick hair. Rich and soft. Leans in close, and makes a confession in his ear:

"I don't know what to do, either."

This isn't supposed to happen. He's a powerful demon, a really kick-ass vampire, not to mention more talented than a French whore in bed. Kills who he wants, takes what he wants, does what he wants. Big Bad in black leather, ready to take on the world. Spike's not supposed to be sleeping in dirty basements with human boys like Xander Harris.

But honestly, he's not really sure who he is nowadays.

The two of them sit there, side by side. Spike keeps sliding his fingers up and down over the base of Xander's skull, drawn to the heat of his skin, the curl of his longish hair. Xander sighs under his touch, leans into his palm. These two men, shadow-men, trying to figure out what the hell was happening around them.

So maybe that's it. Maybe that's why this whole disaster is happening.

Except it doesn't really feel that disastrous. Not at all.

They kiss then, and as always, the kissing's good. Easy, really. Soft lips, warm mouth. Hungry for this body. For his heat. Can smell all the blood moving just under the surface, but that's not the draw. This time, it's the surface that matters. The rough plane of Xander's stubbly jaw. Callused hands sliding around his waist and under his tee shirt. Shivers, arches his hips a bit. Something about the hands. That's got to be a factor in all this, too.

When Xander pulls away, Spike swallows. Looks at him. "You know, if you wanted ... maybe I should find my own place."

He blinks. "Huh? Where, in a refrigerator box on a street corner? You're penniless. I have to pay for you all the time."

Well, in all actuality, Spike's not really penniless. He just says he is so people will buy things for him. "Don't have to pay rent or sign a lease, you know. Could just swing by the cemetery, see if there are any crypts open for residence. Wire it for lights, nick a telly and some illegal cable. Bet I could even get free porn."

Xander rolls his eyes. "God, is it all about sex with you?"

Spike looks at him closely. Holds his gaze with as much sincerity as he can muster. "No," he says quietly. "It's not all about the sex."

And the sex is good, don't get him wrong. Brilliant shag, this boy, and you'd never guess it to look at him. But that's not why Spike stays. He stays for the arguments. For the warm bed, and the warm body in the morning.

For the slow, almost shy smile sweeping across Xander's face. "Yeah?" he asks hopefully, and Spike shrugs, a little embarrassed.

"Yeah."

More kissing now, and touching, too. Hands wandering, legs moving, hips arching. Spike runs one hand down Xander's face. Strong jawline. Smooth, warm skin. Everything about this kid is warm. Like wine Spike can't get enough of.

And those hands. Big hands on his back, moving down the ladder of his spine, and when Xander roughly grabs Spike's ass, he hisses and growls under his breath. Now the kiss is a little less than sweet, and at some point in the middle of all this, they managed to get all tangled up on the bed. Grinding against each other, hips moving and thrusting, and he's so fucking hard. So fucking hard.

Xander pulls away with a gasp, and Spike feels dizzy just looking at him. Brown eyes gone black, dilated with lust. His skin's flushed with pink, made all dusky gold, and the sharp, rapid rise and fall of his chest mesmerizes him.

Spike ducks his head down and starts licking at the boy's long, strong neck. Nips at his Adam's apples, longingly scrapes his blunt teeth over his jugular. Oh, all that sweet, young blood. If the sex is like wine, the blood must be ambrosia. Just a sip would-

Suddenly, Xander lashes out and smacks Spike on the back of the neck. Not hard, not really, but not exactly playful, either. A dark, hungry scowl. "Quit looking at my neck. It freaks me out."

Spike smacks him back, and hates the chip for only letting him slap lightly at the boy's face. "Like I'd bite you anyway. You smell like tacos."

"Yeah, well, you smell like ... fuck, you smell really good."

There's that hunger again. Startling in its intensity. Because this is a brat he hates, a little wanker he honestly wouldn't have thought of biting two years ago, and he's desperate for him. It's got to be the chip, some blasted side-effect that makes him susceptible to shaggy-haired losers, but God, it's intoxicating.

William the Bloody, infatuated with a kid living in his parents' basement.

If this ever gets out, he will never in a million years live it down.

Spike pushes him down on the bed, pinning him down by the upper arms with just enough force to hold him, but not enough to trigger a migraine. Looks him up and down, assessing his options. "First off, not going to miss this awful uniform," he says. "Look like someone's shag carpeting, you do."

There's a snappy retort on Xander's tongue, but Spike pushes it away with his own. Distracts the boy with teeth and hard lips, and when he's not thinking about it, he reaches down with one hand and rips the shirt off.

Xander gasps and his hips fly off the bed, and Spike darts out his hands and catches him by the waist. Holds him tight against him, hard dick to hard dick. Oh, so good, all that warmth right up against him. Rocks and slides, shimmies and grinds, and Xander makes funny little "oh-oh" noises and looks like he might pass out.

Spike gives him a wicked grin. One of those smiles he's perfected over the years. "Like that, don't you," he purrs in Xander's ear. Takes a lick of his salty, sweaty neck. "So hard, you are, all wanting and throbbing." A slow circle of his hips, his own erection brushing Xander's through layers of polyester and denim. His hands dance across the waistband of Xander's ugly pants. "Mm, and so am I."

"Spike," Xander rasps, and then all his words get scattered to the wind as Spike undoes the kid's awful shorts and slides them down Xander's hips. "Oh my ... Oh my God ..."

He can smell it. Feel it. The need, the desperation, the desire. See, that's another thing. The boy always comes home reeking of whatever bad job he's working at the time, but it's all surface. Underneath it, he always smells the same.

Underneath it, he smells like heartbreak.

Underneath it, he smells like Spike.

Ah, no. Don't think about that. Don't get all deep, cause this is just about the sex, right? Just about a good shag. A great shag. Except that it's not, and he's admitted as much to Xander, and now they both know that this is more about teeth and tongue and cock.

But oh, what a glorious cock it is. Hard and jutting away from the cradle of Xander's hips, hard and pale in the dark thatch of pubic hair. Little moist at the top, and Spike flicks out his fingers. Takes a sample and tastes it. Hears Xander's muttered curse, and Spike slowly, lightly traces the harsh angle of his erection with one light, airy fingertip.

Instantly, Xander's bucking and moaning, his eyes all glazed over. Dark brown eyes, like chocolate. Like decadence. Going wild, going crazy, while Spike drops him back on the bed and keeps that one fingertip moving. Just the one, not too many, not just yet. Spike knows better than anyone that there's nothing more erotic than a promise.

Nothing more dangerous, either.

He's dangerously close. Every time Xander squirms, every buck of his hips, every bob of his Adam's apple. It all just makes Spike crazy. Gone mad over a boy, a stupid boy, a sweet boy. Four fingertips brush the head of his cock, and Xander writhes in the sheets, kicking and flailing, gasping his name.

"Spike, oh God, you bastard, you prince ..."

They do that. Call each other names. Asshole, darling, dickhead, sweetheart, fuckwit. Doesn't matter, names are just names, and Spike's got a thousand of them. Call him whatever you like, just call him something and he's yours.

So Xander calls him a shithead, a son of a whore, an angel, a peach, and it all goes to his head while he breezes his fingertips over the dark purple tip of Xander's cock, and then he says the magic words. The words that never fail to make Spike gasp.

"Spike ... need you ... need you so bad ..."

Oh, thank you God, thank you-!

Everything goes haywire. Chaos explodes in the dingy, dirty little hovel that Spike's starting to call home. A growl, a snarl, a desperate cry, and Spike throws himself into a furious, blissful kiss before he takes his mouth lower and lower-

A pause. Flits his eyes up to Xander's face, but the boy's eyes are closed. "Tell me again," Spike demands. "Say it. Again."

Xander frowns. "What, the part about you being a dick?"

Spike grits his teeth. "No, you wanker. The other part."

Suddenly, everything's all business. All serious and solemn. Xander brings his hands down to cup Spike's face and manages to sit up, though he hisses in a shaky breath in the process. Dark brown eyes. Long, lush eyelashes. "Spike. I need you."

He barely gets Xander's dick in his mouth before the boy comes.

Long and hot, like he's coming forever, and Spike takes it all. Drinks it like blood, like oxygen, like something essential. Tastes salty like marshes, sweet like milkshakes, beautiful like need. Swallows it down, his lips caressing Xander's engorged erection, and the boy arches his hips and writhes with ecstasy.

Oh, you beautiful boy, you horrible mess.

Aching. Twitching. Hands shaking, senses on overload. Spike gasps for air as he pulls away, and before he even has the chance to rake his hands through his hair, Xander's pulling him back down to the bed again. A rough, callused hand grabs onto Spike's cock through his terribly tight jeans.

"Need you," Xander says, his voice still shaking, "and you need me."

God help him, but he's right.

Spike groans with relief as Xander undoes the flimsy buttons on his almost ancient jeans, and when his dick finally springs free of its restraints, it's like touching heaven. He shivers and moans, and Xander pushes him onto his back. Switcheroo, look at that. Boy's learned something from all this after all.

One warm, sweaty palm cups his balls in a strong fist, and Spike gasps and strains, eyes frantically crawling the cracked cement ceiling. Capable fingers roll the heavy sac around, and Spike's sputtering out words that probably make no sense whatsoever.

"Oh, you sweet ... oh, fuck, sod, you ... ungh!"

Before he knows it, Xander ducks his head down and takes Spike in his mouth. Long and swift, and the boy's mouth is so hot. Like a volcano. Like a tropical paradise. Like being alive. The rough roof of his mouth catches the sensitive ridges of Spike's cock and creates delicious friction. Xander's prickly, stubbly chin caresses his balls, all drawn tight and swollen from intense arousal.

Everything's going too fast. Bloody world won't stop spinning, and Xander's lips are hot and perfect, so perfect, and when Xander slides one finger between his legs and slips it into the tight bud of his asshole, Spike almost flies off the bed.

"Fuck! Bloody hell, oh fuck, gonna come, oh god, yes-"

And then it's all gone. The hand on his balls. The finger on his ass. The warm, sweet mouth. The loss of it makes Spike almost start crying, and he looks down with frantic eyes at Xander. "What the hell are you-"

His eyes are serious. Dark, so dark, hard to tell between brown and black. Voice rougher than the calluses on his hardworking hands.

"I need you."

Oh, bollocks.

It's better than the hands. Better than fingers and mouth. Better than sex itself. Because this is an ache that goes deeper than skin. It's that terrible thing he tries so hard to cover up, and now Xander knows. Knows that it's not sex, or murder, or chaos that pushes Spike's buttons.

He just wants someone to need him.

"I need you."

Again, he's thrashing and thrusting, eyes frantic, skin screaming.

"I need you."

Dying, oh fuck, the little bastard's going to kill him with this, with those big sincere (and slightly frightened) brown eyes, with those silky words.

"Spike. I need-"

And that's all it takes. No touching, no kissing, no caressing. Nothing but those ragged, perfect words, and Spike's gone. Explodes into orgasm, furious and fast, and ecstasy slams through him like a bloody freight train while Xander licks up every last drop of him. Takes it all, oh that darling, dumb little tosser, and kisses the very tip of his penis before they both collapse on the bed.

Can't help it. Feels all that warm, damp skin just bleeding heat beside him, and Spike has to have it. He draws close to Xander, wraps his arms around him, and hears Xander's sigh of resignation as he embraces the other man. Warm hand at the base of his neck, oh yes, this is perfect, the way his fingers stroke his messy hair.

They don't say anything for a long while. They just lay there, arms and limbs entwined, and Spike closes his eyes for a moment. Just a moment. Breathes in the smell of Xander's cooling sweat. The heavy musk of spent sex. And the tacos, yeah, but that's unimportant.

Underneath. That's what matters. Everything underneath.

"Stay."

It's a quick, soft word, and Spike turns his head. Must've misheard him. "What?"

But Xander swallows, and the word is firmer. More concrete. "Stay." A swallow, and then there's a note of desperation. "Don't leave me."

Oh, love, you don't know what you're getting yourself into.

"Yeah," Spike says faintly. "All right. I'll stay."

Xander sighs, and his relief is almost palpable. Shocking, that. What happened to the pissed-off little ingrate who stormed through the door and called him worthless just twenty minutes ago? Gone now. Need ... it'll do that to you. Spike knows that very well.

One more little sigh, and then Xander sits up. Gets out of bed, and Spike takes a second to appreciate the firm, gold globes of his ass as he moves and flexes his muscles. Stretches his arms, runs a hand through his hair, and starts to move towards the shower.

But just as he's got his hand on the bathroom door, Xander turns around and stares at Spike. "I've got nothing, you know," he says. "No job. No house. No friends. I've got a crappy excuse for a car and absolutely no future ahead of me." A brief pause. The bob of the boy's Adam's apple. "But I've got you, so don't you fucking leave me."

And with that, Xander turns around, goes into the bathroom, and shuts the door behind him.

Spike doesn't have a job. Not anymore. Doesn't have a house, or friends, or much of a future, for that matter. Got nothing now but this dirty little basement and a teenaged boy who used to steal tacos for him and told him that he needed him.

It's not supposed to be this way. This was never supposed to happen. This was all supposed to be a big joke, a tease, a way to pass the time. Amusing himself with the boy's terrible confusion. It was never supposed to happen this way. He was never supposed to care about him.

No, Xander Harris never did figure into Spike's equation.

But hell, neither did Harmony.

It doesn't take Spike long to jump out of bed and run after him, and when they get in the shower, it's so good that they're in there for hours.

And afterwards, Spike stays.

Part Six
Candy Floss

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This time, the strange title is ripped off from Wilco's song of the same name.

One of those days when you don't want to move. When you wake up in the morning and everything's all dark and wet outside, and you realize that you don't have to be anywhere else, so you just go back to sleep. You lie around all day, doing nothing, watching television, until you're overwhelmed with ennui and have to do something to change the pace.

Maybe that's why Xander agreed to paint Spike's nails.

They haven't gotten out of bed yet today. Still tangled up in the sheets, still naked under the linens. Spike's sprawled out on his belly, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, his hand placed on an old three-ring binder that Xander had lying around. There's a little jar of black nail polish sitting beside his hand, and Xander's carefully navigating the tiny brush over each of Spike's fingernails.

An explosion noise on the television set. Spike snickers. "Look at that," he says happily. "All his parts got blown off." A dreamy sigh. "I wish I had napalm."

Xander rolls his eyes. "Spike, even if you had napalm, you couldn't use it."

"Oh, fine then. Shatter all my dreams, why don't you."

Sometimes, Xander wonders when all this became normal. Six months ago, he would never have tolerated a naked vampire in his bed, laughing at the joy of weapons of mass destruction. But somehow, this is all just part of his life now. Save the world. Sell bad food or cheap products for quick cash. Paint Spike's nails while he swoons over severed legs.

And the weirdest thing is, he thinks he prefers this new life to his old one.

More exploding things. A wicked laugh from Spike. "God, that's beautiful. Why can't they sell this stuff at convenience stores?"

Xander snorts. "Oh, right. Because anthrax needs to be sold conveniently."

"That's what I'm saying."

One more stripe of black on his pinky, and there. "Done," Xander says, screwing the cap back on the bottle. "Voila."

Spike frowns as he scrutinizes his nails. "Hey, not bad," he says. A sly, teasing smirk twists his pretty mouth. "Should've figured you'd do a good job. After all, you are gay and all."

Xander snorts as he puts the nail polish bottle away and throws the three-ring binder off the bed. "Oh, right. You're the one wearing nail polish and eyeliner, but I'm the gay one."

"That's not because I'm gay. That's because I'm vain. And besides, it's punk."

Oh, right. Punk. Whatever. The guy can have his leather and his bleach, can smoke enough cigarettes to make all the CEOs Phillip-Morris cream their pants, but Xander knows the truth. You get underneath all of Spike's attitude and image, and you find out that he's softer than butter.

One final montage of nuclear weaponry going off. Spike stares at it in awe and wonder, scooting himself backwards on the bed until he's resting his cheek on Xander's shoulder. One leg strewn across his. Explosions, mushroom clouds, radiation gear. "Brilliant," Spike murmurs. "Absolutely brilliant."

He can't help it. Xander ruffles Spike's hair, delighted in the fact that since Spike hasn't gotten out of bed yet, there's no crunchy hair gel slicking back the vampire's unruly curls. Spike scowls, swats his hand away. "What's that about?"

Xander shrugs. "Don't know. You're cute."

Another displeased snarl. "Take that back."

Oh, a challenge. Xander gives him a look. "Make me."

Spike growls low and yummy in his chest and then kisses him hard. One of those bruising kisses. The kind that make Xander's mouth feel sore in the best of ways. Spike tastes like ashes and coffee, and a coppery current of blood. You'd think it'd be gross. Ew, kissing blood-mouth. But it's not.

It's delicious.

A sigh, and then Spike's cheek is back on his shoulder. He fans out his fingers in front of him, narrowing his eyes at the black nails. Xander reaches out and takes Spike's index finger. Smiles a little fondly at the slender digit. "How long have you been doing this?" he asks. "Painting your nails."

Spike shrugs. "Don't know. Bout twenty, twenty-five years."

"Doesn't it ever get old? I mean, don't you ever get bored with it?"

Spike gives him Arrogant Smirk #302. "As long as the ladies keep loving it, I'll never get bored."

"Or the men. Since you're gay and all."

"Shut up. Tosser."

Black-tipped fingers sliding across his palm. Tracing the lines in Xander's hand. Willow once gave him a palm reading. He doesn't really remember everything she said about him, but he does recall a certain amount of relief that his life-line extended past another six months. Maybe he'll survive Sunnydale after all.

Though honestly, lately Xander's been wondering if he'll ever survive Spike.

Spike drums his fingernails against Xander's wrist. "Entertain me," he demands. "I'm bored."

"Entertain you how?"

"I don't care. Just do something. Say something. Anything."

Needy little bastard. Xander sighs, furrows his brow, and then comes up with a question. "What were you like before you were turned?"

Spike tenses immediately. Xander can feel it. All those muscles coiling up, tightening. He stops moving. "Change the subject." There's a cold note in his voice. His eyes have gone hard. It's surprising, how intense a reaction he's having to this one easy question. Instantly, Xander's curiosity is piqued.

"Tell me," he says again. "I want to know."

Spike rolls over and gives Xander a harder-than-nails look. Blue gone so dark that it's black like ink. "Fine," Spike spits. "I was a thief. A petty thief, but a thief nonetheless. Robbed ladies' purses, fucked whores, stole from whoever I felt like. There. Happy?"

It makes sense. It'd figure that even before Spike was turned, he was a jackass. But yet ... it doesn't make sense. It seems incongruous with those little moments when Spike gets almost-shy or kinda-sweet.

Xander narrows his eyes at the vampire. "You're lying."

Annoyed and offended, Spike sits up and turns his back on Xander. "Fine. Whatever. Believe what you want to believe." He reaches for his cigarettes, and then turns around. Eyes all mean and beady. "'Sides, it's not like you were a prize when you were younger."

"I was so a prize," Xander says defensively. "I was a grand prize. A lottery."

"A lottery of shit," Spike smirks. "Saw you then. All wussy and awkward. Hiding behind the Slayer's skirts with your little witchy pal." The flick of a lighter, and then Spike exhales smoke right in Xander's face. "Worthless little nothing."

Now Xander's getting pissed off. Just because Spike's got some kind of annoying past he doesn't want to talk about doesn't give him the right to yank him around. He glares at him. "Yeah? Well, at least I can throw a punch at a guy without getting my brain fried."

Spike flinches. There's a glimpse of hurt on his face. "Low blow, Harris."

Oh, man. He hates this. Hates that where he once would've tap-danced on the grave of Spike's masculinity, now he's feeling bad about hurting the guy's feelings. What the fuck? Having a soul and a heart is unfair. Spike gets to say whatever nasty thing pops into his head, but Xander has to feel contrite and small.

Reluctantly, Xander ducks his head. "Sorry," he mutters.

Spike doesn't say anything. Too busy puffing on his cancer stick and flipping channels. He finds a show documenting plastic surgery procedures and leaves it on. The blood and cellulite usually make him happy, but not today. Instead, the vampire sits there sullenly and puffs on his cigarette while the plastic surgeon suctions fat cells out of some lady's thigh.

Xander really, really hates this. Hates this more than anything. He doesn't want to feel bad for Spike. Doesn't want to feel anything for him at all. Not even hatred, because that's too passionate, and he's learned that the hard fucks are just as good as the easy ones. But sympathy? Guilt? Over a vampire's trampled feelings?

Gah.

He heaves another sigh and then leans over and reaches under the bed. Fishes around until he finds the milk carton he's looking for, and then pulls it out with a grunt. It settles on the bed in a flurry of dustbunnies, and Spike turns his head. "What's that?"

Xander gives him an apologetic face. "Peace offering."

Intrigued, Spike turns around and reaches into the box. Pulls out one leather-bound book, full of celluloid pages. A grin spreads across his face when he reads the cover. "Sunnydale High School Yearbook, 1996-97. Oh, now this'll be fun."

Spike flops back on his belly in the same position as earlier, his legs scissoring in the air behind him as he opens the book and snickers. "Eight signatures," he says. "My, weren't you the popular lad. And look at the Slayer's handwriting. She still dot her 'i's with little hearts?"

"Flowers now."

"Figures."

Seeing Spike flip through all the glossy pages with his own glossy black nails makes Xander feel a little nostalgic. High school was so easy. Well, aside from all the mysterious murders and narrowly-averted apocalypses. But really, when he looks back, it was simple. Black and white.

Being a grown-up really sucks ass.

Another gleeful giggle from Spike, and he points at the page. "Is that Red there?" he asks, and Xander peers over Spike's shoulder at the picture. Yup, that's Willow, back when she was an innocent, scared little sophomore. Dressed in her best plaid jumper with the lace collar, hiding behind her long hair.

Spike laughs again. "What a geek. To think I used to be wary of that one."

Xander arches his eyebrow. "You were scared of Willow?"

"Vamp thing. We can smell power, and that girl? She's loaded. Wait a couple of years on her. Bet you fifty bucks she'll be a force to be reckoned with." He sighs a little wistfully. "Still disappointed I never got the chance to turn her."

"Would you have ever turned me?" Xander blurts.

Cue instant gales of laughter. Spike throws his head back and bellows with glee. "Oh, fuck, no," he gasps. "You'd make the most pathetic excuse for a vampire ever."

"Hey!" Xander says, offended. Gives him a pissy look. "I'll have you know that in an alternate universe, I am a kick-ass vampire god." He frowns. "Or was. I think I got dusted."

"Yeah, well, in this universe, you're a prancing lightweight. Wouldn't be worth your salt as an unholy demon." Spike starts flipping through the pages again, and Xander swallows. Lowers his voice.

"So, you'd never ..."

Spike sighs and lifts his eyes to him. For a moment, there's nothing but irritation on his face, and then he shifts. Melts a little. Gives him a little blue-eyed sugar. God, his mouth looks like candy. "No," he says finally. "I wouldn't. Not even now."

This should be a good thing. Spike doesn't want to kill him. But killing's sort of what vampires do, and the knowledge that Spike wouldn't turn him is almost ... insulting.

Xander lifts his chin. "What, I'm not worth your time?" he asks. "I'd be a waste of immortality? Gee. Thanks."

Before Xander can turn his face away, Spike wraps his free hand around his cheek and jerks his gaze right back to his. "No," he says firmly. "That's not it at all. Being a vampire ... changes you. A lot. Some of us are better for it, some of us are worse. But it kills you. Certain parts of you." Spike shakes his head, and his eyes go a little soft. Runs his finger across his jawline. "Don't want to ruin what you've got going. That's all."

Oh. Wow. Wow-wow-wow. Xander's heartbeat starts to flutter, and there's this dull, aching sensation right in the middle of his ribcage. Like someone's reached inside and grabbed his heart in one tight fist decorated with black lacquer. God almighty.

He has to kiss him for that. Has to forgive him for mocking him and throwing him around. Kisses him all hungry, like he's got a tummyache for him. Starving for Spike. Jesus H. Christ.

When he pulls away, Spike gives him a scowl that's much easier to handle. "And if you ever tell anyone I said that, I'll do that to you."

Spike points at the television screen, where the plastic surgeon is now performing liposuction on the patient's flabby ass. Xander shudders. "You are an evil, twisted man."

He gets rewarded with another kiss for that.

And then back to the yearbook, perusing the pages for more amusing photographs. He gets a good snicker out of the picture of fluffy little Harmony. "Look at that. Unicorns even then. I'm a bastard for shagging her."

"Yes," Xander says seriously. "Yes, you are."

He flips through the pages again, and then lands on Xander's picture. Instantly, Spike bellows out laughter. "Oh, Christ, look at you! That's bloody priceless right there."

Xander cringes when he looks at the photo. "Hey, that's not my fault. I had the stomach flu when it was picture time."

Spike's still giggling his evil hyena laugh. "You look like you're about to toss it right then and there."

Embarrassed, Xander runs a hand through his hair. "Well, I did," he admits. "Right after he snapped the picture, I threw up in the wastebasket. And if you ever tell anyone about that, then I'll do that to you."

Xander points at the television screen, where the patient is now receiving silicone breast implants. Spike snickers, and then glances back down at the page, furrowing his brow. "Wait, you've got something underneath it ..." He squints his eyes, pulls the yearbook away from him and tilts it in various directions. "Who writes that bloody small?"

Now, this is an interesting development. Xander watches as Spike tries to pick up on the tiny handwriting, and then lights up when he realizes what the problem is. "Glasses!" he says jubilantly. "You need glasses!"

Spike gives him a wide-eyed, furious look. "I do not! Just a little farsighted is all. Oh, stop your laughing. Not like it's a big deal. Besides, whoever wrote this is a right bastard for writing this small."

Xander takes the yearbook away from him and frowns at the handwriting. "Oh. That's Giles' signature. 'Xander - congratulations on not dying this year. Also, you still owe me several books, and I will not waive your library fees simply because you saved my life.' What a Watcher thing to say. And you're right. He really does write really small."

"Ha. Told you."

For the first time in years, Xander takes a look at that old yearbook photo. Yeah, it's really horrible, and he really does look like he's going to puke at any moment, but the boy's still there. Innocent eyes. God, he had such innocent eyes.

He shakes his head in amusement. "Christ, look at me. I was so young."

Spike surprises him. Reaches over and thumbs Xander's nose. "Still are."

He hasn't felt that way. Not recently. With all the responsibility and all the confusion in his life right now, Xander feels ancient and stressed out. But funny enough, he doesn't feel that way right now. Not while he's in bed with Spike.

Oh, fuck, if Spike makes me happy, then I am totally doomed.

He keeps the yearbook for a moment. Flips through the pages, smiles at the memories. Aww, look at little chubby-cheeked Buffy. When did she get so hard and cold?

Spike leans over his shoulder and snorts at the picture of the Slayer. "Look at that. Think she used enough hairspray in that shot? Fucking bitch."

Xander gives Spike a look. "Hey, that's my best friend you're talking about."

Spike snorts. "Best friend? Since when?"

Ouch. That one hurts. Mostly because Spike's right -- he hasn't seen a lot of his friends recently. And he misses them terribly, but doesn't know how to reconnect. Like a wire's been cut or severed, and he's not smart enough to figure out how to replace it. How to make things work again.

It's a terrible, lonely feeling.

It must show on his face, because there's one of those weird moments again. One of those moments where Spike actually cares. He takes his last drag off his cigarette, extinguishes it, and then touches Xander's neck. "Hey," he says softly. "Didn't mean nothing by it. Just ... you know. Hasn't been 'round much lately."

"Yeah. They've been busy. Doing the big college thing."

"And you're not."

He sighs. "No. I'm not. I don't know, it's just ... well, I don't know what I want. What I want to do with my life. Selling organic toothpaste is fine for the moment, but after that? I don't know."

Cool, slim fingers stroke the length of his neck. Oh, it feels so good. Soothing. Nice. Tender. It's been a long time since anyone was tender with him. "Don't worry, love," Spike says. "You'll suss it out, right?"

But Xander can't help but look at the yearbook and remember. Remember when things were fucked-up, yeah, but they were all still friends. All still together. And now, they're all tossed apart, scattered to the winds, and he's been left with a pretty vampire who sometimes, just sometimes, manages to give a shit.

Abruptly, Spike reaches down and picks up the yearbook. He throws it across the room and then turns to Xander with a hard look on his face. "That's it," he says. "No more brooding. Christ, you're worse than Angel right now. Ignore it. 'Sides, after the plastic surgery show's over, they're going to put on another episode of Trading Spaces."

Xander perks up a little. "Really?"

"Yeah. And I think it's the one where Hildy decorates that one room in fake flowers."

"Hee. Hildy's stupid."

"Damn right, she is."

With a happy look on his face, Spike climbs up the bed and snuggles in close to Xander again. Amusing, how the guy always falls for a warm body and the opportunity for a snuggle. But this time, instead of Xander gathering up the vampire in his arms, Spike's the one doing all the holding. Wraps Xander up tight in his embrace, puts a hand on his face and brings him to his chest. The cool, sleek muscles underneath him tighten and relax, and Xander sighs with contentment.

Spike laughs suddenly, and points at the television. "Ooo, look at that. This silly bint's going to get her colon cleansed."

"Ewww," Xander says, but he turns his head to watch anyway.

So, this is what his life is like now. Curled up with a vampire, smelling his fresh nail polish as he absently strokes Xander's cheek, watching a woman have the shit suctioned out of her colon. About three billion light years away from where he thought he'd be when he was in high school. But hey. It's not a bad life at all.

In fact, sometimes, it's just right.

"I was a poet."

Startled, Xander looks up. Spike's still got his eyes on the television screen, but they're softer now. A little more vulnerable. A gentler shade of blue, and there's a sad twist to his mouth. "What?" Xander asks, a little dazed.

"A poet," he repeats. Voice softer than cotton. "Before I was turned, I was a nancy little prig who fancied a bird about ten levels above my station. And I wrote her terrible verse, and she walked all over my heart. Told me I was invisible. That I didn't matter. And that night, Dru found me, and that was it."

It moves him. Moves him terribly. His bones, his blood, his heart. He wants to find the woman that told Spike he was worthless and cut her into pieces. Wants to go back in time and try to save Spike's life.

I want to love you. I could, if you'd let me. I could love you. I wouldn't walk all over your heart, or tell you that you were invisible, because most of the time, you're all I see.

But before Xander can say any of that, Spike's pointing again at the television. "And if you ever tell anyone I said that, then I'll do that to you."

Yeah. It's definitely one of those rainy Sundays.

But sometimes, those are the best days of all.

Part Seven
Sugar Water

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story's nonsensical title is taken away from Cibo Matto, who are famous for their own nonsensical titles. It was a tie between "Sugar Water" and "Sci-Fi Wasabi" as to what won out for the title. ;)

After surviving nineteen years on a Hellmouth, some people might consider Xander Harris a very lucky guy. Those people would be assholes. Xander has absolutely no luck whatsoever. He's been caught in a number of compromising situations. He stumbles ass-backwards into bad situations. Like that hyena possession, or his sorry attempt at winning back Cordelia. He's been mauled, beaten, laughed at, mocked, and trampled on for the majority of his life. So, no. No luck. Not a lick of it.

And this definitely proves it.

The gang is scattered all across his messy, cluttered basement. Giles is flopped out on the beanbag chairs, his glasses dangling from his hand. Buffy and Willow are sharing a futon, and Willow is snoring loudly. Spike's still up, of course. Vampire. They don't sleep at night. Tied up in his chair, at the insistence of Buffy. Giving Xander that smirk. And because of that smirk, Xander now has a painful erection and no way to relieve himself.

He rolls over on his side and for the billionth time in the past month or so curses the Initiative under his breath. Stupid asshole bastards, putting a chip in Spike's head so that he could annoy the fuck out of him and then seduce him. Stupid government monkeys, trying to kill Buffy so they all had to hide out here.

And Spike's not helping matters. Oh, no. Far from it. Because the vampire is evil and bored and wants to make Xander's life a living hell, he's been torturing him all night long. Little innuendos. Nasty little asides. Flirty looks, pointed gestures.

He wants him so fucking bad.

No! He hates him! He's an evil, blood-sucking fiend who's making Xander miserable. Except that he's not. Miserable, that is. He's actually kind of happy. Kind of ... okay. But not okay! Because Spike's evil, and this is evil, and fucking Spike is wrong, even if it feels so very good.

Ah, the internal monologue of Xander, butt-monkey to the gods.

Spike's rustling in his ropes. No, don't look at him. If he looks at him, Spike will inevitably be doing something dirty and hot, and that will only make matters worse. His cock is aching right now, his blood all fevered and hot. Xander turns on his side and squeezes his eyes tightly shut. Pulls the covers over his head.

Good. This is good. If I can just hide under the sheets for the rest of the night, then no one will notice that I have a raging hard-on for a vampire, and said vampire will stop sexually harassing me.


Except that even with his eyes closed, he can see Spike. Pressed against the backs of his eyelids. Sinuous, slinky body shifting and tugging against the restraints. Long legs sprawled out in front of him, with that frustrated sulk on his nasty-pretty mouth. Twisting and turning, and oh, there's the little white strip of his belly when the shirt rides up ...

"Xander."

The cool, husky whisper in his ear scares the absolute crap out of him. Xander opens his mouth to scream, but there's a sudden hand on his mouth. Cool and hard, but soft at the palms.

Spike. Oh, God, he's escaped.

When he peeks out from under the covers, the vampire is sitting on the bed next to him, his eyes all dark and liquidy in the dark. He looks amazing in shadow. God, those cheekbones. He looks like a god. Like the devil, come to collect his soul. "Best not scream too loud, pet," he murmurs silkily. "Don't want to wake the others."

When Spike moves his hand away from Xander's mouth, he smacks at Spike's hip. "Goddammit!" he hisses. "What the hell are you doing? How'd you get out of those ropes?"

Spike looks smug. As usual. "Slayer's no boy scout with ropes, that's for certain," he says. "Tied 'em too loose. 'Sides, I've had years of practice being tied up."

About ten billion dirty thoughts about Spike and restraints ram through Xander's brain with the speed of a jet engine. He's surprised that his head doesn't explode. Both of them.

The smirk gets pornographic. Spike leans down, putting his hands on either side of Xander's body. Pins him down so he can't run away. No need, really. Xander doesn't think his legs are working right now anyway. "As for what I'm doing ..."

Spike suddenly ducks his head down and his mouth is on his throat. Xander swallows a cry as Spike sucks hard on the skin right under his ear, scrapes his teeth across the spot, and then kisses it softly. When he's done, he gives him a coy look. "Well, I think you know what I'm doing."

Xander's voice is shaky. "Trying to drive me crazy? Spike, we can't. The others-"

"The others don't matter," Spike purrs. "Come on, love. I promise I'll be quiet."

A weak laugh. Spike's hands are moving over the covers, touching his thigh through the layers of linens. "Spike ... oh, Jesus ... it's not you I'm worried about. And if they hear ... if they find out ..."

"What, find out you're gay?" He shrugs. "So? Witch's got lesbian porn on her computer."

"I'm not-" Xander gapes at him, suddenly jarred. "Willow has lesbian porn? How do you know?"

"Saw it when she left her laptop here last week."

"You snooped through her laptop? Spike!"

He grins. "Red's a dirty girl."

"Mmm ... sausages ..."

Both men freeze and turn around to look in the direction of the sound. Giles is stirring in his sleep, smiling a little to himself. "Fancy ... pork." Then he's back to snoring.

Xander really doesn't get librarians.

And instantly, Spike's back on him. Tugging at the covers, nuzzling Xander's neck. "See?" he murmurs. "Quiet as the grave."

But Xander shakes his head. "No, no way. We can't. It's wrong."

Spike kisses him, but not really. Just breezes his lips against his, flicks his tongue over Xander's lower lip. He thinks he whimpers. "I know you want this."

God, yes. He really, really does. At this moment in time, there is nothing Xander wants more than to just pin Spike down on his skinny white ass and fuck the absolute crap out of him. Wants his dick, wants his kiss, wants his hands. Wants him to talk dirty to him and say funny British words that sound really, really erotic in that sordid voice of his.

When Spike's hand brushes Xander's erection through the covers, Xander almost doubles over in bliss. Oh, God, so good. Feels so good. "So go ahead," Spike whispers. "Take it."

Another stroke, and Xander almost blacks out. "In the closet," he rasps. "Now."

It's a terrifying trip, those four feet from the bed to the closet door. Easy for Spike, the way he just kind of glides across the floor. Vampire grace. Lucky bastard. Xander, of course, is stumbling over his feet in the dark, praying to God that none of his friends wake up and see him going into a closet with Spike.

But none of them stir. None of them notice. Funny, how that kind of hurts.

But as soon as they shut the closet door, they're all over each other and nothing hurts at all.

It's frantic and desperate, and the storage closet is so full of junk that they have almost no room to move around. Doesn't matter, they can barely separate as it is. Spike's got his hands moving all over Xander, his hands sliding and shimmying under his shirt. Jesus-oh-God, this is so good, this is so fucking bad.

They're kissing each other harder than nails, each trying to one up the other. Biting and snarling, and only separating to shed articles of clothing. He's feverish, he's going mad, he's losing his shit. His fingers start fumbling on Spike's jeans, and of course, he's not helping matters much. Too busy nibbling on Xander's ear.

"I hate you so much for this," he hisses in Spike's ear. "I really, really hate you."

Spike moans when Xander pulls out his cock. Hard, oh yeah, so hard. Makes him feel good, the fact that someone like Spike wants him this bad. It probably says something really bad about him. Like he should be a serial killer, or a janitor.

"Gonna kill you," Spike gasps. "When I get this sodding ... oh, fuck, you sweet bastard ... chip out ..."

"Shut up."

It's so dark in there. Almost pitch-black. Can't turn the light on; the others might see. But everything's all hot and frenzied, and he can't take his hands off Spike. Xander pushes him against a wall, desperate with need, and accidentally steps on an old fire-engine. He stumbles, but Spike's got his hand on his hip.

"S'all right," he murmurs. Buttery voice. God. "I've got you now." His hand slides over to Xander's cock. He swears he can almost see Spike's smirk, even in the dark. "In more ways than one."

Spike grabs him rough at the hips. Pulls him close. Xander gasps; he can feel Spike's erection against his own, and it's so good. All that sensitive, swollen skin, aching and yearning for contact.

He's growling now. Rich and dark. It's really terrible, the way all Spike's animal noises turn him on. Growling, snarling, purring. Xander puts his hand on Spike's chest. Feels the vibration against his palm.

For a second, it's better than a heartbeat.

"Oh, yeah," Spike purrs in his ear. "Like that, don't you? Come on, give it to me. Do it good. Yeah, oh yeah, like that-"

And Spike's talking too loud, so Xander has to shut him up with a kiss.

They're rocking together. Cock to cock, kissing and gasping. Loving and hating. But underneath it all, Xander can hear Giles snoring. He knows that all his friends and family are out there, fast asleep, while he sneaks away and fucks their mortal enemy. If they ever found out ... oh, God, they'd kill him. Because this is not a thing nice boys do.

Nice boys don't know what they're missing.

The fucking is certainly far from nice tonight. It's hard and fast, frantic and clandestine. No time to waste. They have to make this quick. Just a little midnight snack, that's all. Spike reaches down between them and strokes Xander's aching balls. "Like that, you do, when I touch you. Bet you wanna come. Bet you want it so bad-"

Xander wants to scream. Wants to yell at the stars. Wants to cry, gasp, moan, beg, anything for release. His body is on fire. He's burning up, and Spike keeps whispering terrible things in his ear. Grunting, groaning, his knees weak with arousal. And all the while, he can feel Spike's cock against his, silky-smooth and hard, and he's thrusting, begging ...

"Oh, shit," Xander gasps. "I'm gonna scream-"

Just as he comes, Spike claps a cool hand over his mouth, and the cry he gives at his release is stifled in the vampire's cool, smooth palm. His teeth scrape against the skin, and then Spike gives a strangled little sound as he comes, too.

Neither of them move for a moment. Just stay all tangled up together, and Xander leans his sweaty cheek against Spike's cool shoulder. Feels so nice. Who knew vampires could feel so good? His eyes are heavy with sleep, and his knees are weak. Feels drowsy. Good kind of drowsy. And the quiet, well, that's nice, too. Could fall asleep just standing up, in the nice, soft vampire and the nice, soft silence ...

"Y'know, it's kind of ironic that we just had gay sex in a closet."

Xander winces.

Reluctantly, he pulls apart from Spike and uses his ratty old sleep shirt for the both of them to kind of clean up. They both get dressed, fumbling for clothes in the dark, and Xander doesn't want to do this part. Doesn't want to go back out there. Wants to stay here in the closet with Spike, and fuck, the guy's right. It really is ironic.

But he follows Spike back out to the basement area. As Xander looks around at his sleeping friends, guilt washes over him like a wave. They don't know what he just did. What he's been doing. And God, what he'll probably continue to do.

A cool hand slides around his for just a moment, like a ghost of compassion, and then it's gone.

Spike heads back around to his chair, and then arches an eyebrow in Xander's direction. "Gonna help tie me up?" he asks, a little wicked light sparking in his eyes.

Xander just rolls his eyes. "Whatever, Spike."

As he starts winding the ropes around the vampire's body, carefully tying the knots (and he has to admit, Buffy doesn't know her way around a set of restraints to save her life), a little ache flares in his chest. He's going to have to sleep alone tonight. No cool, lean body pressed against his. Nothing to remind him that there's someone for him, even when he's sleeping. Even if the person's completely wrong and bad for him.

Apparently, he's not the only one thinking this. Spike brushes his fingers down the inside of Xander's arm. Gives him those almost-innocent eyes. "You know, don't have to tie me up," he says softly. "Could just let me sleep with you. I'll get out before dawn, I promise."

He thinks about it. Aches for it. When did that start? When did he start needing Spike not only for the sex, but for the good parts that came after it? For the holding and the kissing, for the talking and the laughing? When did he start needing him in order to get to sleep every night?

But then in the background, Buffy stirs. Makes a humming noise in her throat and turns over. Little yummy sushi pajamas. She doesn't look older than twelve in these surroundings. Innocent.

Xander shakes his head slowly. "I can't," he says softly. "I'm sorry."

He's so sorry he can't believe it.

One rope left to tie. The one around his left elbow. Xander picks up the rope, but Spike moves his arm. Cups Xander's hand with his cheek. Kisses him long and slow, like a lullaby. He whimpers a little into the kiss, leaning into Spike's palm, and then Spike pulls away.

"Good night, Xander."

He doesn't have the words. He just finishes tying Spike up and heads to bed. But when he gets under the covers, he doesn't go to sleep. Instead, Xander turns on his side and watches Spike. Watches his eyes fall shut and his lips part just slightly. He looks beautiful in the shadows. His hair's a little mussed, his fingers twitching in his sleep. So vivid. He can almost feel ...

Xander's asleep in seconds.

Part Eight
Deeper into Movies

NOTE: The title is ripped off from Yo La Tengo's song, "Deeper Into Movies". I think I'm going for this whole theme of oddly-named stories.

Tonight is the night. Yup, definitely tonight. No more stalling. No more shaky indecision or reluctant compliance. Tonight, he is gonna do the deed. Give it his all.

Tonight, Xander's going to break up with Spike.

Well, okay, not break up with Spike because they never really went out anywhere. Just lots of sex. That's all. They're mostly a stay-in couple. Except they're not a couple! No! No coupling! It doesn't matter if sometimes, when Spike's reading old copies of Playboy and smoking in bed, Xander thinks about holding his hand. It's just that Spike has the smoothest fingers ....

Okay, so maybe he won't break up with him tonight.

Xander groans. He's pacing back and forth in the basement, running his hands through his hair over and over again. Glances nervously at the door. Spike's out tonight, gone wherever it is an impotent (well, not really impotent) vampire goes when he's bored. And something bad had happened before he'd left. Something awful.

Spike had kissed him goodbye.

It wasn't a teasing kiss. Not one of those mocking, wicked games Spike often plays with him. No, this was ... sweet. A soft brush of the vampire's lips against his, and the barest brush of his fingers across the scruff of Xander's neck. It caught him off guard, and his eyes were open the entire time. Staring at Spike's impossibly long eyelashes.

When Spike pulled away, he looked almost ... shy. Looked down at his boots. "Uh, right, then," he said. "I'm off."

And he stomped out in all his black leather glory, and Xander was left reeling. It was a very bad thing, indeed.

Cause just for a moment, he fell in love with him.

His palms are sweaty. Stupid palms. Xander glances again at the readout on the clock. Almost three in the morning. Where the hell is he? Spike has to get back soon, before Xander loses his resolve and gets all melty thinking about him. Stupid vampire. Stupid, stupid evil vampire.

"Yeah," Xander mutters to himself. "Stupid, evil, bad vampire. Kissing me like that. Like we're something. Like I like him. Bad and evil ... guy. That's it. This is the end. Adios, amigo. Take the party elsewhere. That's the ticket, Xand. Yeah." A brief pause. "Even if he's sometimes kind of cute."

Like the mornings. The mornings ... they're good. Sitting at the kitchen table, eating cereal. Spike puts Froot Loops in his blood, and every morning, Xander calls him a disgusting bastard for doing it. Arguing over who gets the funny pages first. Spike wearing nothing but his jeans, the belt buckle undone, snickering at Snoopy.

Yes, he definitely has to break up with him. Tonight, as a matter of fact. Before things start getting worse.

Before Xander falls in love with him.

Suddenly, the door opens and slams shut. The shuffle of boots. Muttered cursing at the busted lock. "Stupid bloody-" A grunt of irritation, and Xander hears his trademark stomp as he makes his way down the stairs.

Spike's home, and he's trashed. Not just drunk, though yeah, Spike's pretty wasted. But physically? The guy's a nightmare. His face is a mess of bruises, and there's a split in his lower lip. His hair's all messed up and he's soaking wet, like he's been lying in a puddle of bodily fluids and really bad liquor.

The minute he sees Xander, he starts to giggle. He points a wavering finger in his direction. "Look at you," he slurs. "Lookin' all tough and pissed-off-like. Make a fancy housewife, you will. What, I forget dinner again?"

Spike dissolves into giggles, and Xander glares at him. "You're drunk," he says flatly. More laughter. He rolls his eyes. "What the hell happened to you? Where were you? Jesus, Spike, you look like you got mowed over by a tractor trailer."

Spike's stumbling on his feet. Swaying back and forth, giving Xander a scowl. "So I went out," he snaps. "Big bloody deal. Stupid buggering town, this one is. Crap place to live, spitting out wankers like you and those sodding ..."

There's a choked sound to Spike's voice. Like something's caught in his throat. Frustrated, Spike ducks his head and grits his teeth. Points at the lampshade like it's to blame for all his troubles. "Just wanted to have a drink," he sulks. "Just one goddamn drink. Was going to pay for it and everything, and they-"

"They beat you up."

Silence. Spike just stands there, looking humiliated. Bloody and battered. His eyes are on the floor, sad and blue. Funny, how sometimes Xander forgets that Spike's shorter than him. Not a tall guy at all. It's the attitude that makes him forget. But right now? He remembers.

God help me, but I can't throw him away.

Spike sighs then, and sits down on the bed, wincing at the pain. "Just wanted somewhere to belong, you know?" he says. Looks up at Xander with pleading eyes. "You know?"

His friends are always off at college, doing the college thing. Buffy's got her new military boyfriend, so they don't have any use for him anymore, and Willow's always off with that Tara chick. Anya's just drifting away from him, and he's finding himself drawn to the one thing he's really not supposed to have.

"Yeah," Xander sighs, sitting down next to him. "I know."

Gently, he pulls Spike's duster down his shoulders. Spike sits there all the while, staring at him with those forlorn eyes. Vampires really shouldn't be allowed to have eyes like that. It's too unfair an advantage.

When he pulls off Spike's tee shirt, the vampire sags against him, resting his forehead in the crook of Xander's neck. Instantly, Xander freezes. Gets all overwhelmed by the smell. And he should smell awful, should smell really gross, but he doesn't. He smells ... good. Like Spike. He can't resist. Puts his hand on the back of Spike's neck. Runs his hand over the shape of his skull, feels the springy curls. Spike whimpers a little against his shoulder.

"Tired," he murmurs. "Really tired. Bloody pissed, too. Trashed beyond repair. And you smell so good tonight." A little drunken giggle. "But your hair still looks like crap."

"Speak for yourself, bleach whore."

Xander pushes Spike back up into a sitting position, and he sways back and forth, laughing to himself while Xander gets on the floor to take off his boots. "And you know, these really are the ugliest boots ever," Xander says. "I mean, what's the message you're trying to send with these? 'I steal from Goodwill'? Which, actually, you probably do-"

The instant Spike puts his hand on Xander's head, Xander shuts up. Long, slow fingers moving through his hair, caressing his scalp. The barest scratch of fingernails. When he looks up, Spike's looking down at him, smiling. Not that shy smile from this morning, and not the drunk, dumb smile of five minutes ago.

Nope. This smile is much, much worse.

"You know, Harris, I always knew you'd make a smashing prison bitch."

And there goes one nice moment in this whole mess. Xander glares at him. "God, you're such a dick."

Spike just starts laughing again, and Xander sighs, resignedly. Pulls off the boots and the socks. Takes a minute to slide a finger down his slender, bare foot. He gets up and turns off the lights, all the while looking at the vampire sprawled out in his bed.

Xander sighs as he lies down on top of the sheets, and lets Spike wrap himself around him. You wouldn't think it to look at him. You'd never guess that this bad-ass in leather was a snuggler in bed. You wouldn't imagine that sometimes, he's sweeter than candy.

Xander really, really hates him for that.

When Spike kisses him, it's absolutely brutal. Killing him with kindness. Just this buttery, honey-drenched kiss. His tongue sweeps across Xander's teeth, and his poor lip is all swollen and tender. Xander has to kiss it. Just because he looks so vulnerable with it. And Spike's not supposed to be vulnerable.

He's not supposed to kiss like this. Not supposed to put his hand around the back of Xander's neck, those long, slim fingers so cool against his hot skin. Not supposed to sigh when he's kissing, not kiss so deep that Xander's cock jumps and throbs. When Spike slips a thigh between his legs, he can feel the length of the vampire's dick brushing against his balls. "Oh, God, Spike ..."

"Shh," he whispers. "Just a kiss, love. That's all. Just give us a kiss. Please."

How is it possible for a creature who doesn't even know the meaning of the word "please" to say the word so pretty?

So he keeps on kissing him. Runs his hand through Spike's hair, down the sharp angle of his cheekbone. Dances his thumb in circles around his hard little nipple, traces the hard muscle of his stomach.

When Spike is sated, he pulls away and rests his head in the crook of his arm. Draws circles on Xander's stomach with a black-tipped finger. "Do us a favor, pet," he murmurs.

"Yeah? What's that?"

"Don't fall in love with me."

Xander stares at him, horrified. "What? Are you kidding? I'm not in love with you."

Instantly, Spike glares at him. "Well, fine then. Good. Keep it that way. Won't have you following me around, making moon eyes at me every given moment. Cramp my style enough as it is, you miserable shit."

Xander rolls his eyes. "Oh, like you had any style to start with, Spike."

Silence for a moment. Spike's still sketching weird stuff on his belly. What would Spike draw? Probably pictures of him killing all the people who beat him up tonight. "So, if I were falling in love with you, which I'm totally not, but if I were ... why wouldn't you want it?"

Little feathery circles around his navel. "Because I have the terrible habit of falling in love with anyone who gives a shit about me."

Xander doesn't say anything after that.

It's not long before Spike passes out. His cheek warming to Xander's skin, his mouth a little open against his shoulder. Xander finds himself staring at Spike's hand for a long time. Just the shape of it. He's got such slender wrists ...

He was supposed to break up with him tonight. No, not break up. Because this is just a sex-thing, right? Just a sex-thing. A weird, fucked-up, very bad sex thing. But it's not going to happen tonight.

No, not while Xander's in love with him.

But ... maybe tomorrow.

The End

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