Hunt-Brother

by
Lady Cat

Part One

He remembered hanging there in that inhumanly strong grip.  His blood freezing in his veins as he was forced still, waiting for one of them to stop the posturing and make a move.  Alpha male to alpha male they squared off, sniffing and growling to determine their ranking, with himself as the prize.

The beast within him whined at the wait, making his body thrum at the thought of either male laying claim.  It hadn’t always been like this, he remembered realizing.  Or maybe it had?  It was so hard to tell, through the terror that was making him sweat and pant.  All he did know was that when he had been grabbed and forced to show his neck in submission, something had changed.  The feeling of closeness, of belonging had been ripped away.  He was pack-less.

Another whine, this time more frantic as the feeling of being alone grew alongside the man’s terror.  The beast was not frightened of death—that was a part of life, and unavoidable.  But this?  The beast knew itself to be no pack-leader.  It was hunt-brother, pack-guard, secondary to whichever alpha claimed him.  If the new pack-leader laid claim, the beast was fine.  If the old pack-leader took it back, that was also fine.  But to be claimed by neither?  Alone. . .

He remembered shivering so hard his teeth chattered and the skin of his cheeks wobbled and shook as he was held down.  Remembered wanting one of them to just pick.  He didn’t even care who.  Just pick him.  Someone please pick him.

And then—there it was.  The new alpha moved closer, reaching towards the proffered prize in acceptance.  The old alpha pushed him forward slightly, and instantly all fear evaporated.  There was still the danger of death, of course, but the beast was content with that.  It had been chosen as pack by this new male, and as pack-leader this male had the right of life or death over its pack.  He felt the new pack-leader lean close and his body hummed in anticipation of the claiming.

Suddenly he was being flung away, landing hard against a wall.  The alpha’s began fighting for dominance again, but the beast inside the other howled its disappointment and rage.  It had been cast out from the old pack, accepted to a new pack, but not claimed in truth.  Not claimed as hunt-brother—but still accepted as pack.  It had a pack. 

As the impending-death fear lessened, the beast felt its control weakening.  It struggled briefly, but subsided without too much trouble as the human boy again returned.  Patience had been a lesson learned early behind chocolate brown eyes.

He remembered the lingering feeling of anticipation tingle through his skin, even as he levered himself to his feet and ran.  Remembered forcing that feeling away with the thoughts and emotions of a man, giving thanks instead of feeling regret.  Remembered swearing that it would never happen, no matter how much the beast wanted it.  The beast did not control him.  He was a man, and men were not like that.

He remembered the hysterical laughing he heard every time he repeated that in his head.

Perfect.  There was really no other word for it.  This was just perfect.  Anya had been complaining nearly non-stop since they had left Giles’.  And him—he had just been smirking at Xander’s increasing annoyance with his girlfriend.

“Trouble in paradise then, mate?”

“Says the man dumped for a chaos demon.”  Xander fought a wince as he said that.  He wondered if the others knew how hard it was for him to constantly berate and belittle the bleached vampire.  More, he wondered how long before Spike noticed how hard it was.  Giles, I love you man, but did you have to send him home with me?

“Xander!  Are you listening to me?”

Huh?  “Yes, Anya, of course I am.  I don’t want this any more than you do, really.”  Much, much less than you.  Well, part of him felt that way.  Xander resolutely ignored the joyous howling from the back of his mind.  If I don’t believe it exists, it’ll go away, right?  Good.  You don’t exist.  You were banished three years ago.  Stay banished.

“Then why are you putting him in the comfortable chair?  I thought that was my chair.  Put him in the barcalounger.  The springs poke through the vinyl; they will make the experience very uncomfortable for him.”

Xander nodded, pushing Spike away from the recently-purchased-from-the-salvation-army recliner and into the red monstrosity he was fairly certain he’d been conceived in.  Which is why he never sat there.  Spike began bitching—again—and Xander tried very hard to ignore him, too.  The howling in his head grew louder.

“Xander!”  He whirled around, fists up and ready to pound—Anya.  Who was standing next to him, looking concerned and now a little wary.

“Sorry, Ahn, little tense.  What did you say?”

“I said, do you want to leave him here and come back to my place?”

I would love to.  And why does that sound like I’m lying to myself?  “I wish I could,” he said instead, “but G-man doesn’t want him left alone yet.  So, I am Xander, the baby-sitter man.”

“Oi!  Not a baby!  An’ I can’t hurt you, you bloody morons.  You think if I could, I’d let myself be tied to this piece of crap?”

Both humans ignored the vampire.  “You look sick, Xander.  Call Giles and tell him you’re ill and cannot take care of a cranky vampire.”

“Not a sodding baby!”

“I’m not sick, Ahn, just tired.  Look, you don’t have to share my little sojourn to hell.   You go home and we’ll get together tomorrow.”  He held up a hand, forestalling Anya’s obvious request.  “Tomorrow, Anya, I promise, okay?  But I’m beat.”

“All right.”  A perfunctory kiss on the cheek and a withering glare at Spike.  “Don’t you bother him,” she admonished as she gathered up her purse.  “I want many orgasms tomorrow.  And I have no problems killing a helpless vampire.”

Spike sneered at her, but Xander was pretty certain it was half-hearted.  Of all of them, Anya was the one mostly likely to actually stake him—the only thing holding her back was Xander’s disapproval.  Hopefully she thinks that’s my pesky human conscious talking.  Not a—argh.  No, I am a man.  A perfectly normal, human man.

He tried hard to ignore the howling as it turned to that screeching laughter.

“Well, well, alone at last, whelp.”

“Shut up, Spike.  I have work in the morning.”  He went about his nightly ritual as unhurriedly as possible.  I thought vampires didn’t have to breathe?  So why can I hear him breathing, quietly inhaling and exhaling. . . gah!  He turned on the radio, rummaging around in his tiny refrigerator for something easily digestible.  His stomach was roiling, being so close to—

To the thing I lived in hope and terror of through junior year.  To the thing I have dreams about and I wish I could say they were nightmares.  Not when waking up from one of those dreams meant a hardon that used to take an hour in the bathroom to rid himself of.  Now it meant an hour of brutally pounding into Anya while she writhed below him.

And I’ve got a whole week with him chained up in my basement.  With me.  Alone.

He wondered what the hyena would do if he tried to stake the vampire.

“Oi!  Whelp!”  Xander paused to glare at Spike.  “’m hungry.  Demon-girl put some blood in the freezer.  Fetch me a mug.”  Rolling his eyes, Xander was half-way to the microwave before he realized he’d done just that.  He stared at the mug of cold blood in his hands, trying not to let his nervousness show.

I didn’t want to do that!  Not that he wouldn’t have fed Spike, but—I obeyed him!  Oh, crap, I don’t even remember opening the bag!  How much control did the hyena have?  His dreams were one thing, but actually commanding his body. . .

“You gonna stand there all night, or put it in the microwave, already?”  He absently did as Spike requested, watching as the mug turned round and round.  He didn’t notice Spike’s confused expression, or the speculation that bloomed in bright blue eyes.  “You got any marshmallows?  Little ones?”  Xander nodded, still watching the mug turn and trying hard not to think in circles.  “Put ’em in the blood for me.  Wanna see if they turn pink or red.”

“Okay.”  The microwave beeped, and again Xander was halfway through his task before his mind caught up.  A dozen white marshmallows were slowly turning pink in the now-warm blood.

Okay, that’s it.  You wanna play it that way, you caged furball?  Fine.  We play it that way.  Handing Spike the mug, he resolutely finished his nightly routine, ignoring anything that came out of Spike’s mouth.  He caught himself twice trying to obey the vampire’s commands, but stopped himself before actually doing whatever it was Spike wanted.

Tumbling into the bed, Xander buried his head under his pillow.  He knew the dreams would come, because they always did.  Dreams of being claimed, of needle-sharp teeth slicing into his neck and draining just enough blood that it felt so good. . . dreams of belonging, of feeling safe inside the warmth of a pack. . . dreams of obedience and submission. . . dreams of being owned by the pack, and the pack-leader.

“Thank god it’s Saturday!”

Spike thought so, although probably not for the same reasons as the whelp.  Come to think of it, why was Xander so very happy?  No work meant he couldn’t zoom out of the basement the way he did every morning.  No demon-bint for two days—not sure what was up with that, didn’t really care—so no distractions through sex.  Giles was still pretending he was nineteen and holed away with that lovely bit of fluff that’d come over from England.  Slayer and Red had been bitching non-stop about their homework, so unless there was some demon problem—Xander was all alone.

Poor, helpless little boy.  Spike wasn’t sure what was going on, but he knew he could use it.  For the past week, he’d been carefully observing and testing Xander, trying to figure out why the boy would suddenly zone out—and do anything Spike told him to.  Granted, he’d been keeping his commands simple and pretty conventional, but why else would the boy have gone out and bought a Sex Pistol’s record?  Not that he ever played the thing.  Just stared at it before carefully putting it back in the bag, to be returned.

More intriguing was that every time Xander realized what he’d done, there would come a blast of fear—and then arousal.  Pheromones would pour off the boy, and he’d sport an impressive bulge until he could find the time to sneak off with the demon-girl.  His resistance was always greater after that.  It was weakest right after the boy woke up.

“All tired from baggin’ other people’s groceries.”

“Shut up, Spike.  I’m exhausted.  It’s seven o’clock on a Friday night and there’s nothing on.  I’m sleeping.  You will not wake me, get it?”

“Hey, Die Hard is on at ten.  I wanna watch that!”  Thank god for the telly, he’d have gone nutters if not for that.  While watching Oprah expound the virtues of her latest diet, Spike had come to the realization that leaving was probably not an option—he couldn’t hunt for himself, nor defend himself against other predators.  Here, at least, he had a ready supply of blood—pig’s blood, disgusting—and an intriguing human to play with.  “Untie me, an’ I won’t turn it up too loud.”

Xander rolled over to glare fuzzily at the vampire.  The boy really was quite attractive, Spike noted again.  The first time had been at two in the morning with nothing to do but watch the boy sleep for hours, but. . .  Chocolate brown hair and eyes, golden skin and long, lean muscles from running away from demons and bullies and—an’ everyone else.  Boy practically screams ‘hurt me’, worse than a bleeding cocker spaniel.  And the way he moves sometimes, ’s like he’s waiting for some Big Bad to come in an’ tell ’im what to do.

Spike had no problem being that Big Bad, because the simple fact was—Spike was horny.  Nearly two weeks since he’d had any from that dozy bint, Harmony, and here was this perfectly delectable human, sending out waves of pheromones all week.

“Fine,” Xander said tiredly.  “Watch tv at ten.  I am sleeping until then.”  He flopped onto his back, still fully clothed.

“Least you can do is untie me, first.  I’m not gonna leave, just wanna be more comfortable, like.”  Spike hid a smirk as a half-awake Xander rolled onto his feet, untied Spike, and collapsed back into the bed.

Spike moved onto the bed, careful to make sure his weight didn’t disturb the boy.  “Take off your clothes, pet, you’ll be more comfortable.”  Muttering, Xander again complied.  “All of ’em, pet.  It’s hot out, innit?  So hot tonight.”

“Hot,” Xander agreed as he stripped off his undershirt and boxers.  The boy’s eyes were completely closed as he moved, his breathing and heart-rate telling Spike he was mostly asleep.  Spike hummed under his breath, some old lullaby he used to sing to Dru to keep her calm.  He didn’t know what was causing it, but he recognized trance-like behavior—and a century of caring for and watching Dru had taught him how to manipulate humans in that state.

Spike felt himself harden at the sight of the naked, spread-eagled body before him.  Tan skin glistened as the boy remembered that it was supposed to be hot and began to sweat.  Spike inhaled deeply, trying to understand what happened next.  One minute, all he was smelling was clean, human sweat.  Then the boy began to dream—his eyes twitched in deep rem sleep—and his scent altered.  He grew half-hard as he slept, pheromones pumping out of him, and there was something else, something that humans just didn’t do anymore—not with scent.

It was. . . submission, for lack of a better term.  Directed solely towards Spike, although whether that was because Spike was there, or because it was really for him, he had no idea.  Whichever, Xander’s body was communicating on a very primitive level that it belonged to Spike.  An’ there goes the posture change.  Still on his back, Xander rolled his head so that his neck was exposed—directly to Spike.  It didn’t matter what position Xander had been in, or where Spike was in the basement, the boy’s neck was always bent to him.

So, the boy wants t’ be mine.  Least, his subconscious does.  Right, then, never look a gift horse in the mouth an' all that rot.  I’m horny.  He’s willing—sort of.  Works for me, Spike thought gleefully.

Keeping his voice low and soothing, Spike began to whisper to the slumbering boy.  “You’re a good boy, aren’t you, Xander?  A very good boy.  Good boys want to make others happy.  You know how to make others happy, pet?  Good boys are obedient boys.  Very obedient little boys. . .”

Continuing to croon at him, Spike ran one hand up the boy’s golden flank toward the now fully hard erection.  Apparently Xander’s subconscious liked what Spike was saying.  Spike carded through the dark curls and began fondling the boy’s heavy sac.  Got a nice piece to him, he does.  This is gonna be fun.  Dragging his fingers back up, he began to stroke the boy with a light, gentle rhythm.  This wasn’t about bringing him off, this was about reinforcing his words.

“You want to do anything I tell you, precious.  You want to be my good boy, my obedient boy.  Yes, you’ll be very good to me.  You’ll do anything for me, to be a good boy.  Do anything I say.  Tell me you’re a good boy, Xander.  Tell me.”

“’m’a go’ boy,” Xander slurred, arching up into Spike’s hand.

“Obedient.”

“Ob’d’nt.”

“A good boy.”

“Go’ b’y.”

They went on like that for a while, Xander beginning to thrust his hips up in time to his chant.  “You’ll do anything I say, won’t you, precious?”

“Yesss.” 

Spike applied more pressure at the word, rewarding the boy.  “My boy, my good boy.”

“Good, good, ob—yours!”   With the final cry Xander came.  Spike grabbed a few tissues to clean the boy up, deciding to let him sleep for another twenty minutes or so.  Then the fun would begin.

Part Two

Xander gradually became aware of his surrounding.  Okay.  Bruce Willis being gruff and macho, and at a tolerable volume, too.  Go Spike thoughtfulness, never knew you existed.  I’m lying on my bed—naked.  I’m naked.  And spread-eagled.  How did I do that?

Swallowing a wave of nervousness, Xander carefully moved one arm to snag the sheet and cover himself.  He ignored his body’s sudden communication that it was suffocating from heat.  Okay, nakedness covered, what’s next?  Right.  This would be the perfect moment to acknowledge that Spike is untied and sitting next to me.  Shirtless, shoeless, and running his fingers through my hair.

Spike’s running his fingers through my hair.  And it feels good.  Hello, now would be the time to panic, yes?  Um. . . panic?  Xander closed his eyes, wishing with all his might that when he opened them he’d be alone in the basement.  Or at least Spike would be tied up in his chair.  The cool fingers never ceased their gentle rhythm and Xander didn’t need to open his eyes to know he wasn’t five, and life didn’t work that way.

Let’s recap.  I’m lying in bed, stark naked, with a half-naked vampire sitting next to me and petting my hair like I was a puppy.  And I’m not frightened.  Not even a teeny, tiny bit.  If anything I’m. . . content.

Shit.

For the first time in almost two solid years, Xander had not woken up feeling anxious, nervous, jittery or any of hundreds of words that basically meant ‘not right’.  There was no battle between a young man’s slothfulness and a primitive instinct to find—

What the hell happened while I was asleep!?

“Evenin’, pet,” Spike drawled from above him.  He switched from petting to swirling those cool, strong fingers around his head.  Xander stifled a groan—he loved getting his scalp massaged—and forced his body to not curl up into the caress.  I’m not an animal.  I’m a human, and a man.

“Spike.  What are you doing?”

“Watchin’ the movie, what’s it look like?”  Xander didn’t have to look up to know that Spike was smirking.  “You feelin’ any better?”

Xander blinked, squinting in the blue light to see the ceiling.  Yup, same old mildew stains in their far-too-familiar patterns.  He was still in the Basement of Doom.  So why the hell does this feel like an episode of The Twilight Zone?  Even more than my life usually is?

“Pet?  I asked you a question.  Answer it.”

“Yes, I’m feeling better.”  Xander tried very, very hard to stare at his own mouth.  All it did was make his eyes ache.  He wondered why he still didn’t feel all that worried.  “Sleeping helped and what you’re doing feels good.”

“Good.”  Spike seemed to return his attention to the television, although his hand never stopped moving.  “Are you still tired?”

This time he wasn’t going to wait for his mouth to go on auto-pilot.  “No, not really.  I feel comfortable.”  I feel better than just comfortable.  I feel like everything is right in the world now, and whatever happens I know that—that Spike will take care of me.  Oh, fuck.

Xander frantically began cataloguing every ache or pain in his body.  Sore arms, burning in my calf from where I pulled it yesterday, various cuts and scraps from being a Slayerette, a headache that Spike is getting rid of, and a possibly broken toe, but nothing new and unusual.  So I haven’t been bitten.  Doesn’t explain why my constant companion is quiet after two years of bugging me to fling myself at Spike.  Um.  I didn’t fling myself at Spike, right?

“Um, Spike?”  The vampire tilted his head towards Xander without moving his eyes from the screen.  “How did you get untied?”

“You untied me.”

“I did.  Okay.  Do you know why I untied you?”  There has to be a rational explanation.  Ooh!  It could be a spell—yeah, Willow may have done something because she’s always messing around and it usually backfires, especially on me—I am not a demon magnet, thank you!  It’s a spell, or a curse, or some kind of—

“I asked you to.”

Fuck.  Again.  Notice the creativity of my vocabulary when the world drops out from under me.  “You asked me to.”

“I asked you to strip, too, pet.”

Which would explain why I’m naked.  “And I did what you asked me to.”  Xander’s voice was flat.  It was pretty obvious that he had done just that.  It wasn’t worth questioning what else Spike had asked him to do, he didn’t want to know.  All he did want to know was why Spike was telling him.

“Yup, you did.  Unzip me an’ pull me out.”

Please be a dream, please be a dream, please be a dream, please be a dream.

Xander watched in morbid fascination as he rolled onto his side, reached out and unzipped the faded black jeans Spike habitually wore.  His hand looked sickly in the light from the television as he burrowed it into those same faded jeans.

I’m holding Spike’s cock.

It was flaccid in his hand, even more pale than Spike’s ivory complexion.  “Stroke it.  Gentle, like.  Get used to it.”  Xander found himself lightly running his hand over the length of it, knowing he was teasing Spike but curious about the differences.  He’d never seen another man’s dick in real life, and certainly never touched one.  I am not gay.  I’m not!

It was longer than his own, but thinner.  And Spike had foreskin.  Xander rubbed the extra skin, fascinated by the way it moved around the darkening head.  Making a loose fist, Xander pushed the extra skin up higher, and then slowly fisted it back down, exposing the tip completely.  Spike groaned, making Xander flush in confused pleasure.

He rolled onto his stomach, pushing himself closer so that he could bring his other hand up as well.  Trailing his fingers over the shaft, Xander tried to memorize every bump and crevice.  He licked his lips, suddenly feeling an overwhelming desire to—

No, dammit, I am a man!  I mean, okay, men do this with other men and that’s fine if that’s what they want to do, but I do not want to!  I don’t!  So why am I trying to figure out how he’ll fit in my mouth?

One hand swept up, the other down, tracing along the vein underneath and stroking up over the curling foreskin to the head.  Something wet, lukewarm, and sticky soaked into the pads of his fingers.

I wanna wake up now.  Please?

“Good boy,” Spike said calmly when Xander twitched back like he’d been burned.  “You’re doin’ just fine, precious.  Keep going.”

Yes, sir, of course sir, he snarked inside his head, hands returning to the steadily leaking cock before him.  He wasn’t sure why the precum had startled him so much—it wasn’t like he’d never touched the stuff before.  Oh, no, my hand has a very intimate relationship with precum.  Even after I started dating Anya.  It had just been so cold against him, where he had been expecting body-warmed.

“Put your mouth around the tip, pet.”  He’d gotten into a rhythm, smearing the precum around so that the entire length was glistening.  He was amazed to feel it pump and twitch faintly under his ministrations, the way a living person’s cock would dance to a blood-pressure beat.

He was so involved in what he was doing, that he didn’t even register Spike’s words until he found himself lying on his stomach, half in Spike’s lap, curling his lips so that he created a seal around the head.

Mmph!

It tasted salty against his tongue, but it wasn’t as bad as he’d feared.  A vaguely coppery taste offset the bitterness he’d expected from tasting his own precum, and it was creamier, too.  I’m sucking Spike’s dick.  I’m sucking him because he told me to.

And I’m hard.

Even as he began to suck on the slightly springy head, using his tongue in a poor imitation of the magic Anya created, Xander felt tears sting in his eyes.  Yes, he had always been curious about what homosexual sex was like—most men were, whether they admitted it or not.  Yes, he had to admit that Spike was incredibly hot and that he was attracted to the blonde vampire. 

But how much of either of those things was because of him, Xander, and how much was the beast?  What had Spike done to him, that he was fondling and sucking another man’s—a vampire’s!—cock without even a hint of protest?  Was he getting hard because of the beast, or because of Spike?  Was he really enjoying the feel of Spike’s cock in his mouth, or was whatever had been done to him manipulating his body’s reactions?

Will I like it when he rapes me?

“Shh, precious.”  Long, cool fingers slipped into his hair, sliding over his neck and down his spine.  Gentling, soothing.  Like you would calm a frightened animal.  That’s all I am to him, Xander realized as something cold and hard twisted in his stomach.  An animal.  A pet.  His pet.

“Sweet boy, good boy with the warm, wet mouth.  Relax for me, pet.  I’m not hurtin’ you, precious.  Know I’m not, ’cause there’s no light show in m’ head.  Relax, pet.  I’ll make it good for you.  Just be a good boy for me, be my good boy.  Lift up, that’s it.  Put your hands there, yesss, good boy, jus’ like that.  Tell me you’re my good boy.”

“I’m a good boy.”  The words were barely audible to himself, but Spike’s special effort to rub at the base of Xander’s spine told him that Spike had heard just fine.

“You’re my good boy.”

“Your good boy.”

“My good boy.”

“Your good boy.”

“Take my jeans off.”

What—what happened? Xander asked himself while he did as he was told.  One second he had been mentally shredding himself into ribbons, and the next—I’m a good boy.  The thought was proud, more so as he looked at Spike’s now very hard erection.  I did that.  I’m a good boy.  I made him hard.  I made him thrust like that, when my wrist brushed his dick when I pulled his pants down.  I’m making him happy.  He wants me to make him happy.  He wants me to make him cum.

“Better now, pet?”  There was a hint of concern in the question, but Xander too lost in giddy amazement to hear it.  “Yeah, you are now, precious.  You’re a good boy.”

“I’m your good boy.”

“You’re my good boy,” Spike agreed, his hand slipping further down Xander’s back, over the rounded flesh to gently stroke across the back of Xander’s balls.  Xander moaned at the touch, spreading his legs wider to give Spike better access.  Good boys get good treats, he thought crazily.

“You like this, pet?  You like me touching you like this?”  While his pinky and ring finger continuing to stroke, Spike moved his forefinger up the dark crevice to rub around the entrance to Xander’s body.

Xander moaned loudly, burying his face in Spike’s thigh.  Good—good—good boys.  Good boy.  I’m a good boy. . .please. . .I’m good—I’ll be good—pleasepleasetakemeclaimme!

“Shh, pet.  ’M not gonna hurt you.  Told you before, gonna make this good.  Gonna make you want it, pet, make you need it.  I don’t want th’ unwilling.”  There was a hint of iron in that deep, sexy voice that made Xander’s hair stand on end.  Something very serious lay underneath those words, something that would take more than the puddle of brains that sloshed inside Xander’s head to understand.  All he could really tell was that it was very old and very painful.

Spike wasn’t supposed to hurt.  Xander was supposed to make Spike happy—he was a good boy!  Good boys make people happy. 

Xander may not have known what to do, but whatever had taken control of his mind and body did.  He nuzzled into Spike’s balls, kissing and licking at the sac, rolling the balls themselves around with his nose.  He sucked on one ball, then the other, trying to fit both of them in his mouth at the same time.  He couldn’t, but Spike didn’t seem to mind his trying—especially when Xander whimpered into the sensitive skin.

“Ahhh, luv, do that again. . .!”

Rocking under Spike’s ministrations, Xander moaned and whimpered as he lapped at the dark hair covering Spike’s groin.  He was making Spike happy!  He was a good boy!  He licked and sucked his way up the long shaft, again taking the head into his mouth and sucking, hard.

“Pet, pet, stop a bit.”  Xander looked up and whined around the flesh in his mouth, making Spike gasp and thrust up.  “No, stop!”  Immediately, he backed off, continuing to whine in confusion and hurt.  But. . . I’m a good boy.  I’m a good—

“Sh, pet, it’s all right.”  Spike was there, caressing Xander’s now exposed chest and stomach.  “You are a good boy,” he annunciated clearly, looking into Xander’s eyes.  “Y’did nothing wrong, pet.  I just don’t want t’ cum yet, and if you kept doin’ that, I would.”

Oh.  So he was making Spike too happy?  I’m a good boy?  He whined again, tentatively questioning.  Spike froze, looking startled, but began petting again when Xander tried to shrink back.  “Did nothing wrong.  Bein’ a good, good boy, precious.  So good, pet.”

I’m a good boy!  At least, that’s what he was trying to say in his head.  What came out was more of a rumbling sound.  Again, blue eyes widened but he was distracted by cool fingers circling his nipples, pinching them lightly.  He yipped in surprise, then moaned again as the heat went straight to his cock.  He was leaking a huge amount of precum now, but there was no danger of cumming too soon, not for Xander.  Good boys make others happy.  Good boys get treats only if they make others happy.  I’m a good boy.

“Good boys like to learn things, pet.  Do you want to learn from me?”  Xander nodded happily, panting and whimpering as Spike played with his nipples.  “I’m going to teach you how to make me happy.  Gonna teach you how to be a very good boy.”

I’m a good boy.  Good boys learn how to please, because good boys make people happy.

“Wrap your hand around the base of my dick.  Good boy.  Now, luv, pinch it.  Hard.  Yesss, that’s it, precious.” 

Good boys know how to stop the pack-leader from cumming too soon.  Good boys want to make the pleasure last as long as pack-leader wants.

“I know the demon-girl has gone down on you before.”  Xander nodded excitedly, growling and whining at the same time.  He was twitching with eagerness.  “You ever given head to a bloke before?  Right, you ever done anything with a bloke before?”

Good boys don’t stray!  Good boys belong to the pack-leader.  Xander shook his head back and forth wildly, tentatively growling in offense.

“All right, don’t get upset, boy.”  Instantly, Xander was staring at the bed, motionless.  Spike began playing with his hair.  “So you’re a complete virgin when it comes to blokes?  Lovely.”  Spike’s smirk made Xander give a rumbling yip and rub his face into Spike’s groin in supplication.

“All right, easy, pet.  Start licking me.”  Under Spike’s direction, Xander licked, sucked and nibbled at all the places Spike liked best.  “Good boy.  Gonna make me cum like that, you are.  Mm, harder boy.  God, that’s good.”

Xander tried not to wince as the head of Spike’s cock hit the back of his throat.  Spike said that good boys didn’t gag.  “I know this is hard, pet, but you can do it.  That’s right, relax your muscles.  Good boy.  That’s it, let me in.  Oh, god, you’re so warm and tight. . .”

Soon Xander’s nose was buried in pubic hair, his lips at the base of Spike’s cock.  All the way in.  All the way home.  He inhaled deeply, luxuriating in the scent.  This was where he belonged.  This was where he was supposed to be, forever.  This was what being a good boy meant.

Xander swallowed.

“Christ!  Again!”  He did it once more, but Spike made him back off before he could do it a third time.  “Don’t forget to breathe,” he instructed in a gasping voice, “but—oh, yes, again.  Make me cum, pet.  I’m not gonna do anythin’, not even move.  You make me cum.”

Xander moaned as Spike’s words made him get impossibly harder.  Finding a rhythm he liked, Xander bobbed up and down, sucking hard.  He swallowed whenever Spike was in deep enough, squeezing with his big, warm hands whenever he wasn’t.  He swirled his tongue along every one of Spike’s hot-spots until—

“Suck it, boy, suck it hard, make me cum. . .!”

Spike’s voice hitched on the last word and Xander knew.  He swallowed once more and then backed off until only the head was in his mouth.  Then he sucked as hard as he could, jacking the shaft fiercely.  Spike went deathly silent and began to shoot into Xander’s mouth.

I’m a good boy, I’m a good boy, I’m a good boy!  Xander swallowed every drop, whining in pleasure as he relished the taste of his pack-leader: coppery, like the precum, but so much thicker and sweeter.  He rolled the last bit of it around his tongue, wanting to savor that taste forever.

Rumbling contentedly, Xander used short, hard sweeps of his tongue to clean Spike once he was soft again.  He felt a peace like he had never known before settle over his body, centered around what was in his belly. 

He had pack, again.  He had a pack-leader.  He was claimed.

Licking and kissing his way up Spike’s chest, the deepest part of Xander roared in pleasure.  True, it had been hoping for a different sort of claim, but it was not resentful.  Pack-leader had the right to choose, and right now the euphoria of being claimed was more important than what kind.  I’m a good boy, Xander thought sleepily.  I am pack-brother.

Spike was whispering as he gathered the boy close to his chest.  Telling him what a good boy he was, how perfect he was, how precious and wonderful.  Xander snuggled deeper, reveling in the contact offered.  Suddenly Spike broke off mid-sentence to laugh.

“Well, well what do we have here?”  Xander blinked into Spike’s leering expression.  “Do you want to cum, pet?  Tell me.”

For a split second, he was unsure what to do.  Only pack-leader could give him release—then he understood.  “Please,” he begged hoarsely.  “Please, let me cum, p—Spike.  It hurts so much, please.  I need it.”

“You beg prettily, boy.”  A forefinger was pressed against Xander’s lips and he dutifully sucked it into his mouth.  He swirled his tongue in patterns recently used for something bigger, bobbing his head up and down with a whimper of pleasure.

“You’re so hard for me, pet,” Spike whispered, his other hand stroking lightly along the rigid shaft.  Xander’s whimper turned into a muted scream, his entire body jerking under that gentle touch.  “Yes, you hurt for me, don’t you, boy?  An’ not a whisper from this bloody chip.  Gonna make you scream for me, luv.  You need me, pet, need my touch on you, in you.  Gonna play with you, precious, tease and use you.”  Xander sucked harder, trying to communicate his agreement.  “You’ve been a very good boy, and good boys get rewarded.  Get on your hands and knees.”

Xander whined at the loss of the fingers, but instantly did as Spike asked.  “Wanna see that pretty pussy of yours.  Wish I could take you there, pet.  Wish I could slam into you, ride you hard and long.  You’d like that, wouldn’t you, pet?  Yes, you want me in you, in your pretty pussy.  You want me to take you, push my way in deep.”

Spike took the wet digits and ran them up and down Xander’s opening, chuckling at how it convulsed in time with his words.  “Good boy, such a pretty boy.  I’d take you if I could, luv, but first times always hurt.  An’ I doubt the sodding chip they shoved up my head knows the difference.  Oh, I could hurt you, pet, could make you scream so nice.  Push down, now.”  One finger slowly eased its way into Xander’s body.

Xander’s shoulders dropped, pushing his ass back against Spike’s hand.  “Yes, boy, you want this.  Want me inside of you, moving like this.  Tell me, pretty boy.  Tell me how much you want me.”

This time Xander hesitated as he tried to change moans, whimpers, and screams into coherent words.  “W-want you,” he gasped out.  He felt Spike kneel beside his bent body, running his free hand up and down Xander’s spine.  “F-fuck me.  Please fuck me.  Use me to c-cum.  Please!”  Xander screamed out, blue sparks blinding him as a place deep inside him was pressed.  “Oh, god, please, Spike!”

“Are you a good boy?”

“’M a good boy!  Your boy, your good boy!  Ob—obedient.”  He was panting harshly, gasping for enough breath to speak.  His body rocked back and forth violently under the pressure of Spike’s finger-fuck.  Little bursts of light were flashing before his eyes every time Spike brushed against something he’d never believed existed.  It felt so good.  “G-good boys are o-obedient boys.”

“Yes, you are a good boy.  Cum, now!”

Xander threw back his head and howled, his entire body pulsing as he came hard into the sheets.  Spike held him while he shook and kept him up when his body went totally limp.  Xander struggled to hold himself up long enough for Spike to stretch out on the dry half of the bed, then crawled over to become a living blanket.  He sighed, nuzzling his face into Spike’s neck.

Inside his head, the beast snarled and howled in fierce pleasure, finally claimed.

“Good boy.”

Part Three

Spike stared at the dark-haired boy curled up in his lap, blinking as slivers of dawn burrowed past blackout curtains.  He’d sat like that for almost two hours, just thinking.  About what had happened.  About why it had happened.  About how he could make it continue.  About whether he should.

An’ give up that mouth?  Or a chance at that arse?  Not likely.

But that wasn’t the question, was it.  Yes, he wanted to keep this boy for as long as he possibly could.  The question, however, was what he wanted to keep.  Or maybe he meant what combination.

Sweet, mad Dru.  All of this rot comes back to you, doesn’t it? 

Did he want another Drusilla?  If he kept Xander, it seemed he had one.  Perhaps not as broken as she was, but humans did not normally regress into little boys when being gentled and calmed.  They certainly didn’t act like animals—’least not without some torture an’ some serious mind games.  Lot more’n what I was doin’.

Something was obviously wrong with him.  Should I even care?  Man, boy, and puppy had all shown they were slavishly devoted to Spike, and he had liked that.  Boy was all set to go to sleep, since I was sated.  Dunno how he could’ve with his erection almost black, but he barely seemed t’ notice.  He liked how, despite the agony of that too-hard dick and Spike pressing down on the boy’s prostate, he’d still cum only when Spike said he could.

But that still didn’t answer the question.  Or the other two important issues.  One bein’ this thrice-damned chip.  The other, what Slutty’s gonna do when she finds out I’ve made her puppy mine?

Hang about.  Mine?  Spike glanced down, surprised to realize that he was petting the boy, probably had been for some time.  Xander was rolling under the caress, arching up into it like a contented cat.  There was a little hum with every breath and Spike decided if the boy knew how to purr, he’d be purring.  Mine.  Maybe.

Which made the whole question of which Spike wanted a moot point, didn’t it?  He wanted Xander.  The boy wanted him—at least, part of him did.  An’ wasn’t that somethin’ straight out of Dru’s world.  One second he’s sucking me, mouth so warm and so sweet, smelling of innocence and lust, and then. . .

Then there had been self-loathing, and resignation, and the salt-scent of tears.  The boy’s body wasn’t going to stop and it was still aroused, but whatever was controlling the body wasn’t controlling the mind.

For one split second, Spike had almost ended it.  I don’t rape.  Drusilla used to beg him to take some girl so that Dru could watch.  He supposed that it reminded her of Angelus, and that was enough of a reason not to do it.  Wasn’t the whole reason, but enough of one.  He wasn’t above seduction and making the unwilling willing, but no one left his bed unsatisfied.

He smirked in the darkness, remembering the game he’d devised to please Drusilla and keep himself pleased, as well.  An’ that’s the answer, innit it? he realized, suddenly.  It didn’t matter what he ended up with when the boy woke, because regardless, he’d make him belong to Spike.  Just like all those pretty girls who swore they’d never do what I made them beg for.

He felt himself harden as he pictured what he would do to sweet, innocent Xander.  He almost hoped that it would be just the man who woke; this was going to be fun.  Gonna train you, boy, he thought as he reached under the bed.  Anya had stashed a bag there before, telling Xander to at least look at them while she was away.  When she got back, if he had any questions, she would be more than happy to explain and demonstrate.

Sorry, Anyanka.  Don’t think he’ll have questions, time I’m through with him.

Pawing through the assorted toys, Spike nearly laughed aloud.  Anya!  Never knew you were such a kink!  Well, actually, he did, after a week of living in the basement.  Or maybe the first time Anya opened her mouth.  He pulled out a long, thin piece of plastic, a box with assorted tubes inside, and a special prize if the boy was good.

Hm.  Cherry seems appropriate.  Popping the appropriate top, he slathered the plastic thickly with the sweet-smelling lube.  Alright, you miserable chip.  Not hurtin’ him, right?  Trying t’ make him feel good.  Gotta train this boy right.

Xander moaned lightly when Spike rolled him into a better position and spread his cheeks, but did not wake.  Squeezing a bit directly onto the boy, Spike began to massage it in and around the boy’s opening.  He crooned softly as he worked, murmuring like he had not twelve hours before.

It slid in like silk, and not a whisper from the chip.  Beautiful.  Spike kept the rhythm slow, wanting to build this gradually.  When Xander started gasping for air and thrusting back against Spike, he knew it was time.

Buzzzzzzzzzzz.

Xander screamed, hips bucking wildly as Spike made sure he brushed the boy’s sweet spot every time.  Oh, god, that’s good!  Spike flicked the vibrator to a higher speed, enjoying as Xander continued to scream and moan against his balls.

“Wanna cum, boy?  Wanna cum for me?”  Xander thrashed against him, babbling incoherently.  Spike chuckled, pumping the whirring vibrator with increased speed.  “Good boys get to cum,” he said, hoping that would be enough.

He was rewarded when Xander reared up slightly and swallowed Spike down to the root.  Spike was so glad that he’d been patient the night before, letting the boy set his own pace learning how to deep-throat.  This time, he thrust his hips into the boy’s warm, wet mouth, fucking him hard while still manipulating the vibrator. 

Spike didn’t take long to cum, flooding Xander’s mouth with cool liquid.  Rolling him onto his back, Spike turned the vibrator up one notch higher and wrapped his hands around the boy’s straining dick.  “You were a good boy,” he whispered, jacking the boy three times.

Xander threw his head back and howled as he came.

Spike kept his hand on the boy, milking him and prolonging the orgasm as long as he could.  While the boy jerked and shot, he used his other hand to work a butt plug into the boy’s tight ass.

An’ not one whisper from the metal in m’head.  Maybe I can fuck him.  Gonna have to test this careful-like.  Unlike Dru, intense pain was not a turn-on for him.

Xander was panting harshly, squirming from the pressure of Spike’s hand still rubbing him.  Chuckling, Spike released him and traced patterns in the semen pooling on the boy’s stomach.  “Liked that, hey?”  Xander just looked at him, dark eyes unreadable in the dim light.  “You stink, pet.  Forgot how mortals sweat.  We should shower.”

Spike pushed at the boy, rolling him off the bed and towards the bathroom.  He kept his arm around his waist, ostensibly to steer him around any objects normal human vision might miss, but actually to make sure he went where Spike wanted him to.

Xander began washing Spike as soon as they stepped into the nearly scalding spray, without any prompting from the vampire.  Once clean, he had the boy kneel before him.  “Lick, but don’t suck,” he instructed.  Picking up the bottle of shampoo, he began washing the boy’s hair.  They stayed like that for nearly ten minutes, Spike hands working in white-lathered hair, the boy licking at his cock like it was a lollipop.

When the water began to cool, he made Xander finish washing himself and rinsed them both off.  Xander dried him, again without prompting, still docile when Spike told him to kneel again.

He looked surprised when Spike batted his hands away.  “Hold still.”  He fisted himself, picturing how Xander had looked, begging for Spike to use him.  The first spurt hit Xander directly between his eyes, dripping down his nose.  The second hit his right cheek, then his chin and forehead.

“Don’t wash it off.  Let it dry like that.”  Spike tilted his head, admiring the cum-stained boy.  Pleased, he left the bathroom and heated himself a mug of blood.  While it turned, he fixed a bowl of cereal for the boy.  Xander slowly walked towards the table, staring at the cereal and then up at Spike.  Already, the cum was starting to harden, turning white and flakey.

“This means you’re mine now.  You’ve accepted my cum, you belong to me.”  The microwave beeped.  Seating himself across from the boy, sipping at his breakfast, Spike waited.

Part Four

He never realized what an uncomfortable chair this was.  Not that it had been all that comfortable before, but he’d never really paid attention to it.  It was just a chair.  He rarely sat on it, anyway, usually standing as he wolfed something chocolatey and sugary before he left for whichever scut-job he worked that day.

Now he sat.  Mechanically, he began eating the cereal before him.  Hard plastic was sucking out the heat from his body.  Something he really didn’t want to think about was stretching the skin of his face and making him itch.

He shut his eyes, deciding that one more prayer would hurt nothing.  Opened them, and Spike was still sitting there, uncharacteristically serious.

“You have to breathe, y’know.  Humans do that.”

He wanted to ask if he was still human.  Doesn’t swallowing vampire-cum make you a vampire, too?  Except Spike was breathing as he sipped at his breakfast, idly tapping one finger on the table.  His right hand, not his left.  That was suddenly very important.

“Breathe, pet.”

He inhaled so sharply that he began coughing.  Doubling over to hack and gasp, he was aware of three things.  His throat hurt, possibly from screaming, probably from accepting something it was in no way big enough to accept.  He was sitting at his table naked, with a butt-plug, cum drying on his face, across from an equally naked vampire. 

And he felt good.

Choking gasps turned to laughter.  It was long, low, and he couldn’t tell if he was supposed to be crying underneath or not.  His mind kept telling him that this was wrong, that it wasn’t supposed to be like this—and the rest of him was finally at peace. Offering that peace with a seductive whisper that sounded far too much like Spike’s accented baritone.

He laughed until he was exhausted, tears creating paths through the white, flakey mask, his cheeks aching almost as much as his throat from grinning too hard. 

Something warm and soft settled around his shoulders.  He forced himself to stop, looking up in surprise.  Spike stood above him, fussing at the blanket so that Xander was completely covered.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Spike shrugged.  It looked odd without his usual black duster, or even the black t-shirt to cover those corded muscles.  “You looked cold.”  Xander studied blue, blue eyes; they glowed from light reflected by the table.  He waited for the blustering he knew was coming, the excuses to cover the embarrassment of the Big Bad taking care of a pathetic human.

Saw only calm concern.

“Thanks.  But that’s not what I meant.”  Tucking the blanket so that it went under his right arm, he turned back to his cereal.  He was incredibly hungry.  Spike sat down again, toying with the rim of his mug.  He watched as Xander finished his first bowl of cereal, silently fixing another when Xander began drinking the sugar-flavored milk.

Xander ate this one slower, trying to decide if he was stalling or not.  He settled on ‘not’, since he was hungry enough to eat a third bowl.  It was—it was just weird.  He wasn’t mad at Spike, couldn’t be mad at someone that was only following his nature.  And wouldn’t the girls be thrilled to know that that is why I hate Angel so much?  They still thought it was jealousy, some macho pissing contest they didn’t understand and didn’t want to have to deal with.

He was jealous of Angel, but he was jealous of a lot of people without hating them.  Angel, he hated.  The martyred guilt-complex, the embarrassed vanity, and the total belief that just because he had a soul, he wasn’t bad anymore—all of that was crap.  Angel was a vampire.  He could pretty it up, hide as much as he could, but it never changed the fact that he could be brutal, cruel, sadistic, and petty. 

Just like normal people. 

But Angel had to be so self-righteous that it made Xander physically ill.  He’d had everyone fooled.  It had almost been a relief when Angelus appeared, because then they’d all see what Xander had always known was there.

They weren’t two different people, not the way Angel meant it.  Both versions of the vampire felt the same impulses and desires, and Xander firmly believed that if Angel hadn’t been so busy denying it than Angelus would have been more sane.  Repression wasn’t good for anyone’s soul.

That was why he’d always liked Spike better.  Spike, at least, was totally up front about what he was.  Monster, yes, but with more human emotions and feelings than either incarnation of the be-souled vampire could admit to.  A monster that enjoyed life, even while he took it.

It had given him some comfort, knowing that.  He’d done his research.  He scrapped together information whatever and where ever he could, even going so far as to question Angel in a few painfully awkward conversations.  Combined with what he had gleaned from his own observations and the chaos in his head, Xander had a fairly decent idea of what was going on.  He’d known that one day, this would happen.

Spike moved, startling Xander from his introspective daze.  Rummaging around for his duster, he held up a pack of cigarettes and raised his eyebrow in silent question.  Xander nodded.  Then he stared in shock as Spike carefully opened the window through their blackout curtains and sat down directly beneath it.

Xander blinked, wondering if his eyelashes were fusing together.  They could have been.  Spike was acting. . . considerate.  And there’s my long-delayed panic.  Wondered where you’d run off to!  Too bad you couldn’t have shown up, say, last night when I needed you.

There hadn’t been panic.  There had been wigging and what-the-helling and occasionally whimpering even before his brain had decided to take a holiday, but there hadn’t been panic.  There hadn’t even been panic about there not being panicked.  He’d expected Spike to dominate him, probably humiliate him, definitely hurt him.

Okay.  Spike being nice makes my insides feel like jelly, and not in a good way.  Weird.  Or weirder, not sure about how far away from ‘weird’ we are at the moment.  Xander took a deep, calming breath.  Get a grip, Xan-man.  He said he wouldn’t hurt you.  Spike keeps his promises.

“You gonna sit there all day, luv?”  Spike exhaled heavily, smoke traveling from his nose to the open window.  Xander could sense only faint traces of tobacco in the air, and his insides gave a little shake again.

“No.  Sorry.”  Spike raised an eyebrow but otherwise remained silent.  “You breathe.”  This time both eyebrows raised, something like amusement tingeing the habitual smirk.  “I mean, you’re a vampire and Giles says that you don’t need to breathe, but you do.  Not just when you’re talking or smoking, either, but when you’re just sitting there or—or when you’re. . .”

Or when you’re sleeping.  But we can’t say that, oh no, because that would be admitting something that we aren’t ready to admit yet.  Like that we’ve been watching and waiting for this to happen—and when did I become a we?

“Don’t need to,” Spike was saying while Xander mentally babbled.  “Don’t need t’ smoke, or eat human food, neither.  S’just somethin’ I do.”  More smoking while Xander tried to think of another way to avoid the impending conversation.  He didn’t want to do this, despite the equanimity he was feeling.

Because peace and happiness?  With the evil undead?  These are unmixy.  One of these things is so not like the others.  Didn’t change what he was feeling.

“C’mere.”  Spike crushed out his cigarette as Xander settled himself in the smaller man’s lap.  He always forgot that he was physically bigger—Spike’s forcefully personality always made him seem towering.  Spike spread the blanket over their legs pulling Xander against his chest.  One hand went into thick, dark hair, the other began playing with his body.

Xander sighed, trying not to think about how good this felt.  Cool skin was soothing pressed to his, Spike’s motions purposeful without being arousing.  A nipple was tweaked and Xander amended his thought—not too arousing.  Just enough that Xander could feel himself becoming slightly off-balance.  He snickered against smooth, nearly hairless skin.

“Somethin’ funny, luv?”

“Of course not.  It’s a normal Xander-day when a vamp who hates me makes me his bitch.”

Spike chuckled lightly.  “Too right, mate.”  More petting, hands sweeping lower although never touching the places his body wanted to be touched.  He’s doing this on purpose, Xander thought muzzily. “What didn’t I have t’ do, pet?”

“Huh?  Oh.  Mark me.”

Spike didn’t stop, but Xander was positive he felt the big, bad, manly vampire start in surprise.  “You know about marking?”

He nodded, burying his nose in Spike’s collarbone.  Leather, tobacco, lingering traces of clean soap, and something musky and earthy filled his head.  Home, part of him whispered.  The rest of his body had to agree, thanks to Spike’s busy hands.  “Read about it.  It’s used with minions and, um, ‘recalcitrant childer’.”

Spike went death-still, not even breathing.  “Who told you that?”

Xander’s throat closed up.  “Angel,” he whispered, forcing the words out.  “I asked him about it when he was still Angel.  He didn’t want to tell me, but I just kept bugging him about it until he told me just to shut me up.  He didn’t tell me everything, either, I had to look up a lot of the details—and I don’t want to know how some of the books got the information they got.  I mean, knowing how a vamp—”

“Stop.”  The breathing started up again.  Xander swallowed a sigh of relief, suddenly aware of just how much he missed that quiet sound.  The lack of heartbeat didn’t bother him, nor did the cool-but-not-cold skin he rested on.  The breathing he needed.  With it, Spike stopped being a vampire and became just another person.  Maybe even a friend.

“I’m s—”

“Oh, bloody hell.  You listen here, boy, you—OW!”  Spike’s hands dropped from the nape of Xander’s neck, where they had grabbed presumably to shake.  Scooting back, Xander brought his knees to his chest while he waited for Spike to ride out the pain.

“Goddamned chip.  Wasn’t tryin’ t’ hurt him!”  Muttering more imprecations, Spike blinked a few times and stared.  “Right, ducks.  First off, get back here.  You’re bloody warm.”  Xander tried to think like a doll while Spike positioned his body.  One golden leg was wrapped around the vampire’s middle so Xander was straddling him, but shifted to one side so that he was balanced on Spike’s thigh instead of his hip.  The blanket was cocooned around them, trapping the heat.

“I thought vampires didn’t feel heat or cold.”

A long suffering sigh ruffled his hair.  “Learn this now, boy.  I.  Am.  Not.  Like.  Most.  Vampires.  An’ I hate bein’ bloody cold.  Now, comfortable?”

“Yes.”  He wanted to wash his face, but otherwise he was very comfortable.  Spike was all hard muscle and sharp bone, but his skin was satiny smooth and soft against him. 

“Good.”  Spike began petting him again.  “Now.  Explain t’ me why marking you as mine isn’t necessary.”

Xander didn’t think he’d ever heard that tone of voice from Spike before.  From Giles, yes, that infinitely patient tell-me-or-you-die was something he’d heard, oh, every apocalypse, or so.  He didn’t think Spike had the maturity to pull off that kind of tone, though.

“Because I’m not a minion or a childe?”  Spike tugged his hair, but not enough to hurt. “Because you—you. . .you claimed me.  L-l-last night.”  Wow.  Okay.  Don’t want to say that again, please.  In fact, can I just sit here and shake for a while?  Oooh, yeah, Spike do that some more.

Whether it was because Spike had heard the tremor in his voice, or some other reason Xander didn’t want to think about, Spike had given up on his gentle caress.  The instant the word ‘claimed’ left his mouth, Spike’s fingers were dancing on his cock.

“I claimed you?”  A squeeze, then more light teasing.  Xander rolled his head back, panting.

“Yes, claimed—you claimed me—claimed—”  Each repetition was rewarded with a harder squeeze, a longer stroke.  Xander thrust his hips, trying to create more friction, mewling when Spike pulled his hand away.  Oh, right, I have to listen.  “Yes, you—you did—yours.  Please, oh, god, Spike. . .!”

“Not yet.”  Spike tickled along a taut stomach before softly stroking along Xander’s face.  “Look at me.  That’s right.  I claimed you, boy.  Me.”  Xander nodded frantically.  “How’s a human know about claiming, hm?  Why does a human want t’ know about how vampire’s control their own?”

“Hyena.”

“Really?”  Xander wondered through his haze of lust how Spike could continue to drawl like that, so calm and so slow.  “Does this hurt?”  The piece of plastic in his body was pushed forward, making him moan, and then pulled completely out.  He started keening at the loss, a yawning feeling of emptiness climbing up from his gut.  Slick fingers pressed against the stretched opening.  Xander pressed back eagerly, needing to be filled again.  So empty, so alone. . .

“Hurt?  No!  Well, sore, but. . . ohhhh!”

“Now,” Spike said comfortably, as if it was totally mundane to pet a painfully hard human while finger-fucking him into oblivion.  “Explain to me about the hyena.”

Xander told him: about the hyena who had possessed him and how, despite Giles’ spell, it had never truly gone away.  Told him about Angel taking him to Spike, offering him up while casting him from the pack.  He didn’t even notice when he slipped into pack-speak, telling his story as well as he could while humping onto Spike’s increasing number of fingers.

“So, lemme get this straight.  You’ve been possessed by a hyena and y’still got traces of it in your head.”  A panted yes.  “When I was tryin’ t’ fool Angelus, your beastie took that for acceptance—and you’ve been waiting for two years, now, for me t’ claim you, make you my pack?”

“Pack-leader,” Xander gasped out.  “M’not alpha.”

Spike withdrew his fingers and held Xander still.  Xander froze, blocking his whine of frustration.  Something was burning deep in Spike’s eyes and both man and beast knew not to push.  “Xander, hyena’s are matriarchal.”

He sounded almost kind, like he was sorry for letting Xander down.  “I know.”  It took three big gulps to say that without choking.  “I looked up all that.”

“Then how could Angelus give you t’ me?  And why me?”

More breathing.  Xander grabbed onto the edge of the blanket, knuckles turning white as he forced himself to talk rationally, not beg for release.  “Buffy was pack-leader.  Angel was her mate.  A mate as strong as she was, and. . . and she would deferred to him, sometimes.”  He struggled to put the beast’s instinctive hierarchy into words.  “He wasn’t just pack-leader’s mate.  He was, um, he was hunt-brother.”

“So—he had rights to the rest of the pack?”

“Yeah.”  Xander rested his head on Spike’s chest, still thinking hard.  “You challenged pack-leader’s mate.  But you weren’t challenging the right to his mate, you were. . . um.  Not explaining this right.”

“No, I get it.  I wasn’t tryin’ t’ take his place in the pack, right?  I was just fightin’ him t’ see who was the stronger.  An’ since Peaches was still pantin’ after Slu—the Slayer, he had the right t’ offer you as spoils—as prey.  Prey that could be eaten, or claimed.”

Xander nodded, enjoying the feel of that porcelain skin rubbing his.  “Yes.  You won.”

“But I never claimed you.”

The speculative tone was lost on Xander, who was too busy reliving the daily struggle between man and beast.  Sometimes, it was good.  The soldier memories—which had also remained—were useful in fighting, and the hyena memories gave him a little more insight and awareness.  But the other times. . .

Wake up, wanting Spike.  Wanting to give myself, let myself be taken.  All day, whispering to go find Spike.  It would all be better, if pack-leader was there.  Pack-leader would fix it.  Never be alone with pack-leader.  Every moment of the day, it made me think of Spike.  And at night, I dreamed.

The soldier memories hadn’t helped that yearning.  Soldiers traveled in their own kind of pack—squads, brigades, divisions, units.  They had a strict hierarchy and followed orders without question.  So when pack-leader said do something, the soldier heard his commanding officer.  Great.  I was obeying Spike because of the damned soldier.  I thought the soldier would help me—hello, don’t ask, don’t tell?

“So, when I made you suck me off, that claimed you?  The cum?”

“No.  The—debasement.”

Spike snorted.  “You even know what that means, pet?”

“You ordered me!” Xander snapped, suddenly—finally!—angry.  “You made me make you get off.  Didn’t matter that I swallowed—”

“Mattered that I came, an’ from your obedience.”

His whole body was turning red.  He knew it, he could feel his temperature rising and he knew Spike would know it, too.  Which only humiliated him more.  Tears pricked his eyes, and he wanted to be far, far from the vampire that in every way but human terms, owned him.

“I claimed you.”  Spike’s was stroking his cock, fingers still slick from before sneaking in to tease him again.  Xander jerked and gasped, anger draining into fierce lust.  “An’ I marked you.”  Spike’s knowing fingers found that wonderful place inside Xander body and rubbed.  “Means you’re mine, now.  My property.  My boy.  Mine!”

Xander buried his face into Spike’s chest, giving up any control over his body.  Spike did own him; the beast was strong enough not only to make Xander’s mind and body obey, but to make him like the obedience.  With no means to fight, there was no reason to fight.  Spike wasn’t hurting him—ohhh, no, not hurting, feels so good—and Anya had never made him feel like this before. . .

He can’t hurt me, not really.  He can’t bite me or turn me.  He could probably order me to cut my own wrist or something, but. . . I don’t think he will.  And oh, god, yes, Spike do that harder!  Please. . .

Above him, Spike chuckled.  “Vocal little thing, aren’t you?”

Um, I said that out loud?  Crap.

“Not gonna hurt you, boy,” Spike was whispering now.  “Gonna make you my puppy, mouth and ass for me alone.  Whatever I want, whenever I want it.  You like that, huh, pet?  Like the thought of bein’ my toy?  Yeah, you do.  You’re a good little boy, such a hot little boy. . . Cum for me, luv, now.”

Xander immediately screamed, arching back, body convulsing as he came all over Spike’s chest and stomach.  Panting, he slumped back down, careful to angle his body so that he wasn’t lying on the dripping cum.  Gets sticky, he thought through post-orgasm fuzz.  God, Spike made him cum so hard.

“Liked that, hm?  Good.”  The hand on his cock was removed, and Xander felt something hard, cold, and very slick against his anus again.  “Push down.”  He complied, the plug slipping in painlessly.  “You’re so tight back there, pet.  We’ll get to that later.  Don’t worry, pet, you’re gonna like it.  Can’t hurt you ’cause of this buggering chip, so gonna take it nice and slow, but you’d like it anyway.  S’like my fingers, only so much bigger an’ harder.  Fillin’ you up, stretchin’ you so nice. . . you’re gonna love me up inside you, making you scream.” 

His voice is like sex, Xander thought.  Slight pressure at the nape of his neck and he bent his head to begin licking that pale, sculpted body.  Sucking on nipples and nipping at the nearly hairless expanse.  Tasting himself while he memorized each dip and roll of skin that tasted like salt and cream.  It’s like chocolate and sex.

“Gonna train you, pet.  Gonna make you my perfect little boy.”

A good boy.

Part Five

He looked younger while he slept.  Less a man and much more a boy.  Lost boy, why are you crying?  There had always been nightmares, before.  Good dreams, too, where he woke up hard and hungry and slipped out to demon-girl’s place for a bit before work.  But more often the nightmares.  Tossing and curling up into a tight little ball, alone and afraid from the images in his mind.  Murmurs and tears escaping a mask of I-can’t-hear-you and I’m-not-really-here, you-can’t-see-me.

There were no nightmares, now.  Just deep, even breathing, childlike in his trust of the arms that held him.  I could hurt him, now.  Slip in, drain him an’ make him mine forever.

He’d never taken a Childe before.  Minions, yes, fledges by the dozen to make sure he and Dru were properly taken care of.  Never a Childe, though, someone to share conversations and memories, to make new memories with.  It had never been a need of his.  Drusilla had been jealous of his attentions elsewhere, and had filled his mind such that playing the father to some innocent vamp held little appeal.

He was the Sire in their happy home, to all but Drusilla herself.  Her whims were immediately catered to, no matter how they clashed with his own.  To the rest, though, he was the one who handed out orders, punished transgressors, generally making all the decisions.  He was the Lord of their little court, and only his Lady held any sway over his actions.

Creating a fledge was like hiring on a servant, marking them as slaves, and ensuring the little things that held neither time nor inclination would be dealt with by someone else.  Creating a Childe was an act of procreation.  Newly risen Childer were stronger and smarter than most minions but still very weak and innocent.  They had to be trained, taught, coached and coaxed into becoming something more than a two-legged animal.

His own training had been—interesting.  Angelus had needed him to be intelligent and capable, since he was Drusilla’s protector and nursemaid.  Drusilla had needed him to be observant and caring, her provider as well as her lover. 

Angelus had used pain and humiliation to achieve his goals.  Drusilla had used pleasure.  Any pain at Drusilla’s hands had been mutually acceptable to both.

One taught him how to be powerful, the other taught him how to be devoted.  No question which method he was using with this delightful human who slept in his arms.  And it wasn’t because of the chip.  Pain could be useful and he did want to introduce the boy into a bit of pleasurable pain—mm, smacking that bottom rosy and the fucking him while he still felt the sting—but pain was not conducive for inspiring devotion.

Xander would make a magnificent Childe.  Give him a bit more in the way of viciousness and capacity for violence with the demon inside him. . .the damage we could do, drinking and fucking our way wherever we wanted.  Focused solely on my pleasure, my whims. . .

I know, lets brood about the things I can’t do anymore!  Don’t think about biting the boy.  Can’t do it, deal, move on.

The bulk of the day had been spent in teaching Xander.  The boy was put through quite a work out, soaked with sweat and cum.  He’d done just about anything Spike could think of that would give himself pleasure and Xander no pain.  The boy had been compliant, almost eager to do what Spike wished—except once, when he had violently protested his instructions.

It wasn’t unexpected, and Spike already had a plan.  Thought he’d balk lot sooner than he did, an’ not over rimming.  Know he’s eaten out demon-girl.  Reaching into Anya’s bag of tricks, he’d pulled out a cockring, the vibrator, and plenty of lube.  He’d tied the boy to the bed, stroked him hard, made sure the cockring was snug, and then applied the vibrator and his own talented tongue on the boy.  It was the first time Spike had done more than jerk him or finger him, and after only two minutes Xander had been incoherently thrashing.  After fifteen, Xander couldn’t move, could hardly gasp out the words promising that he would never disobey Spike again.

He’d passed out from cumming so hard, that time.  Spike had let him sleep, sure that he’d made his point.  They’d get to rimming another time.  Oh, yes, we will.  Think I’ve proved just how good it can feel.  The boy had been exhausted, and a phone call sometime before had informed them of a scooby meeting that evening at eight.  Spike was not invited.

Like that’s stoppin’ me.  Where my boy goes, I’m goin’.  Snagging the phone, Spike read the number written on the back of it and made a quick call.  Stroking warm, golden skin, he debated waking the boy with a hand job—and blue-white lightening sparked over his vision.

He growled, grabbing at his forehead.  Fucking piece of government shit!  Okay, right, the boy’s too sore.  Forgot, humans can’t keep it up that long, can they?  Well, there were other rewards beside orgasm.  Right now, though— “Luv, wake up.  C’mon, that’s right.  Wake up.”

Xander looked up at him blearily, eyes not very focused.  “Wassat?”

“C’mon, pet, we need to shower.”  Spike didn’t have the problem of sweat, but he’d been liberally doused with cum—an’ even those humans would notice us smellin’ like a whore house.

“Don’ wanna,” Xander grumbled.  Pouting, he curled against Spike, nuzzling his face into Spike’s crotch, still mumbling something about school and sleep.

Okay, this is pushin’ even vamp stamina! Spike thought incredulously as he hardened under Xander’s warm breath.  Well, don’t look to get any tonight, so. . . sure, why not.

Leering, Spike hefted the boy up into his arms.  Ignoring Xander’s shout of surprise, he carried him to the bathroom and turned on the shower.  Pushing the boy under the water, he was still surprised when Xander washed him, first.  Not that Spike was objecting.  Dropping to his knees, the boy washed slim, muscular legs and looked up at Spike questioningly.

“A quick one,” Spike said, leaning back against the tiled wall.  Xander nodded, moaning when Spike dumped shampoo in his hair—which vibrated against Spike, making him grin evilly.  Then he gasped.  God, he learns fast! Spike thought as Xander nipped at the head, before tonguing the slit fiercely.  Much too quickly Spike froze and came.

Xander was humming when he got to his feet, ducking his head under the water.  As soap streamed down his face and body, he gave Spike a sheepish grin.  “I was hungry,” he said.

“Oh!  Bloody hell.”  Quickly finishing, they tumbled into their clothes moments before someone pounded on the outside door.

“Um, Spike?  What the—why are you giving me my wallet?”

“So you can pay for the food, dolt.”

“What—” more pounding “—right, that food.  You ordered me food?!”  Spike ignored him, pushing him towards the door as he prepared a mug of blood for himself.  A few moments later, Xander clomped back down the stairs and began pulling out little white and red boxes of chinese food.  “I’m very frightened.  I can say that, right?  That I am very, very frightened?”

Next lesson: work on the bloody babbling.  I had a century with Dru rambling, I do not need it from this one.  Least it isn’t ’bout the blinkin’ stars.  Spike closed his eyes.  “An’ why are you asking me permission for that?”

Oh.  Guess that wasn’t what he meant.  Wide, wide brown eyes stared at him, jaw hanging slightly in shock.  Faint traces of actual fear sifted through the air, and the boy unconsciously angled his body as if expecting a blow.   “Um.  I, ah, I have to ask you for. . . permission?”

“If you weren’t, why’d you ask what you did?”

“Cause you got me fried dumplings, moo shoo pork without the pancakes, and crunchy noodles.”

Spike sighed heavily.  “This is bad because. . .?”

“Because these are things I like.”  When Spike raised his eyebrow, Xander blushed and began fussing with his food.  The fear-smell was disappearing—why’s that a good thing, again?—but the kicked-puppy look was still there.  So was the please-don’t-hurt-me-too-much body language. 

That bothered Spike.  A lot.  Chip, remember?  Little piece of sodding hardware that clipped my short and curlies?  The reason I’m living in the antechamber of hell, also known as Harris’ basement?  I can’t hurt him!

So why’s he so afraid I will?

Hiding his suddenly dangerous thoughts, Spike rolled his eyes and snorted.  “How many times the past week’ve you ordered from this place?  An’ what else do I have t’ occupy my time with, ’cept the telly?  Which, by the way, you should get cable for.  I want cable.  That Passions show is ruddy brilliant.”

An interesting mix of emotions crossed the boy’s face, beginning with a speculative frown and ending with frustrated annoyance at Spike’s very purposeful comment about Passions.  Not that it wasn’t a good show, and he did want cable, but that wasn’t why he said it.

“Could you be more of a mooch, Spike?” Xander demanded—but it was habit-driven, and lacking the boy’s usual acidic wit.  The fear scent was fading and—changing.  This is old fear, somethin’ he’s learned t’ live with.  Not of me, neutered though I am now.  This is something deeper.

“What, you don’t want cable?  Telly all crystal clear?”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”  Spike tried to catch his eye, but Xander was staring resolutely at one plump dumpling.  It didn’t matter, Spike knew what he’d see.  He could hear it in that little, whispered voice.

He’s the boy, again.  I shock him any more, an’ it’s back to being a puppy.  Christ.  It had to be now, when they were due to go to the Watcher’s?  Where people would actually care if the boy was hopping at Spike’s feet, shaking his ass like he had a tail attached.  Ohh, now there’s an image—no, later.  Right.  Boy’s bein’ a boy again—what set him of, then?  What set him off last night?

At the time, he’d thought it had something to do with touching the boy.  He remembered smelling humiliation and tears and had reacted the way Dru had always needed him to—smoothing away the bad memories, using words and touches to be here, instead of the bad places inside her mind.  He hadn’t even thought about it, just calmed the boy and given him a bit of physical pleasure to ground him and encourage him.

An’ that’s when the boy appeared.  The puppy came later—when he thought he’d done something wrong.  Okay.  M’not stupid, though only Drusilla ever thought so.  What the hell is tying those two things together? 

“Eat your food,” he said absently, still trying to puzzle it out in his head.  Xander hesitated a moment, sneaking a glance up at him, before swallowing heavily.

“I’m sorry.”

Spike responded with a growl, angry at the defeated tone of voice.  What?  No, just don’t like being interrupted.  Tone of voice?  Oh, sod it all.  “Eat your damned food, whelp.  You’re supposed t’ be at the Watcher’s in half an hour.”

“Okay.”  The boy ate quickly, shifting between extremely uncomfortably and shyly pleased.  “You’re coming with me?”

Spike thought about making a horrible pun and decided against it.  “You got a problem with that?”

“No.  It’s just. . . Riley’s going to be there.”

“Slutty”—ooh, look at the puppy pretend he has teeth—“mean, Buffy’s new boytoy?  Tall chap, looks like a damned corn stalk?”

“Yeah.  Riley.”  Xander did not like Buffy’s new flame, if the sullen set of his mouth meant anything.  “He’s part of the Initiative.”

“Seen me before, hasn’t he?”

“He—he’ll report you.  I know he will.  Buffy won’t be able to protect you.”

Not even one full day I’ve made him mine.  Less than twenty four hours, an’ he’s stressin’ over me leavin’ and meanin’ it.  He’s afraid for me.  “Boy.  Slayer’s not gonna let anyone but her have the privilege of stakin’ me.  She’ll have him so wrapped up he won’t care about li’l ole me.  Don’t fret.   I’m not leavin’ you.”

Xander still looked nervous, but nodded and finished inhaling his food.  Spike chuckled; the boy consumed an enormous amount of food.  Gonna have a time keepin’ him fed.  Makes a nice change from Dru.  Drusilla, who had to be forced to eat regularly, and would waste away to skin and bone if he wasn’t careful.

Much as he had loved his Dark Goddess, there were drawbacks with someone built like she was.  He smirked as he remembered thrusting into the boy’s thigh, right along the groove of his hip.  Dru had never like that position; she didn’t get any stimulation out of it, and the feel of a too-prominent bone hadn’t given Spike much pleasure.

With Xander, though, it been damned near perfect.  Holding onto a shoulder that had some give to it, pulling one long leg up to create a warm, snug channel, listening as the boy begged to be used, to be treated like a toy, a living sex-toy who’s purpose was to make Spike feel so good. . .

The smell of his arousal, the feel of his dick just barely brushing against me as I moved, and not one hint of humiliation, shame, or anger.  He likes bein’ my bottom-boy.  Bet he would even without the thing in his head.

“You, um, ready to go?”  Xander held up Spike’s now empty mug.  Only when Spike nodded did he rinse it out and place it in the sink.   “Giles didn’t sound too worried, so it’s probably just research or basic patrol,” Xander said as they exited the basement. 

The night was cool, and felt good after the stuffiness of the basement.  They walked along companionably for a while, but Spike could tell the boy wanted to say something.

Time for more lessons, then.  “Plug still in?”  Spike smirked—he could hear the blood rushing to the boy’s face.  “You should take it out soon.  Don’t want you t’ get too sore.”

The sound of carefully measured breathing mixed with normal night sounds.  “Now?”

“Nah, at the Watcher’s.” 

Xander missed a step.  “At—Giles’?  I—” Gulping, Xander forced himself to nod.  “Okay,” he whispered.

Delicious.  If he was stripped naked before his classmates, he couldn’t be more embarrassed.  But he said he’d do it.  No promptin’, no cajolin’, just ‘okay’.  An’ he reeks of arousal.  Oh, you are a nummy little thing, aren’t you?

He felt like dancing, caroling his joy to anyone who could hear.  He hadn’t felt this good since the flaming chip had buggered up his life.  Maybe not even since Angelus had stuck his fat arse back in Spike’s life.  Before he screwed things up with Dru, before the Slayer was something other than a passin’ amusement.  Back when I was the Big Bad.

Which led to a question he’d been fighting since he realized the extent of the chip’s control.  What was he now?  Vamps are sex an’ blood an’ violence.  Got enough blood t’ survive, an’ the sex is startin’ to look bloody fantastic, but the violence?  Don’t give a rat’s arse ’bout what Slayer and her Watchers think.  Vamps need the violence.  Know Angel craved it, s’why he helped Slutty patrol half the time, an’ it is why he was off his fuckin’ rocker when the soul got evicted. 

No human blood, no violence.  Yeah, sex, but that’s not gonna be enough without the rough stuff Dru an’ I did when we couldn’t hunt.  Three things make a vamp, an’ I can barely do one of ’em.

So what the hell does that make me?  An’ why do I think so damned much just when I was startin’ t’ feel—

“S-Spike?”  The boy flinched, taking a step back when Spike whirled on him with a snarl.

“What?”

Fear-scent slammed into Spike.  He blinked, shifting out of game face when he realized that the boy was practically cowering, huddled in the shadow of a mail box.  The low-level arousal that had hung in the air for the past week was gone, totally.  Wiped out under a wave of pure terror.

He’s terrified of me, Spike thought dimly, wondering why that didn’t make him feel good.  I can’t hurt him, an’ he’s terrified of me.

“Shh, pet, easy now.”  Xander held himself completely still as Spike approached him, breathing shallowly.  He jerked once when Spike touched him, but didn’t move away.  Spike took that as a good sign.

“S-s-s—”  Hesitant, desperate, and horribly frightened, voice so tiny and little that it was barely more than a whimper.

This is the boy who stood up to Angelus.  More than once, whether or not the Slayer was there to protect him.  This is the boy who has never backed down from a fight, not even when he was screamin’ like a girl.  This is the boy who’ll match me, insult for bloody insult.

Terrified.  An’ I can’t hurt him.

“Don’t talk, luv.  S’alright now.  That’s right, come here. . .”  Grateful for the empty streets, Spike sank to the ground and gathered the boy into his lap.  Cradling the larger frame, one hand twisted in hair that was becoming too long while the other petted a warm, cotton-covered stomach.  “Hush, now, precious.  Hush.”

Xander burrowed his body into Spike’s, desperate for—something.  Spike wasn’t sure what.  The boy was sniffing him, mouthing along his collarbone, even while his body trembled and shook uncontrollably.  Spike kept petting, whispering reassurances.

It took several minutes for the boy to calm down.  Not because the fear was so strong, no, that had abated to something tolerable once Spike had tried to calm it.  The tremors had started when Spike began petting him.  Not before.

Bloody hell.  What is wrong with this boy?

“Better now, pet?”  Xander had his face pressed into Spike’s chest, licking at the bit of skin above the shirt but below his neck.  He never went there.  Little moans and whimpers escaped as he sucked.  Spike wondered if the puppy had taken over again.  “Luv?  Boy, look at me.”

Innocent eyes met his.  The puppy.  Bollocks.   “Y-you were angry.”  Well, ’least he can speak, even if he sounds like a bloody two year old.

“Not at you, I wasn’t.  Just thinkin’ about the mess of my unlife.”  Why the hell is he shrinkin’ back like—oh.  “The chip, idiot.  You were mine before soldier-boys decided t’ play god.”

“So, you aren’t angry?”  The boy still sounded young and scared, but there was more Xander this time.  Enough that by the time they got the Watcher’s, no one should notice anything unusual.  “I didn’t—I didn’t do anything wrong?”

Spike knit his eyebrows together.  “Wrong?  You think you did somethin’ wrong?”

“You were angry,” Xander whispered, toying with the collar of Spike’s duster.

“Not at you.  Said that.”  The puzzle of Xander’s psyche went from two dimensional to three.  What was going on in the boy’s head?

“Sorry.”

“Stop apologizin’.  Git.”  That’s what he’d been trying to say before, too.  Not ‘Spike’, like he’d thought at the time, but ‘sorry’.  Sorry I was mad?  Sorry he did somethin’ wrong?  Sorry he was afraid?  Hells, he’s worse than Dru!

“Better now?”  Xander nodded, pushing up into Spike’s hands.  “Right then, come on.  Gotta get to the Watcher’s.”

For a moment, Spike was certain that the boy was going to pout at him.  It passed, and instead he was looking chastised and sheepish as he helped Spike to his feet.  Spike let him, watching the slumped shoulders and unconsciously bared neck.  Whatever that had been, it was better but not completely gone yet.

“Don’t forget to take the plug out,” he instructed when they were inches from the apartment.  “In about an hour.”

Flaming brighter than the sunset Spike never saw, Xander knocked on the carved door.

Part Six

“Never fear, Xander is here!”

“Xander!”  Willow grinned at him from the doorway, eyes twinkling.  Good.  It was about time she finally got over Oz, stupid werewolf-deserter.  “You’re such a goofball.  Come on, the arguing hasn’t even started yet.”

“No arguing?  Dang!  And I so wanted to come in mid-shout!”  Xander almost tripped when he realized what he’d said.  He could feel Spike smirking behind him and hoped no one noticed he was blushing.  I’m amazed I have enough blood for—no, remember?  We made ourselves a promise.  Ourself, we are not going to think about Spike, sex, or the past twenty four hours while with Giles and the girls.  Oh, and Riley.

“What happened to Riley?”  Xander flung himself onto the sofa, waving hello to Buffy and Giles on the way.  Spike slid into the chair behind him.  He hasn’t made a single comment yet.  I should be worried?

Buffy glowered at the white bandage around her boyfriend’s upper arm.  “Something took a chunk out of him last night.  I’m going to find it and kill it.”

“And nothing says ‘I’m a sociopath’ like nonchalant threats to kill.”

The insanely neutral look that Buffy sometimes got disappeared in favor of a big grin.  “Xander!  I am not!”

“No, you were just totally determined to rip the stuffing out of anything that hurt your boytoy, right?”  I can do this, I have to do this.  We have practice with this, remember?  Acting like everything is perfectly fine and focusing on Buffy and Willow.  See?  No problem.

He felt cool air brush the back of his neck and knew it was Spike’s breath.  I can’t do this!  At least before my problems stayed away from the rest of my life!

“Of course,” Buffy was saying, turning to share a puzzled look with Willow.  “That’s what a good Slayer does for her boyfriend.  Kills whatever hurt him.”  She leaned over to give Riley a kiss, smiling coquettishly at him.  “Aw, c’mon, Riley.  You’re mine and I’m not letting a creepy-crawly even look at you funny.”  Another kiss and Buffy turned back to her book.

Xander breathed deeply, allowing Willow’s familiar babble about whatever had attacked Riley to wash over him.  Sometimes, although not in the last week, Xander was very grateful to the soldier and the hyena that lived in his head.  They showed him things that he wasn’t sure he would have seen, if he’d been just plain old Xander.

Like the flash of pain on broad, corn-fed features that had nothing to do with physical injuries, the anger and resentment that clouded it, and the absolute dismissal of Buffy’s possessiveness.

No, he realized, he would have seen those things.  But he needed his two alter-ego’s to put it into to terms he could express.  They didn’t trust Riley.  The soldier appreciated his loyalty to his unit and the confident military swagger it missed, but even it could see that the swagger was mostly bluster.  Riley didn’t understand the world he was inhabiting, depending on orders from people who had no respect for it.  Without understanding or respect, he couldn’t really handle the insanity of the Hellmouth.  The Scoobies all knew not to expect too much; the minute you tried to prepare for one thing, something totally unexpected happened.  Riley was still totally confident that his military training and high-tech goodies were more than enough to take care of anything they might see.

He still believes that, even with his arm in a sling.  Riley was talking now, obviously repeating that all this research was unnecessary and the Initiative was working on it.  They’d fix it.  Which brought up the hyena’s point.

Buffy was pack-leader.  She would share her position as alpha with a mate, make alliances with others she couldn’t control as pack, but she would never give up her authority.  She didn’t know how, and wasn’t supposed to.  She was a fighter and a leader and would not submit to anyone.

Riley already had a pack, and enough alpha-traits to have high standing.  He wanted Buffy in his pack—but to work her way from the bottom up.  It wasn’t that he wanted to be more dominant than she was—although that was part of it—it was that he was unsure of his place in her pack.  He wanted her to be part of his, where he knew how to relate with more dominant alpha’s.  So when Buffy declared herself pack-leader, and Riley part of her pack, he rejected the claim.

One or all of those things was going to create trouble.  If Riley was lucky, he’d be the only one to get hurt—even killed.  If he wasn’t. . .

Shaking his head, Xander tried to concentrate on the debate swirling around him.  Willow was pretty sure it was a snarath demon—it looked like a walking snake, according to one of the books.  It wasn’t a great fighter, but it was smarter than most demons and it used magic.

Riley pulled a face—and then grew thoughtful.  “What’s that around it’s neck?”

“It’s their clan-stone,” Willow said after skimming the text.  “They all wear one, and this book thinks that maybe it’s where their power comes from.  You can’t just cut it off—ew, people have tried—it takes work, but once it is off, it says that the demon is much easier to kill.”

“Is that what the Initiative was after?  This necklace?”

“Yeah, maybe.  They told us to look for a bright orange stone like that.”

Buffy gave her boyfriend a long look.  “They knew this thing had magic, but didn’t warn you?  God, the Initiative can be so stupid sometimes!  They just. . . they don’t understand what they’re doing!”  Riley’s annoyed expression said they’d had this particular fight before.  Given Maggie Walsh had tried to kill Buffy, it wasn’t surprising.  “They just mess with the natural order of things!”

“Natural order?” Riley yelled.  “You want to talk about natural order?  You’re supposed to be a vampire slayer!  So why is he here?”  Riley’s good arm flung out to point towards Spike, who raised his eyebrows in a silent ‘who me?’ expression.

Xander closed his eyes briefly, struggling not to say or do anything stupid.  My pack, the hyena was snarling.  My pack-leader!

“We talked about this, Riley,” Buffy ground out.  “I told you.  He came to me for help, and I’ll give it to him.  And no, I will not stake him!  I’m not a murderer!”

“He’s a hostile!  It’s not murder, it’s getting rid of a killer!  It’s saving innocents, isn’t that your mission statement?”

“God, Riley, you just don’t get it!  He’s chipped and can’t hurt anything, and that makes it murder!”

“He can hurt things!”

“I what?”  Spike’s voice was electric in the sudden silence, hope and desperation making him lean forward to fix a steely look on the sheepish young man.  “I can hurt things?  What kind of things?  Answer me, white bread!”

“Yes, Riley, we were given to understand that the chip prevented him from causing any living thing ahrm.”  Giles cast a nervous look towards Spike, who hadn’t moved from his seat, before turning back to Riley.  “This is frightfully important, you do realize that?  Can he hurt people?”

“Not people.  But—”

“But what, Riley.”  Buffy lost some of her aggression, although not all, placing her hand on his good arm.  “Please, we have to know.”

“He can’t hurt the living,” Riley said finally.  “And you don’t need to know more than that.  It’s classified.  You’ve made it clear that you won’t stake him or throw him out, but I am not telling you everything.”  My pack, not yours. . .

Xander blinked, the phrasing of Riley’s answer smacking him suddenly.  He caught Spike’s appraising glance, but shook his head.  Spike tilted his head, studying him, and then nodded.  Then he glanced at the clock and winked.

I hate him, he thought, squirming uncomfortably around the thing he’d tried to forget about.

“Riley,” Buffy was saying, “we—”

“Buffy, I believe that between Willow and myself we can cast a spell to show us where this snake-demon is.  Or where he should be, at least.  Once we have that, I suggest you patrol, see if you can find it.  There are fairly extensive weaknesses listed here, and it shouldn’t be very difficult to kill.”

Xander hid a snicker, wishing he could take a picture of Riley’s face.  They all knew that Giles was neither helpless nor fainthearted, but it was easy for people like Riley to forget what else he did, beside act as nursemaid and retired librarian.  Being told by the genteel, older Englishman that it wouldn’t be ‘difficult to kill’ was a hit to Riley’s ego.

Good, he thought smugly.  Riley needed to become more aware of the realities—and he doesn’t go after Spike.  Not anymore.  And wow, go Buffy sticking up for the bleached menace.  I know he said she would, but I didn’t expect to see it!

Xander muffled a sigh when he felt himself poked in the shoulder.  Nodding to Willow, who was the only one paying even remote attention to him, he got up and went into the bathroom.

Slowly unzipping his jeans, Xander tried hard to ignore the fact that he was getting hard—and that hurt.  Pulling off his boxers, he looked down and winced.  His penis was red and raw looking, half-hard as arousal warred with pain, bruises turning the skin purple from his and Spike’s hands pulling on it too hard.

Ow.  Whatever Spike was going to do with him later, Xander hoped it didn’t involve orgasms for him.  And what nineteen year old guy ever thinks something like that?  His life was insane.  There was really no other way to look at it.

Xander braced his shoulder against the wall, bent forward slightly, and spread his legs as far as he could.  Reaching around, he swallowed when he felt cool plastic instead of warm flesh.  Don’t think, he instructed desperately.  Don’t think, just do it.

So why was he pushing it forward, just a bit, trying to find that place inside him that made sparks in his vision and turned his body to jelly?  He didn’t find it, but the movement itself felt. . . good.  So he repeated it.  Two more times and—oh, god, there.  Right there. . . oh, Spike, please. . .

He bit his own forearm, stifling the deep moan that tried to crawl out.  He thrust his hips in counterpoint to his hand, playing with different angles.  Tears squeezed from tightly closed eyes, pain sending white hot bolts from his waving, overused dick to sizzle along his skin.  He fucked himself harder, pain and pleasure melding, burning through his skin.

Please let me cum, please, Spike, I need to cum, god, it hurts so much, so good, please Spike, please let me cum, please let me cum, please please please please please—

“You need my permission, boy?”

Xander raised unfocused eyes to see Spike leaning against the closed door.  “Wha. . .oh, gotta—please, I. . . please. . .”

“Wondered what was takin’ so long,” Spike said.  He stalked forward, every inch the predator as he lasciviously watched his prey.  “Then I smelled it, smelled you, pet, hard and hurting and so desperate.”  Spike licked his lips, causing Xander to shudder.  “You want it so bad, don’t you luv,” he whispered, husky voice traveling right to Xander’s insides.  “You need it, need me.  That’s me inside you, takin’ you, pushin’ in so deep while you shake and moan, lettin’ me split you apart, fill you up, usin’ your tight, hot little body. . .”

The tiny, tiny part of Xander’s brain that was still rational didn’t know how Spike got in the bathroom unobserved, didn’t know why the others didn’t hear him gasping and panting, didn’t know why Spike’s voice was making his hand move faster, pounding into himself over and over and over. . .

Please, Spike, please, let me cum, oh, god, Spike. . .

Xander’s eyes pleaded and begged since his vocal cords seemed to have stopped working.  Spike smirked at him, looking intensely pleased at whatever he saw in those liquid brown depths.  “Take it out, boy.  All the way.”

He almost cried when his traitorous body obeyed, pulling the plug completely out of his ass.  Nooo, he wailed in his head.  Empty, fill it up, please, Spike don’t leave me so empty and alone, hate being alone, can’t be alone, pleeeeeeease—

He could feel himself spasming, searching for something to fill what had previously been full.  The aching emptiness made him shake, barely holding himself upright against the wall.

“Shhh, pet, don’t worry,” Spike whispered, pressing his own body up close.  Spike slid one hand down his back, the other stroking his stomach the way he had—no, don’t think, gotta cum, please let me cum, Spike, it hurts, it’s sooo good, please—

Two fingers pushed inside, the stretched ring of muscles immediately clamping down.  Xander swallowed more of his arm, trying to stifle the deep groan of pleasure.  “Follow me,” Spike whispered, pulling Xander away from the wall and supporting him over towards the far wall.  When Spike touched his cock Xander almost screamed, the pain and pleasure blackening his vision.

“Cum.”

Xander bit his arm hard, nearly sobbing with the force of his release.  Through the rushing in his ears, Xander could hear a soft tinkling sound of something landing in water and realized what Spike had done.  Weird, was all he could think as his body unclenched and began relaxing.  He did moan quietly when Spike pulled out and petted him.

“In you, pet, I’m in you an’ on you.  You need that, don’t you, boy?  Need me to make it feel so good.  My touch on your skin, my body in yours. . .”  Cool breath tickled his ear and he would have fallen if not for Spike’s strong grip around his waist.  “Yes, you know it now.  Standing there, pretendin’ it was me up inside you, waitin’ for me, for my touch an’ my words to give you release.  My boy.  My pretty little toy.”

In a few moments that strong arm unwound itself and Xander found he could stand on his own two feet.  “Clean up before you leave here.”

“Wh—what about you?”  How did you get in here, when I know I locked the door?  Why aren’t I upset?  How the hell can I have coherent thoughts when my brains just came out my dick?  “What’ll they think you doing?”

“Gettin’ myself a bit o’ blood an’ whatever else I damned please.  Watcher don’t control me.”

Xander nodded, knowing that Giles would accept that explanation.  He’d wonder just what exactly Spike had done to his things, but he wouldn’t pry.  Spike gave him a cheeky smirk before heading towards the kitchen.

Cleaning was easy, especially since the messiest part was flushable.  Spike, being nice. . . again.  He’s been very nice to me, this whole time.  I don’t get this.  I don’t, and that scares me more than—than what happened before.

Yellow eyes flashing, voice low and guttural, the level of annoyance and anger outweighing the more expected hate, the bone-chilling fear of again and I didn’t mean to and I’m sorry crowding in his throat until he felt like he was choking on it.

He expected blows, pain, and humiliation.  He was used to that.  Except Spike gave him soft touches, kind words, and the offer of safety.  The evil, soulles vampire gave me what—what I never had before.  Willow and Jesse had been all he had through childhood.  Highschool and Buffy had given him more, but never the kind of closeness he always craved, bodies offering comfort instead of pain.

Even the sex doesn’t hurt.  I mean, well, it does, he thought with a rueful glance downward.  He’s controlling. . . masterful—okay, shivering is bad—he’s dominant, but he isn’t hurting me.  Xander had always known he was submissive, sexually.  He was used to being seen as a tool for his partner’s pleasure—he actually had more personality and interaction with Spike than he did with any of the others.

Cordy and I were too young to do more than fumble around.  Faith treated me like a living piece of plastic.  Bug-lady and Mummy-girl had other agendas.  Anya. . . Ahn wants me to enjoy it, but. . .  It wasn’t about sharing, it was strictly about orgasms—hers.

And Spike?  Spike appreciated his attempts at creativity, and seemed to want Xander to enjoy it as much as Spike did.  The vampire’s pleasure was first and foremost, but the things he said, the way he breathed and moaned, it gave Xander a sense of power and pleasure that Anya never inspired in him.

“Xander?”

Oh, shit!  Big, black, and very shiny, four inches of plastic stared back at him from the counter.  Where to put it, where to—Xander sent a quick prayer that his pants really were baggy enough.  He could always claim it was his keys or something—right?

“Just a minute, Wills.”

“Are you okay?  You’ve been in there for a while, now.”

“Just a sec.”  It didn’t look too bulgy, and. . . right, he’d deal.  He could hear her shifting by the door, could picture that hesitantly curious and hopeful face.  The one he’d always turned to since he was four years old.

“I’m here, I’m here!  We gotta plan?”  Open the door, shut the door, move away from the bathroom, sit down on the sofa, ignore Spike drinking blood in the corner, watching Buffy and Riley argue quietly in their corner.

“Giles is getting supplies now.  We’re gonna cast a spell!”  She bounced, big happy Willow-grin crinkling up at him.  Just a little bit of this, and whatever his problem, it all just disappeared.  Then the smile faltered and she gave him her Concerned Face—not quite as fierce as Resolve Face, but still pretty darn scary.  “Are you okay, though, Xander?  You’ve been so quiet tonight.”

He shrugged, giving her a goofy smile.  “Just tired, that’s all.”

“Missing Anya?”

Not really, and won’t that be fun when she comes back.  “Yeah, I guess.  Mostly it’s work.”

She who went to college made a sympathetic face, trying to look like she understood.  She didn’t.  It was impossible to understand the horror of doing scut-jobs for scut-wages, no hope or end in sight without actually having worked one.  “Poor Xander.  Don’t worry, you’ll find something you like.”

Cold, salty, with a hint of cream and copper—oh, my god, not with Willow!

“Oh, he makes me so mad sometimes!”  Buffy huffed her way over to the sofa, while Riley stomped out of the apartment.  “Sorry, Xander,” she smiled, “didn’t mean to ignore all night.  Stupid boyfriend.  So, how was work yesterday?”

Xander relaxed, talking about his coworkers—idiots, all of them—and listening as the girls talked about school.  This was what he would always come back for, why he would put up with the hassle of being the only real male scooby and a useless one at that.

He loved to hear them laugh.

They talked for an hour, as carefree as they had been nearly three years ago when they had been two girls and a guy dealing with a normal life.  “Oh, god, Xander!  Tell me you didn’t!”

“He reminded me of our tenth grade math teacher, Mr. Oaks.  You better believe I did!”

Willow was convulsing beside him, laughing too hard to make words.  “You—bad Xander!” she gasped out after a moment or two.  Buffy looked like she was ready to do this same.  Xander just grinned, happy in their happiness.  The jerk had deserved getting told off like that, too.  Fortunately, the boss of the grocery store agreed with Xander and he wasn’t getting fired for bitching out another employee like he had.

“Right in the frozen foods?” Buffy asked.

“He split a bag of frozen french fries, he was clutching it so hard.  So then, the manager comes by, and I am sure that I’m about to get fired, and—”

“Buffy?  Sorry, Xander, I’ll return her in a minute.”  Riley gave him an apologetic grin, which Xander didn’t feel like returning.  He’d just gotten them to relax a bit, too.

“Willow, if you’re ready, we can begin the preparations now.”

“One sec, Giles.”  Turning to Xander, she gave a twisted-smile.  “Sorry, duty calls.”

“It’s okay, I’m on Spike-patrol, I know.”

“Riley, hang on.”  Buffy frowned prettily at him, hazel eyes very serious.  “He’s been behaving, right?  I mean, he’s not messing with you?  Cause he is not allowed to mess with you.”

“He’s—oddly well behaved.”  He’s training me to be his sex-slave, but otherwise. . .  “Don’t worry, Buffster.  He can’t hurt me—”

“The chip won’t stop him from setting the place on fire, Xander.”  Buffy crossed her arms, shooting a glance at Riley like it was his fault that the chip wasn’t more powerful.

“Yes, because vampires are so flame-retardant.  It’s okay, Buffy.  Right now, he can’t even bite the hand that feeds him.”

Another moment of narrowed eyes and a glare at Spike.  He, in turn, raised one eyebrow.  “Come off it, Slayer,” he groused.  “I’m chipped, can’t do a damned thing to anyone now.  Least you lot feed me, and the whelp is lookin’ t’ get cable.”

“Ah, because it’s never wise to come between a vampire and his creature comforts.  Willow, if you please, the sooner we get this spell cast the sooner you lot can start hunting for this demon and leave my apartment.  It’s nearly nine thirty.”

Willow leaned forward.  “Are we expecting something to happen a little later?”

Xander coughed, suddenly.  Giles was blushing!  “G-man!  You gotta hot date?”

“I’ve asked you repeatedly not to call me that.  And Olivia is due to return sometime after ten, so I’d appreciate it if you were all not here when she does arrive.”

Buffy, Willow, and Xander all exchanged looks.  “Sure, Giles!” they chorused merrily.

“Oh, bloody hell.”  Except Giles was smiling while he cursed them.  God, I love this pack.

Part Seven

“So?  What’d you get from boy-wonder’s little speech?”

Spike smirked while Xander clutched at a tree, breathing hard.  He would have laughed when the boy eeped and jumped three feet, but he didn’t want to attract any attention to them.  Took long enough to get the girls to go scout out the north side, anyway. 

Although why Buffy had felt safe leaving Xander and Spike, the two most useless members of her little group, by themselves he wasn’t going to guess.  He didn’t like what it made him think about.

“Spike!  Dammit, it’s dark, it’s cold, and I do not need you coming up behind me like–ow!”

Ignoring the pain from the chip, Spike gripped tighter while Xander struggled.  “Hold still,” he hissed.  The boy immediately froze, looking frightened—really frightened.  Good.  “You don’t talk like that.  Ever.”  He kept his voice cold, hard, and completely level.  “Say it.”

“Wha—Spike, what are you—”

“Say it.  You don’t speak like that to me.”

“I—I won’t—I—Spike, I’m sorry, I—”

“Say it.”

“I won’t speak like that to you again.”

“You know why, pet?”  Spike moved closer, their bodies centimeters from touching.  God, he’s so warm.  For that alone I’d keep him for as long as I could.  “Why you aren’t allowed to do that?”  He nuzzled the boy’s neck, allowing teenage hormones to take over.  The boy slumped slightly in Spike’s hold, mind already clouded by arousal and fear and just enough pain that it was good.

“No?”  Xander was breathing heavily now, switching between fear and arousal with each heartbeat.  Perfect.

“Cause you’re mine, precious.  Not the other way around.”  He was grateful to the hyena residing in his boy’s head, and not just because he got a deliciously tasty treat out of it.  It meant that sooner or later, the human would be regaled with a small lesson in what, exactly, an alpha really meant.  At least in vampire terms.

“Oh.”  Another moment of tension, and then Spike felt the boy relax up against him.  Better an’ better.  He likes it when I control him!  Xander twisted so that his neck was still against Spike’s mouth, his head lower than Spike’s.  “Yours,” he whispered.

Mmm, beautiful.  That smell that says he’s a tasty treat that belongs only to—bloody hell!

“Good boy,” Spike crooned, pulling Xander into an upright position and away from the tree.  “Very good.  Time to move, pet, before the nasties remember that you smell good.”

Xander blinked, losing some of the dazed look as the intoxicating smell of submission and arousal faded into the general Xander-smell.  Which was pretty damned nummy anyway.  Flashing a sheepish smile at Spike, the boy began walking again.  “Sorry,” he apologized quietly.  “Just me babbling, like usual.”

“Don’t have a problem with you bein’ you, luv.  Yell at me like that again, though, an’ we’ll just have t’ figure out how far this chip goes.”

“Oh, yeah, about the chip!”  Xander bounced, lesson learned and filed away.  Curious.  “I think you can hit demons!”

Oh, don’t I look the gobsmacked vampire!  Xander was standing in front of him, eyebrows furrowed in anxious concern.  The boy made as if to touch his arm but stopped halfway there.  “S-Spike?”

Shaking himself, he got himself and the boy moving again.  Never make yourself an easy target, Angelus’ lesson the millionth.  “You think I can fight demons, then?”

“Ye-ah.  Um, I was expecting you to be more, well, enthusiastic about this.”

That made Spike grin.  Bleedin’ hell, the boy wants my approval!  He really is a damned puppy.  “First you tell me why you think that.  Then we test it out.”  He realized Xander was staring at him with open-mouthed shock.  “What?”

“You, um.  You want to. . . test it?”

“Look, pet.  You don’t last as long as I have without bein’ careful.”

“But you’re never—”

“I am always careful, boy.”  Glaring darkly at the surprised human, he cursed his impatience.  That was his downfall, no matter how carefully he plotted and planned and it had bit him rather spectacularly on the arse just recently, so he wasn’t going to fall prey to it this time.  He was going to be very cautious until he figured this out.  “So, why do you think I can hurt a demon?”

“Riley said living things.  He was really careful about that.  Demons aren’t really alive, right?  You aren’t, so you can probably at least go after vampires, And, well, why would the Initiative care if you hurt demons?”

Spike ‘hm’ed, continuing to walk as he thought.  Good reasoning there.  ’Specially given that mess I saw when I was escaping. . .  It was just a large room, but it had been covered in demon blood.  Just demon, no human.  In fact, no human smell at all.  And the other prisoners had whispered about that room, told dark stories of matches between demons, like slaves in the Colosseum. . .

“Right, then,” he said after a bit.  “Sounds good.  First thing we do, is get you trained up a bit.  Once you’re good for baby fledges, we’ll test out—what?”

Xander was stock still, staring at him in total shock.  “Trained?  Test?  Where’s the ‘bloody right!’ and the ‘gonna get my spot of violence in’?”  Xander’s attempt at a British accent left Spike cringing.  Thank god the boy didn’t know enough to realize that his accent was just as fake, if better executed.  “Who are you and what have you done with Spike?”

In’tr’stin’.  Very.  When I act like he expects me t’ act—like I’m a sodding thirteen year old—he’s fine.  Snarky, adorable Xander.  ’S when I start bein’ an adult that the fear kicks in.  Real fear.  Huh.  And—bloody hell, I did not just think the boy was adorable! 

Shaking off that uncomfortable thought, he concentrated on the true fear lurking in the boy’s eyes.  “You really think I’m that stupid?” he asked bluntly.  “That I don’t learn new things, keep myself in shape?”

“Dead men don’t get fat.”

“Don’t mean physical, you ninny.  The world changes.  Every bloody day, it changes.  Some thing’s stay the same, no matter what—fists an’ fangs an’ blood an’ sweat.  But the rest?  Thirty years ago, computers sittin’ on every desk was ruddy science fiction.  Those damned zapper guns, whatchacallem, tasers?  You shock a vamp, it’s gonna do the same thing it would to a human.  Might not last as long, but still works.  Better’n a sword or a pistol, that’s for sure.”

“You’ve been tased before?”  Xander resumed walking, looking thoughtful.

“Yeah.  ’S how the Initiative got me.”

They walked silently after that, scanning the forest for the orange patches Willow’s spell should reveal when they got near the demon.  If she doesn’t cock this one up, anyway.  Girl shouldn’t be allowed to do magic without a bloody nursemaid.  He shuddered at the remembered taste of the Slayer’s lips on his.  Not his type, thank you.  He liked them tall and dark.

“You know how to use a computer?”

Spike snorted.  “What, you thought I went around the campus all day askin’ about a little blond bitch an’ her redheaded wicca mate?  Please.  Give me some credit.”

“Oh, I do.”  Said very quietly, and Spike kept himself as quiet and still as possible.  They were being almost friendly and if he was lucky, his careful manipulation would pay off.  Mine, yeah, but I don’t need a human minion.  We’re gonna keep this quiet, he’s gotta stay smart.

“I do,” Xander was saying, still in that quiet, pensive voice.  “You act like an idiot, sometimes,”—half-grin at Spike’s growl—“but you catch on too fast to be that stupid.  You just let your mouth get in the way too much.”

We seein’ similarities, boy?  You are not as brainless as your friends think, an’ I’m quite sure that’s intentional.  You’re hiding something, same as I was.  Now me, I was hiding a ponce of a human that I hated even when I was livin’ him.  What are you hiding, boy?  What’s made you so damned scared of someone treatin’ you like a person?

“Oh, a compliment from the boy-blunder.”

Xander snorted.  “Okay, that was awful.”

“Yeah, well, I’d rather be teachin’ you t’ be more than a walking bruise, instead of playing the Slayer’s lapdog.”

Xander stopped again.  “You mean that?  You want to train me?”

Spike nodded, scanning the forest as he caught a faint hint of something metallic and warm floating on the cool night air.  “Never understood why Rupert didn’t.  Slayer’s too strong t’ do it herself, but he could train you lot just fine.  Well, maybe not Red—don’t think she’d be much in a fight, aside from the magic.  But you could least learn how to not get in trouble.”

“Hey!” Xander objected, but Spike knew it was more habit.  “Um, how would we do that?  Teach me, I mean.”

“Don’t have to hit t’ teach, idiot.  You ever watch the Slayer train?  She does most of the hittin’.”

Xander crossed his arms. “And when the hell have you watched Buffy train?”

Spike just smirked, inwardly pleased that the boy managed to sound aggrieved without being superior.  He didn’t mind their bantering, in fact he enjoyed it as much as the verbal battles with the Slayer, but certain ground rules had to be observed.  There was only one alpha in this arrangement.

“Remind me to find those tapes,” he said lightly, hand under the boy’s elbow to keep him moving.  The feel of magic was making his skin tingle.  “They’re great wank material.”

“What?!”

“Videos.  Of the Slayer.  Most of ’em are from her patrols, but got a couple with her an’ Rupes in the library.”  Spike leered, noting the faint hint of arousal his words produced.  God, this boy was so responsive.  Luscious.  “Thought I just went after her, all impulsive-like?”

“Yes?”

“Shows what you know.”  Which wasn’t to say he hadn’t gone after her, all impulsive-like.  Just that after I did the first time, I learned my lesson and started plannin’.  Despite her mother’s save with an ax, Buffy’s performance that night had been admirable.  Totally outnumbered, worried about protectin’ everyone else and it was a fight to get to her.  She’s tough enough.  Not stupid in a fight, like the other ones.

Spike knew the only reason he’d bagged two Slayers was sheer luck, and their own stupidity.  The China-girl had been exhausted, fighting nearly nonstop for days.  He just happened to be the lucky one who was there when she gave up.  The one in New York one had gotten herself boxed in that damned subway car, no real weapons and no way out.  Spike didn’t have to beat her to win, just wait until she was too hurt and tired to fight.  An’ be thankful she couldn’t cut off m’head with those poles.  She was desperate enough to try.

“You videoed Buffy?  To see how she fights?  Okay, please do not let me see those videos.  It was be—bad.  And what does this have to do with my training?”

“You ever see her spar with Rupert?  He don’t actually hit her, most o’ the time.  Just lets her wail on him an’ corrects her when she needs it.  Figure something like that would work all right for you.  Y’can’t hurt me.”

“You wouldn’t teach me weapons?”  Wistfulness?  So he wants this, not just cause o’ me.  Good.  “Sword or something?”

“Not sword.  Don’t got the time.  But ax, mebbe.  Could do a lot of damage with that and you’re strong enough.”  Ah, that’s where it was coming from.  “Cave, hundred yards to the left.”

“Huh?  Oh.  Hey, it’s glowing orange!  Go, Will—”  Xander made a lurph sound as Spike’s hand clamped around his mouth.

“Lesson one, boy.  When near the enemy, shut the hell up!”  Pulling them both down behind a large tree, he examined the hill.  “We got the stuff, right?  The magic-be-gone stuff?”

Xander nodded, holding up a small bottle of clear liquid.  “Check.  So, what, we just toss it in there?”

“No, I toss it in there.”  Do not make me explain myself, boy.  I don’t want to have to think up an excuse.  Xander just raised an eyebrow.  Yes, I’m evil.  So what if I’m helping?  I can get my jollies this way, since I won’t be gettin’ any from you tonight.  Not that he was particularly horny, anyway, but the boy was practically swaying he was so exhausted.  Beside, there were other things they could do. . . 

“Vamps got some immunity to magicks,” he said when Xander continued to just look at him.  “If he’s got any traps or whatnot, I won’t set ’em off.”

“So, you go in, throw the stuff, and then I come in with the crowbar?”  Snarath were, like many demons, extremely sensitive to cold iron so Giles had handed out a few crowbars he had handy before they’d left.  Xander hefted it now with a pleased grin.

“Mebbe.  If I get stuck.”  I am killing something tonight, god dammit.  Snake demon, you just got elected.

Some of that must have been visible in the dim moonlight, because Xander blinked and swallowed whatever he had been about to say.  “Okay.  So. . . what do I do?”

“You help.  An’ watch.”

It was a very satisfying fight.

Cautiously approaching the mouth of the cave, they peered inside.  The snarath, long and sinuous despite stubby arms and legs, lay curled around a small pile of something, glowing golden in the dim torch light.

All the comforts of home.  Spike smelled gold—real gold—and silver, the old leather of books, and the sharp, tingling scent that meant magic.  A lot of it.  Xander silently passed the bottle over, watching as Spike crept forward.

He felt his foot hit a depression in the ground and something tingled over his entire body—making him very glad that Xander was doing exactly what he’d been told to do, waiting mostly patiently.  Shaking off the feeling of sleepiness—this was probably a sleep-and-freeze spell, fairly common to hold intruders until they could be dealt with—Spike moved just a bit closer and opened the jar.

The snarath open one big, slit-pupiled eye, just in time to get a face-full of Willow’s spell.

It gave a mind-bending shriek and began thrashing.  The amulet around its neck fell off with a bell-tone clang, and Spike caught the crowbar Xander had tossed to him.  Right then, here goes.  Pulling back like a baseball slugger, he walloped the flailing body.

No pain.

I can hit demons.    He swung again, enjoying the squishing sound as tiny bones broke.  I can hit demons!

The snarath took a long time to die.

It was nearly thirty minutes later that he came back to himself.  He was panting, grinning wildly, with bits of snarath-demon in his hair and all over his clothes. 

He felt in-fucking-credible. 

I can kill things.  Don’t bloody care if they ain’t humans.  I can kill things again!  Crowing with delight, he began jumping up and down on the remains of the demon, just because he could.  “Take that, you government wankers!  Can too hurt things!”

Got blood, got sex, got violence.  Don’t need humans, so long as I have ’em.  An’ speakin’ of humans. . . where’d my boy get off to?  Spike had been peripherally aware of Xander leaving when Spike went all out, reveling in his ability to fight again.  The snarath hadn’t gone down easily once it had gotten over it’s lack of magic, fighting back even against the touch of death-metal.

Spike wasn’t surprised that Xander hadn’t stuck around to watch.  He was surprised that the boy hadn’t tried to stop him.  Though he could’ve an’ I wouldn’t ’ave heard him.  But he didn’t think so.  Right, so where has he gone?  If he’s wandered off alone—

“Spike?”

He whirled, snarling in possessive rage.  “Mine!” he growled, yanking the boy close and clamping down on his neck—and then breaking off, howling as the chip activated and tried to burn him from the inside out.

Buggering fuck! he cursed, cradling his head as he waited for the pain to subside.  Oh, that hurts.  Damn.  Haven’t had a full-on shot like that in a while.  Not for several weeks, anyway.  Didn’t need the reminder.  Well, know the sodding thing still works, now, don’t we?  Ow.

“Xander?  Xander what happened!”  “Xander, what’s going on?”

Opening blurring eyes, Spike watched as the boy scrambled back towards the entrance of the cave.  He was saying something, presumably to the girls, but Spike couldn’t make out what exactly it was.

“Just wait a minute, okay?  Let me see!”  That he heard clearly, but only because Xander was now walking towards him.  “Spike?”  Groaning, Spike waved the boy off and clambered to his feet.  “You okay?”

Crap.  Rich, heavy, sweet and thick, he felt glands fight through the pain to try and salivate at the smell—Xander was bleeding.  Forcing himself to look closely, he saw the boy holding his neck, right under the high collared shirt he was wearing.  “Fuck,” he gasped out.

“Hey, it’s okay.  I startled you, that’s all.  You didn’t even go that deep.  Are you okay?  I thought you were having seizure!  Spike, c’mon, talk to me, Spike please be okay, please you’ve got to be okay—”

“Enough, pet.”  Probably not the wisest thing to do with a babbling, frightened boy frantically running his hands over your body in desperate need for reassurance, but the babbling was more than he could take.  “S’alright, really.  Just the chip tellin’ me why I can’t claim you that way.  Oh, damn this hurts.”

He wondered what on earth had made the boy go so frighteningly still.  Then the babble kicked in overdrive.  “Buffy and Willow are outside.  I made them wait, I didn’t want them to see you doing—that.  Which was kinda freaky, you really like the violence-thing, don’t you?  So I made them wait because they’d probably be really grossed out, even Buffy.  I gave Willow the clan amulet and she wants to take it back to Giles and have him study it and they have to make sure that they don’t let Riley have it because who knows what the Initiative—sorry.”

Huh?  Oh.  I’m growling.  “Not mad at you, pet.  Just slow down a mite, yeah?  Got a bit of a headache.”  Swallowing heavily, he eyed the cavern again.  With the pain fading, some of his earlier contentment was returning.  Not the best of worlds, no, but how many vamps could claim to have what he had?

How many vamps would want it, is a better question.  “Look, luv, why don’t you go back with the Slayer—”

“Without you?”  Spike squinted, trying to read that usually open, laughing face.  There was. . . nothing.  Not in his face, or his voice.  No emotion.  Not even a hint of what lay behind those big, dark eyes.

“I’ll be back in a bit.  Look ’round—see all that crap?  I wanna go through it.  Don’t argue with me, boy.  Give the Slayer the amulet, yeah, and you get her t’ walk you home.  Too many beasties out there.  I’ll be back in a bit, don’t worry.”

He kept his own face impassive while he watched a suddenly nervous Xander shift from foot to foot.

“Xander?  Is everything okay in there?  It can’t be that messy, and I don’t trust Blond-boy not to do something stupid!”

The boy gave a credible growl before nodding decisively about something.  “All right.  Just—don’t be long, k?”

“Won’t be.  Got me a bed to sleep in tonight—better than havin’ me own crypt, that is.  So, go on, luv.  You’re asleep on your feet.  Go home, take a nap.  Won’t wake you when I come in.”  Well, he would, but that was irrelevant.  He had quite a few things to do before he went back to the basement apartment.

Xander kept his eyes on the vampire as he backed out.  “Please don’t be long.”  Spike could only nod, wondering at the curious flatness to the boy’s voice.

Have I mentioned I don’t actually like crazy people?  That’s not why I stayed with Dru, an’ I really don’t want another psycho pet.  He listened as the boy convinced the girls that Spike would be just fine on his own—Why would you care, Buffy, if something dusted the Bleached Menace?  No, Wills, I don’t think anyone will.  It’s his unlife to risk, so can we just go?—and made their way out of the forest.  No longer concerned about Spike, they pumped Xander for information on how the fight had gone.

Right, then.  Free at last.  Time to start my unlife again.

The thing he missed most, thanks to his impromptu trip to the vet?  It wasn’t the blood, the sex, or the violence, not really.  Those things were replaceable.   He missed the independence.  Craved it, needed it as much as his demon needed blood to survive.  Depending on the charity of the Scoobies hadn’t sat well, nor was he complacent about the rumors he knew were being spread in his absence.  So it was time to correct both of these problems.

Good thing this Snarath-thing thought it was half-dragon, then, innit?

Part Eight

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Banshee wailing in the distance, the familiar rise and fall of its siren call comforting despite the raucousness of it.  Wooden boards creaked under the ghostly pressure of memories.  The air felt oppressive, full of sharp edges that cut.  The need to cough grew, but it was swallowed down.  Noise was bad.  Noise would attract attention.  Muscles twitched, caught and trapped under that heavy air, chained by twisted cloth, forcing him still.  Warm, soft, fraying and nappy with age, the red blanket was slowly being unraveled, one faded thread at a time.

Six hours, thirty four minutes and seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty one. . .

He never put digital clocks by his bed.

Blood vessels pumped in red-rimmed eyes as they followed the metronome of those gracefully rhythmic hands.  Two half-moons of scabs beat in counterpoint.  He touched them every once in a while.  At least once a minute.

The girls hadn’t noticed them.  Neither had Giles or the recently arrived Olivia.  Buffy had pouted since she didn’t get to hurt what had injured Riley.  Willow had focused entirely on the glowing orange stone on its ornate gold chain.  It moved.  He had caught her staring at it with the dazed look of a stoner, or someone watching a lava lamp.

He’d stared at it awhile, too.

“And then we see Xander at the edge of the cave—my spell worked!  And yes, I know I’ve said that.  Anyway, Xander was there and this stuff kept flying out—”

“Blood and guts,” Buffy had chimed in, while Willow delicately wrinkled her nose.  “Spike was having fun in there.  Big cheater.”

Giles looked a bit concerned at that, but Xander had been certain it was the jealousy in her voice, not what she had actually said.  “Are you certain, Buffy?  That he was killing the snarath?”

Blonde hair bounced vigorously as she nodded.  “Yup.  Killed it dead.  I think.  He’s probably doing something icky with the corpse right now.  Oh, Xander, do not let him back in with you.  Not until he’s washed, at least.  It smelled horrible, and we didn’t even get very close.”

Xander had stopped listening then.

He vaguely remembered Giles promising to look into the amulet and why the Initiative may want it.  His eyes had never left Olivia’s the entire time he spoke.  Buffy had chirped a goodbye, claiming she had a boyfriend to go make up with.  Willow he had walked back to her dorm, habit from long before he started carrying stakes and crosses with him.  She had babbled the entire time about the magic, sparing him the need to say anything but the occasional “Uh huh” and “That’s cool”.

And then she had turned to him, and looked very hard.

“Are you okay, Xander?”

“Huh?  Sure, Wills, I’m fine.  Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

“Because you’re so quiet.  You’re never quiet, Xander.”  Cute Willowgrin up at him, totally aware that they could have contests to see who babbled more.  And knowing it would be a tie.  “Are you scared Spike is going to hurt you?  Because he can’t, still, we know the chip is only for demons.”  Had they talked about that?  Yes, he had vague memories of being surprised that no one cared very much.  Spike wasn’t a threat to people, so they were content to leave him alone.  “Or do you want to throw him out?  Now that he can take care of himself again. . .”

“Scared?  Wh—why would I be scared?  He’s still chipped.”  Agonized howl, awareness and frighteningly insightful intelligence returning over the base instinct of me and mine.

“He can’t hurt you Xander.  Just the demons.  You know we wouldn’t let him go near you if we thought he could actually hurt you.”

Liarliarliarliarliarliarliarliarliarliar.  “Who says he’s even coming back?  Like you said, he can take care of himself again.  He’s probably off finding himself a nice crypt right now.”

Willow just gave him a look.  “Spike?  Do for himself when he can nag, complain, and whine at someone to do it for him?  Please.  And he still can’t hunt, just defend himself.  He’ll be back.  Unless you don’t want him to.  Do you want me to do a de-invite at your house?”

Habit kicked in then and he gave her his bestest Xandergrin and a wink.  “Nah, don’t worry about it.  Fangless doesn’t scare me.  I’m gonna go home, go to sleep.  It’s been a long day.”

“Oh, that’s right, you were working today, weren’t you?  At the Chuck E Cheese again?  Oh, poor Xander.  I’ll make you some cookies, okay?”  Not waiting for an answer, she gave him a peck on the cheek and disappeared up the stairs.  “Call you!” he heard trailing down.

Six hours, forty five minutes, and thirty one, thirty two, thirty three, thirty four . . .

Demons, far more frightening than the ones with bumpy foreheads, circled in his mind, whispering to him.  He wanted to cry at their venomous onslaught, but he couldn’t.  Tick, tick, tick.  Can’t blink, can’t tear, can’t look away.  Have to watch.  Have to see.

Something scratched at the door.

He froze, hardly daring to breath.  It could be anything, including the stray cat that he occasionally fed.  It liked him.

The scratching got louder, turning into a click.  The door swung open.  Feet clumped down the stairs, leather, smoke, and alcohol—so much alcohol poured off the person to mix with mildew and fabric softener.

No one’s home, go away.  All the lights are out.  Nothing to see here.

Things were put down.  Clothes were taken off.  Microwave opened and started turning.

He was beginning to feel ignored.

The microwave beeped and was opened.  Tiny sounds of a body working.  Click of something being put down.

Long, cool body slid next to his, hands recently used as claws gently untangling him from his woven chains and pulling him away from the sofa back.  Smoothing down his sweaty skin, he was pulled against something that could have been marble but wasn’t.  A deep rumbling sound vibrated from one body to the other.

And then he was moving, sliding down that satiny cold.  Hands and mouth, touching and licking, kissing, biting, moving over muscles that rippled under his touch, down sinewy legs, curly hair tickling his nose.  Back up again, less hair, warmer skin, and then—

Home.

Light, gentle touches, making something soft and small large and hard.  It was warm against his lips and tongue, as was the breath that bathed his face in short, sharp bursts.  Find the vein, lick that from base to head, leaving the tongue just below it to move in small circles.  Move, carefully, mustn’t move the tongue too far away, to take the tip into the mouth.  Suck.  Hard.  Pull cheeks back so hard that cheekbones become as prominent as the slack-jawed version above him.

Quick gasp of breath, then more suction, slooooowly moving down that long shaft.  Feel the blunt and leaking tip bump against the gag-reflex—which wasn’t working—and hesitate.  Dilemma.  More suction, or more entry.

Or breathing.

Suddenly he felt cool hands gently lifting his flushed and sweaty face away—

No!  Nonononono!  I’m a good boy, I am!  Please, let me be good, want to be good.  Please—

“Calm down, pet.”  The second repetition carried the hint of a growl and his thrashings subsided.  Those hands stroked him again, up to his throat going up and down until he swallowed, and swallowed and swallowed.

“Missed me, puppy?  Good.  That’s a good boy.”  He whimpered, pushing his face into a yielding stomach.  “Remember to breath, pet.  You have to breath.”

There was something he was supposed to remember about breathing, something other than he had to do it.  Something about not doing it, and warm hands at his throat, warm body against his, moving and writhing and—

“Shhh, pet, not mad at you.”  More hands, pulling him up to look at eyes that were glassy reflections in the faint dawn light.  “You were doin’ just fine, pet.  Can do that all you like.  Just breathe, boy.  Don’t forget to breathe.  Ever.”

Cool command in that last word and he felt his mind being rewired to accept the new programing.  Good boys don’t forget to breathe.  Lesson learned, so can he go back to making pack-leader happy again?  Because pack-leader can’t leave.  Pack-leader won’t leave, if he’s pleased with the pack.  The pack had to be good, be a good boy. . .

There were no interruptions this time as he worked his way back down.  Stopped at small dusky pink nipples, licking them experimentally.  Oh, a moan.  Licked until they shrank into small, hard pebbles.  Pack-leader was vampire.  Vampires liked biting.  Half-moons throbbed in agreement.  Glancing up in half-needed permission—saw nothing but pleasure and anticipation—he leaned forward over the left one.  Bit down, hard.

“Oh, Christ!”

Bite down again, just about to break through skin, licking the tiny nub that was pushed into his mouth.  Licked and licked and licked, because pain was pleasure and pleasure was pain.  Pinched the other one, biting and licking and pinching, switching from one to the other.  Moved his thigh between pack-leader’s, rubbing lightly while he worked.

“Oh, fu—ah!”  Cold and wet splashes on his thigh, but he couldn’t stop.  There was still hardness under his weight and until the hardness went away, wet wasn’t enough.  Pack-leader couldn’t leave the pack.  Couldn’t be alone, not again.  Alone was bad.  Scary.

Licked the bite-marks, soothing them with wet warmth, then moved down to explore stomach muscles that were so hard, so cut but yielded under his tongue.  Dipped into the small hollow he found, pleased with the guttural moans.  Pack-leader was happy.

Licked at the first hair he found on that pale expanse, a small trail from the hollow to the place that smelled so good, so right.  Smelled of home and safe and wanting.  Bypassed the straining monument of the happiness he was creating, and moved onto round things he licked and sucked and tried to swallow whole.  Tangled hair on his tongue, following the contours as something wet dripped onto his nose and face.  Wet and becoming warm.  He remembered other times, other lessons, and whimpered with his mouth right on the skin.  High in his throat like a frightened child, wanting someone to come save it, whimpering and moaning.

Deeper moans from above faded into gasps and harsh panting for unneeded breath.  “Good—good boy,” was gasped out when he hesitated a bit too long.  Cool fingers threaded into his hair, not pushing, just holding and feeling.

Pack-leader was happy!  He was a good boy!  Pleased, he released the wrinkled sac and moved even lower.  Saw the thing that had gotten him into trouble before.  “God—no, wait.”

He keened, obediently stopping but confused and upset as to why.  He was going to be a good boy, an obedient boy, just like he was supposed to be, just like he had been, before!

Low, gasping chuckle met his whines.  “Not tryin’ t’ stop you, puppy.  Just wanna move a bit, is all.”  Oh.  More pleasure?  Yes, that was good.  Pack-leader should be happy.  He pulled back while pack-leader moved onto his side, lifting his leg and balancing it on his calf.  Pretty white triangle . . .

Hands, again, touching him, soothing him, reminding him that he was a good boy who did good things.  Those hands moved him, getting him to lay down on those silken thighs.  His lower half was pulled up to the top of the bed, hands playing with his body.  Touching here, and there, sometimes hard, mostly not.

“Such a good boy,” he heard crooned above him, breath still strangely warm gusting along his buttocks.  Mm, that felt good.  Shivering with pleasure, he leaned forward and gently circled his tongue around the little brown place.  “Oh, yeah, that’s it.  Rim me, boy.  Make me cum again.”

He touched the two globes surrounding his goal, kneading them and spreading them just a little to get better access.  Cautiously moved just a bit closer, pushing his tongue from the outside to the inside.  Oh, tight.  Very tight, clamping down on his tongue so it was hard to move it.

Hands warmed from his own body heat squeezed him lightly, mimicking his kneading movements.  Happy pack-leader.  He moved his tongue, remembering a time when it was warm and wet and soft instead of cold and tight.  Remember what worked and what didn’t.  Copied it, stabbing up in deep, looking to see if he could find that special, wonderful part that warm-and-wet didn’t have.

“Puppy!”

Found it.

Tried to grin, then realized he couldn’t and still reach that place far up inside.  So he stopped smiling, pushing in again and again before releasing to suck at an opening that was much wider than when he started.  Over and over he did this.  Tried some new things, some worked and some didn’t.

More wet stuff, landing on his belly, but he knew from reaching down to stroke as he licked and prodded that it wasn’t soft yet.  Had to be soft.  Soft meant completely.

One last lick and then back to the place that was home.  Opened his mouth and swallowed it down, past the gag reflex, into the depth of his throat.  Sucked hard and swallowed.  Pulled back enough that he could breathe through his nose, and then did it again.

Hands played over his belly, getting slick with the mixture there.  One finger, then two pushed into him, doing what his tongue had done before.  The other fondled and played the bit of skin that started where his sac stopped.  He was a good boy—he had to be, because only good boys were given treats.

Bobbing his head up and down, sucking and licking the way good boys were supposed to.  Pack-leader had to stay now.  He kept nearly continuous suction on the long shaft in his mouth, humming and whining to let pack-leader know he was being good.  That he wanted to be good.

This time, when pack-leader came in his mouth, the hardness began to fade.  I’m a good boy! he thought with childlike delight.  He rolled the viscous fluid around on his tongue, swallowing it in sips so he wouldn’t lose the taste.

“C’mere, pet.”  The fingers followed him as he turned himself around, continuing to pump inside of him as he brought his lower body flush with pack-leader’s.  The other hand moved up to touch the marks on his shoulder.  “So pretty,” was whispered into his hair.  “One day, gonna do it for real, boy.  Never lettin’ you go.  Never.”

And pack-leader licked the healing wound.

He screamed, came—and passed out.

Xander opened his eyes to white skin.  It was finely grained, pulled taut over cheekbones and a jaw line that were sharp enough to draw blood.  He wanted to touch them, but didn’t.  His arms wouldn’t move, wrapped up tightly and trapped in their current positions.

Xander smiled.

Snuggling closer to the sleeping vampire, Xander allowed himself to bask in the feeling of pack.  He had pack-leader’s smell all over him, pack-leader’s body covering his in a possessive strength.  One hand toyed with his hair, the shoulder his pillow, the other arm clamped down tightly enough that Xander could hardly breathe around its hold.  One leg was tossed carelessly over both his own, a soft groin pressed to his.

Safe.  Home.  Pack.

Part of him clamored for love, affection, respect, and friendship, but it was a small part.  The more time he spent with Spike the more the hyena’s wants became dominant.  Not to the point where he couldn’t interact with other people—the hyena wasn’t stupid—but the things the human wanted were becoming less important.  He didn’t need love or respect, so long as he had pack.  Because pack was love; possessive-love that circumvented the need for respect or friendship.  Affection he already did have, if not the way the human wanted.

And all this in just three days.  He said he’d never let me go.

He hummed deep in his throat, a humans poor imitation of a hyena’s growl, pushing yet closer to the cool body next to his.  Spike responded by muttering lightly, the way a human would when disturbed during sleep, and held him impossibly tighter.

Um, this is great and all, but I have to breathe.  He said I have to breathe.  Choking, he tried to push himself backwards.  Spike growled, moving his head to latch onto his collarbone.  A rough tongue swept over the scabs there, removing them although it did not bleed again.

“Spike?” he gasped out.  “Gotta breathe.  Please?”

Another growl, almost the whine he remembered himself making more than once—he winced in memory—but Spike did release him enough that he could start breathing regularly again.

One arm curled at an impossible angle, snaking between their stuck-together bodies to stroke his stomach.  “Gotta go, pet?” he heard whispered in his ear.

Oh.  Right.  That would explain the incredible pressure-pain he was feeling.  And why he was half-hard.  It was morning, ergo, he needed to pee.  “Um, yeah,” he said, embarrassed.  “But I don’t want to move.”

“Y’sore?”

More embarrassment.  He wondered if Spike could feel the heat from his scarlet flush.  Probably.  “Yeah,” he admitted reluctantly.  Between his own clumsiness in the woods and the marathon sex they’d been having he was sore, pretty much everywhere.  And they were stuck together.  He could feel it every time he breathed, or Spike got too close to the patch of skin that was slightly raised.  Not that Xander wanted him to stop, or anything.  It felt. . . nice, being petted like that.  Even if the implications were a bit disturbing.

What could get more disturbing in my life?  No, wait, I didn’t actually think that.  Please, god, don’t listen to me.  My life is disturbing enough, please don’t make it weirder!

He felt more than heard Spike chuckling, the deep, rumbling sound traveling through his bones.  “What th’ bloody hell are y’ panickin’ about now?”

And there it was.  The one thing designed to send Xander over the edge.  He tried to stop it, he really did.  At first, he managed to keep it just a snort.  And then two, swallowing to keep the rest down, which probably made him sound like he was choking.  Which would explain why Spike opened up to wide, blue eyes, lifted his head, and stared down at the convulsing boy in his arms.  “What?” he demanded, sounding utterly outraged.

With his hair sticking up in a damned good imitation of his name.

Xander howled.

“Oi!” he heard through his manic laughter.  “You sound like a hyena when you do that.  An’ I do not have bedhead, you bloody pillock!”

He only laughed harder at that.

He couldn’t help it, not really.  It was just. . . three days.  Three days and his life had turned upside down.  Which wasn’t bad, considering it had been one day when Buffy had arrived and turned him into her faithful pet.  Except that just made it funnier.

He wasn’t sure how long he laughed, not stopping even when Spike unstuck their bodies with a sharp pull that made them both yelp.  He couldn’t stop even as Spike hauled him over to the bathroom and shoved him in.

He had to calm himself when faced with the toilet.  Giggling was not conducive for relaxed muscles.  Neither was remembering morning-Spike, and how adorably human he looked.  Ohh, bad Xander.  Don’t tell the evil bloodsucking fiend that he looks like a five year old in the morning.

Which just set him off again.

“Are you done in there?” Spike demanded after the toilet had been flushed but Xander had still not emerged.  “Cause I wanna shower.  Hate bein’ dirty.”

And that does nothing to erase the image of little-boy-Spike.  I am a sick, sick man.  Still snarfing, he got the door open before Spike broke it down and gestured to the shower.  Spike tilted his head, watching Xander and then looking at the shower.  Reaching over, he fiddled with the nozzle.

Xander’s shriek of shock effectively ended the laughter.

“That was cold!” he whined, even as he hurriedly wiped off the icy water from his chest.  Spike turned the nozzle back into the shower stall, smirking and obviously pleased with himself.  “Gonna make yourself sick, laughin’ that hard,” was his only comment while waiting for the water to heat.

“What’s so wrong with laughing, huh?”

“Without stopping for twenty minutes, y’mean?”  Spike gave him a look, and Xander ducked his head.  “Like you living, I do.”

Oh.  Oh.

Stunned, he didn’t resist when Spike pulled them both under the now-steaming spray.  This time Spike washed them both, continuing Xander’s impersonation of a mime.  He moved where Spike said to, silently appreciative at Spike’s gentle hands and careful touches.  He was sore—all over.  And his dick was still multicolored the way penis’ just shouldn’t be.  Spike made a clucking noise of that, muttering something about ointment and fragile humans.

It all stopped when Spike reached his collarbone.

Vampires shouldn’t have delicate fingers.  He’d thought that ever since he had a close look at Angel’s, and he had no idea when or why, just that he had.  They were supposed to be blunt and short, human claws instead of the kind of hands poets and artists had.  Despite the chipped black polish that was still on Spike’s long-fingered hands, they looked like the hands of a musician.

“Hurts?”  He was tracing the marks, over and over again.  Xander could feel them burning on his skin.  And making him harden.  What, Spike was asking something?  About them hurting?  God, no.

Somehow he shook his head, lost in the euphoria that came just from Spike touching him there.  Was this how Buffy felt?  Did Angel’s merest touch of his claim on her send her spiraling into the most intense kind of pleasure?  Or did she hate it—she might.  Alpha’s did not submit well to others, especially since Angel was such a warped case to begin with.

“You like this?”  Spike was so close to him again, pushing him against the wall.  Xander hardly noticed that the vampire was still soft.  “Take that as a yes, then.  Good to know.”  More touching and Xander was panting, barely staying upright, clutching the smooth tile behind him for some kind of purchase.  Dimly, he realized this should be hurting—sending white-hot agony up through his body.  He’d never been turned on so much or cum so much even when he’d been fifteen and constantly horny.

It didn’t hurt, though.  Not even a little bit.

Spike was licking him again, tiny kitten-licks that barely disturbed the scabs.  Just letting his tongue—cool, gods, so cold—press down gently over it.  “Cum,” he whispered in between licks, “when you want to.”

Xander didn’t want to.  He wanted this pleasure to continue for ever and ever and. . . oh, look.  White stuff.

“Good boy,” Spike was whispering now.  Washing what the pounding water hadn’t immediately taken care of.  “Such a pretty boy.  Perfect, you are.  Perfect. . . ”

They finished the shower, Spike bundling them both into robes.  Led to the table, Xander sat and waited while Spike heated up the leftover chinese and then his own mug of blood.  They ate quietly, neither one feeling the need to talk much.  Or, well, Spike may have felt that way.  With the euphoria fading, Xander was too afraid to say anything—it might make Spike leave again.

“Still sore, right?  On the bed with you, then.”

He blinked, only then noticing that his plates were washed and drying in the rack, Spike standing over him with a hand out.  “Huh?” he managed.

“Humans,” Spike muttered.  “Boy, you’re exhausted and hurtin’.  We had a long couple a’ days, an’ our sleep-schedules are screwed.  So.  You, on bed, now.”

Xander got to his feet, leaning heavily on Spike as he moved.  God, he hurt everywhere.  He was trying to say something.  Something about. . . oh, right.  “Training?” he managed before falling face-first onto the bed.

Spike’s bass chuckle made him shiver.  “Not trainin’ you yet, puppy.”  The sound of the microwave for maybe ten seconds.  What was Spike doing?  He wanted to turn his head, but that required effort and concentration.  He didn’t have either of those.

“But. . . training?” he asked again.  It was all that seemed to come out.

“Look, pet, we know the chip don’t work on demons.  Proved that, once I hit the bars.”  Deep satisfaction in his voice then and Xander didn’t know if he should be happy or scared.  “Still works on humans, though, so I’m dependent on you lot for blood.  Don’t fancy starvin’ myself to a skeleton.”  Something else there, hidden in the words, but he couldn’t make himself figure out what it was.  He was so tired. . .

Legs, straddling him and solid weight landing right on his buttocks.  “You need t’ rest, get your strength up.  An’ you got work tomorrow.” 

Work?  Oh, crap, he had work today!  He struggled weakly, but a hand flat on his back holding him still with little effort.  Was that cinnamon he smelled?

Spike was chuckling again, riding Xander’s struggles with obvious amusement.  “Relax, pet.  No work today, already called your boss.  Gotta get you less jobs, spend more time with me.”

Oh, possessive growl.  Pack-leader likes pack!  Except— “I have to work, Spike,” he forced out.  “Gotta pay rent, keep you in the style to which you’ve become accustomed.”  That didn’t sound too strange, did it?

More chuckling and there was that hidden something, again.  Like Spike knew something but he wasn’t going to say it.  He should be scared, but that just required too much energy.  Let Spike play his games.  He couldn’t hurt humans, so where was the harm?  “Don’t worry about that, boy.  I take care of what’s mine.”

And then the scent of cinnamon was everywhere, especially on the warm, slippery stuff Spike was rubbing into his back.  Oh, good hands.  He liked these hands.  So much bigger than Anya’s little ones and hit all the right spots. . .

“Relax, pet.  Spike’ll take care of everythin’.”

Yes, Xander agreed in his mind, since his mouth didn’t seem to be doing anything except moaning.  Pack-leader staying.  He’s staying.  Snuggling deeper, he hummed again, perfectly content. 

Home. . .

Part Nine

“No—hey, warm. . .”

Xander froze at the sleepy words, unresisting as Spike dragged him back down to the bed.  “Can’t leave,” Spike mumbled as he spooned the boy.  “Jus’ got back.”

“That was three hours ago, Spike.”  Except he was pushing his body backward as he spoke, snuggling deeper into that cold embrace.  Spike smirked into the boy’s hair, enjoying the feel of soft-hard warmth pressed against him.  He would never have pegged Xander as being so. . . cuddly.  The boy loved to be touched, even if it was just the lightest pressure on the small of his back.  He craved the affection and attention that it meant.

Which suited Spike just fine.  Dru had tolerated his physical affection, but—other than the sex—she hadn’t enjoyed it.  With Xander. . . giant teddy bear an’ livin’ hot water bottle, all rolled up into one deliciously sexy package.  Not complainin’.

“S’night time,” he murmured, hair tickling his nose.  “Night job’s me.”

Vibrations traveled from Xander to Spike, making the latter grin in unabashed pleasure.  The boy couldn’t purr, but he did the best he could, humming as he breathed and making his whole body rumble.  Likes bein’ mine, he does.

“It’s just pizza delivery,” the boy said after a while.  “But I don’t like flaking on Jimmy.  He’s a good guy and cuts me a lot of Hellmouth slack.”

“Meanin’ he ain’t gonna fire you on account of fyarl.”

Xander laughed lightly.  “Or making sure my sick mother isn’t alone, but yeah.”

Spike begrudgingly rolled off after a few more moments, nodding absently as Xander babbled about how good Jimmy was to him.  There had been. . . something. . . in that last sentence.  It had been tightly controlled, but Spike’s nose was a highly tuned instrument, able to hunt down lunatic vampiress through crowded mobs, scent souls where there should be none, and know instantly if there was even a hint of garlic in the meal.  He had smelled something.  He just wished he could figure out what.

“You gonna hunt tonight?”  Xander pulled on his shirt, palm trees and something that looked horribly like a baboon glaring from it.  “Or just hang out at Willy’s?  I probably won’t be back until close to one.”

The scarred eyebrow rose.  “You tellin’ me Red and Slu—the Slayer allow you to wander around the Hellmouth.  At night.  Alone.”

Xander gave a long suffering sigh that said he’d done this multiple times.  “Carrying crosses, stakes, and holy-water.  The car has crosses all over it, and Jimmy won’t take calls from certain areas.  I’ve done this before, Spike.”

He nodded after a moment, still thoughtful.  Wonder if that’s part of it.  The whole ‘I must be worth something’ vibe, whenever he mentions work.  Know he hates it, but he still does it, an’ if I were to come between him an’ that. . .  It was probably one of the few things that the boy wouldn’t agree to.  Well, no, he would.  Obedient little thing, but it’d screw everything up if I made him.  Interest—oh, bugger.

There was a hitch in the lift-flex of the left leg.  Bruises still dotted the boy’s body, although most were healing, but the gash on the arm was still red and raw looking.  Dammit.  That might be inflamed, an’ I know he’s lyin’ ’bout the leg not hurtin’ him.  He wanted to growl and shove the boy up against the wall—which will do wonders to reinforce the whole ‘tell Spike when you hurt’ message.  Bollocks.

“Still sore, pet?”  He kept his voice light and even as he began pulling on his own clothes.  Xander grimaced at him, waving the words away as he rummaged around the little fridge.  “We should try again this weekend.”

That got a grin in response, although he knew Xander wasn’t going to like their next session at all.  This wasn’t going to be random hunting, like Monday night had been.  This was going to real training.  Gotta find a place for us to work at it.  Huh.  Looks like I’m goin’ huntin’ tonight, after all.

“Here.”  He looked up to find a wad of cash under his nose.  Grabbing it reflexively, he counted close to four hundred dollars.  What the hell?

Xander gave a shy grin as he poured himself a glass of juice.  “Make sure you buy some human blood tonight?  I know you haven’t had any in a while.”

Spike blinked at him.  “What?”

“You need human blood,” Xander explained patiently.  “Angel mentioned something about it, once.  That he had to drink the equivalent of one human a month, or he’d get weaker.  No living skeletons, mate, but he’d be at half-strength and he wouldn’t heal as fast.”

Picking up the juice, Xander stared at it, and licked his lips.  Glanced over at Spike, and licked them again.  Then he poured the juice back in the bottle untasted.

Spike went rock hard.

“Really?” he managed hoarsely.  “So the poof still drank human?”

“Not a lot, but yeah.  So buy a supply, okay?”

Spike nodded, concentrating on forcing his body to behave.  Don’t think about what the boy just tasted.  Think about. . . about how he managed to get together four hundred dollars workin’ his shit jobs.  The wave of anger nicely removed the temptation of throwing the boy up against the nearest mostly-flat surface.  I know he thinks he has to do this to take care of his bloody pack-leader, but dammit!  Livin’ on fifty cent bags of chips and candy bars?  Lyin’ t’ me when I asked him about it, too.  Stupid git.  I’ve had anorexic and sickly before, ta ever so much.  If I wanted that again, I’d still be beggin’ after blonde and bitchy.  And pack-leader’s supposed to provide for his pack, anyway, not the bloody other way around.  Idiot boy.

However, it gave him enough free dosh that he could get what he’d been planning on begging credit for.  Not that the Big Bad begged but. . . sometimes it worked.

“So I’ll see you later, okay?”

Spike waved him out, still glaring moodily at the blank television.  Boy needs t’ take care of himself.  He’s practically suicidal, hangin’ about with the Slayer like he does.  Only thing hurts him is me, dammit.

Shrugging on his duster, he grabbed a nearly empty bottle to re-read the name of it.  Right.  First stop Willy’s, deal with any what missed the memo the first time.  Do a bit of checkin’ around, and then stop by her place.  Oh, and drink, possibly a lot.  He needed some kind of fortification before going there.

The sun had just barely gone down when he made his way into the cool night air.  There was a heaviness that spoke of rain coming, an ozone tang that made him jumpy.  He needed a drink.

First stop ended up being one of his growing number of contacts.  He found the little weaselly demon skulking near a bank, sure sign that he was about to do something Spike would want to know about.  The furry thing had bowed and scraped its way through complicated answers that Spike grew quickly bored with.

Sighing, he hauled the little demon up by its neck.  “English,” he hissed through sharp fangs.  “Speak it.”

“Everything’s going fine,” was squeaked up at him.  “Everything, Master Spike.  Nearly half the merchandise has been transferred and the rest have buyers lined up.”  Spike raised his scarred eyebrow, and the little thing blanched.  “The t-totals will b-be forwarded to y-you,” it managed to get out.  “B-but so f-far we’re looking at s-seventy percent.”

Spike released him.  Good.  “How long?”

“A w-week?” 

Spike nodded, straightening some misplaced fur.  “Good,” he approved.  “Keep it up, an’ keep me informed.”

“Y-yes, Master Spike.”

He sauntered down the street, extremely pleased.  Seventy percent was a more than decent return rate, especially given what his merchandise was going at.  By the end of the week he’d be able to finish setting up some fairly impressive accounts, make some purchases—and all that without touching the extremely rare and powerful pieces he still had stashed away for a rainy day.  Very good.

His good mood increased when he opened the doors to Willy’s and silence descended on the assorted demons already there.  Ah, the sweet smell of fear.  Don’t care if it’s human or demon, but damn all does it smell good.

Saturday night had been. . . edifying.  The moment he’d entered Willy’s, some of the more vocal demons had started tossing around words like ‘traitor’—apparently news had spread about the snarath’s death quickly—‘lap dog’ and ‘pathetic’.  They’d died first.  Then he’d cheerfully worked his way through the rest of the room.

Spike enjoyed kicking the shit out of things—their species was never really an issue.  Humans were food, not entertainment.  And since all he was really looking for was entertainment. . .  I am the bloody Master of Sunnydale.  Who I chose to eat has nothin’ t’ do with that.

It had been very satisfying to prove that—as many times as he needed.

One or two demons needed reminders, but they were easily dispatched.  Any demon of rank or power had figured out that Spike was no longer someone to torment and would leave him alone—so long as he didn’t interfere with what they wanted.  Ah, demon solidarity.  We’ll pick on the weak, but otherwise. . . ‘stay out of my way, an’ I’ll stay out of yours’.  Works for me.

Willy knew all about the chip, but he also knew that if Spike lifted so much as a finger there would be half-a-dozen demons interested in obeying the smirking vampire, so he was pleasantly frightened by the time Spike made it up to the bar.

The fear faded as soon as Willy realized that Spike wanted to make a deal.  Money always made Willy happy.  It took perhaps twenty minutes to get the particulars worked out, but Spike was now the proud recipient of a bi-monthly delivery of a variety of human blood types.  Should keep the boy off my case about eatin’ right, an’ since I still got plenty o’ credit with Willy, leaves me with enough dosh that I can pay outright.  Maybe even get some groceries.

Perhaps he’d cook?  He could, when he felt like it.  Except the poor excuse for a kitchen was not something Spike felt like braving, so perhaps he’d wait for another time before disclosing that particular skill.  Yeah, cause it’s sooo manly for the Big Bad to cook food for his human pet.  Pathetic tosser.

Which didn’t stop him from grinning into his whiskey.

Deal closed, Spike left the bar and went to the store he really, really, really didn’t want to go to.  Most people—human and demon both—shared that sentiment.  It was creepy there, so small that there was practically no walking-space through the hundreds of different items sold there.  Smells so varied and strong that noses closed up upon entering, when they didn’t start sneezing from the dust that coated the place.  Little light, except for a few carefully maintained candles, hidden in pockets to make the place look dark and foreboding.  Even to demons who liked dark and foreboding it was. . . not a fun place.

And then there was her.  A tiny, Asian woman, who’s face was wrinkled and unreadable, hair pulled back into a tight bun held with two lacquered sticks—one of blue and white, the other of green and gold.  Her wide, dark eyes would weigh any who stepped through her door, and those who were found unwanted refused to speak of what had been done to them to make them leave.  Song Li sold only to those she wished to.

Some thought she was a demon.  The way she would look at you, watch you, with those wide, dark eyes. . . the way she never seemed to be out of stock, and, despite the prices she charged, there was no way she could possibly stay open in the human world.. . . the way you felt as soon as you entered, whether it was fear or comfort, depending on what she thought of you. 

If she wasn’t a demon, she was at the very least powerful magically.  Which made sense given she had the best magic shop in the entire west coast.  Anyone who was anyone shopped at Song Li’s when they needed that hard-to-find item or only the best quality.

He wondered as he pushed the door open if Rupert knew where the store was.  Most people didn’t, even if they were involved with the more supernatural aspects of the world.  Spike knew only through Drusilla, who could always see what was trying to stay hidden.  Wonder if I should be the one to tell him?  Nah.  Don’t want to blow it here.

“William the Bloody.”  The voice was dry, a faint Chinese accent warring with British, filling the shop along with the dust motes.  Her English was always impeccable, despite the old-world flavor to it.  “Back so soon?”

“Yes, mum.”  He winced, but didn’t try to take it back.  This woman, demon or not, commanded respect.  He’d fully intended to come here and beg anyway, so politeness couldn’t hurt.  “That oil you gave me?  I’d like more of it, please, mum.”

“For your golden boy?”

He concentrated on working his way to the back, where Song Li always sat behind her counter.  It helped him fight the start of surprise he didn’t want to show her.  Don’t ask how she knows things.  Don’t ask what she knows.  Ask your questions, get what you need, an’ get the hell out.  Don’t show her surprise.

“Yes, mum.  Xander.  Alexander Harris.”  Finally at the back of the store, he had the obscure desire to tip the hat he hadn’t worn for half a century.

She tilted her head, dark eyes flicking over his face rapidly.  “A good boy, that one.”  Spike stiffened but said nothing.  She can’t possibly know.  She’s just guessin’.  “He’s come in a few times for that stuffy fellow.”

“Rupert knows this place is here?”  He cursed the minute the words were out, biting his tongue even while he knew it wouldn’t do a damn bit of good.  Apparently Song Li wanted information, which meant Li Song was going to get information.  I just hope it’s information I’m happy givin’ away.

He didn’t actually believe that.

The dry, amused laugh turned his attention back to the tiny woman before him.  “No, the good Watcher does not know about me.  Nor will he, until it is time.”  She rose, gathering several bottles and vials from a shelf behind her.  “Alexander, however, has found his way here several times.  He thinks it’s just another magic shop.”  Dancing eyes dared him to contradict that.

“Of course, mum.”

“So the cinnamon oil worked?”

Did she know who I was buyin’ it for?  Don’t ask that.  “Yes, mum.  But he’s still pretty banged up an’ I thought—”

“Such a sweet boy.  Very. . . accident prone, though.”  She handed him a much larger bottle than he’d purchased the first time.  “Take this.  Use as much as you wish; it will sooth and accelerate healing, but it isn’t dangerous.  Whenever you need more, send word.  I’ll make sure you get it.”

“Thank you, mum.”  He was not going to ask about the other things now on the counter.  He wasn’t.  “I’ll do that.”

“I’ll be very disappointed if you don’t.  I like that boy.  So polite he was, very charming.  I don’t want to see him hurt.”

“I don’t want to hurt him, mum.”  What the fuck?  I don’t want to hurt him?  Of course I want to hurt him!  Well, not yet, cause of the blasted chip, but of course I want to hurt him!  That’s what vampires do, especially to our human pets!  I want to see him bleed, see my mark in his flesh, hear him scream from what I’ve done to him. . .   Of course I want to hurt him!

Which didn’t explain the sick feeling in his stomach every time he pictured some of the lovely things he was sure he wanted to do.  Really, he did.  Because he was a vampire and pain was. . . oh, just bugger it all.

Song Li gave him a pleased smile before rummaging about for more things he was going to have to buy.  She separated them out into three piles.  “This,” she pointed to the smallest, “is a special potion.  Use it sparingly, and only when he is very seriously injured.  It is quite powerful.  I don’t want to see you in here for more of it before the summer.”

He nodded.  What else could he do?

“These are more massage oils.  I think you’ll like the cinnamon the best, but sometimes you may want other types.  Several you will find quite pleasant, as well.”  Then she pointed to the last pile.  “Use this vial,” she held up something small and green, “very lightly.  I’m sure you’ll know what it’s for.  The rest do not have the same powerful properties and can be used however you like.”

Spike blinked, eyes widening as he slowly realized what that small vial contained.

“Th-thank you,” he stuttered.  “I mean, how do you—of course you know, but—”

“I know.  I like that young man, and I always help those I like.  Besides,” her wizened grin turned as mischievous as a young girl’s, “I think you’ll be very good for him.  Don’t prove me wrong.  Now, remember to use only the tiniest amounts.  A little goes a very long way.”

“Yes, mum.”

“You are always welcome in my store, William the Bloody, also know as Spike.  Do not mistreat this privilege.”

“Th-thank you, mum.”  He handed over the entire wad of money, taking the bags with the air of a man who had just been smacked across the back of the head with a very large wooden board.  He couldn’t think of anyone—from powerful demons, to powerful sorcerers, to even the richest of either set—who were ‘always welcome’.  Not one.  “Mum?  Not to sound ungrateful but. . . Why?”

She smiled at him, face almost entirely lost in a mass of wrinkles and gleaming teeth.  “Good evening, William.”

Right, like she was gonna tell you anything.  Wanker.  “Good evening, mum.”

He stumbled his way out of the store, thoughts whirling as he tried to understand what the hell had just happened.  He knew he’d bought various items that would be useful and pleasurable in his relationship with the boy.  Okay, good, got that.  But the rest?  She just gave me bloody permission!  Except. . . permission to do what?  An’ why should I feel . . . grateful. . . or maybe pleased. . . cause of it?  The Big Bad does not need permission to do anything!  He doesn’t!

Except now he had it.

Oh, screw this.  Growling, he changed direction and went back to where he knew he find something he could fight.  He needed to feel flesh under his fists, hear the grunts and cries of something being pummeled until it couldn’t walk straight, smell the blood that told him that he, Spike, was the victor.  I need to bloody kill something.

It took work, avoiding the Slayer and the moldy-faced goons she had lurking about with her, but he managed to find three chaos demons lurking near the Bronze.  He grinned ferally, all of his anger and confusion come to the boil.  “Oh boys,” he sang out, “didn’t your mother’s ever teach you to be kind to your neighbors?”

They all turned around, slime dripping down their stupid faces to splat on the ground.

“Huh.  Guess not.  Looks like I’ll just have to.”

“Xander?  Xander, are you down here?”

Soft, delicate feet stomped their way down the stairs.  It always amazed him how something so slight could be that. . . brazen.  He continued forcing the milk into the now overstuffed refrigerator.

“Xan—oh, Spike.  There you are.  Where is Xander?  I have something very important to tell him.”

Spike didn’t even turn around, reaching blindly into the bag beside him for something else to try and squash in.  Cereal, good, that went on top of the shelf.  “He’s off bein’ a good little boy,” he smirked to himself, “an’ deliverin’ pizzas to the downtrodden an’ hungry.  Should be back in an hour or so.”

“Oh.”  Very small, that.  Like she was disappointed, and not in the ‘I-want-my-orgasms-now’ way.  He turned around, giving her a once over.  If his nose wasn’t lying. . .

“Said it was important then?”  Like why you’re two days late, maybe?  Know he wasn’t that unhappy about it—tellin’ Anya the Former Vengeance Demon that he now belonged to one devilishly handsome an’ well hung vampire was not high on his list of things he really wanted to do.  That said. . . it still hurt him.  She didn’t even call, and he was stuck wonderin’ and worryin’. . .

Which in no way accounted for the simmering anger he felt towards the former demon.  Of all the scoobies, he had always felt the most sympathy for her.  They didn’t understand how hard it was, to be forced to change your entire nature because of something you couldn’t control and didn’t want to accept.  Not even the Slayer got it, not really.  Self-involved little bint.

“No, well. . . yes, it is.”  She bit her lip, sitting down on the fold-out sofa they’d yet to re-fold.  Then she blinked.  “You bought groceries?”

“Was either that or listen to him bitch about how hungry he was.  Like he has any right to talk, with the poor, chipped vampire sleepin’ not five feet from him.”

Confusion turned to suspicion.  “You haven’t hurt him, have you?  Because I will be very upset if you have, Spike.”

“No, I haven’t soddin’ hurt the boy.”  An’ don’t ask me why I haven’t, or won’t, cause I dunno.  I mean, at the very least, I shoulda been playin’ mind games with him.  Please, boy comin’ out for the first time?  I could’ve. . .  Except he couldn’t, not really.  Sod this for a lark.

And then, suddenly, he realized what he should have from the start.  Sitting back on his heels, he eyed her warily.  “Leavin’ him, are we?”

She deflated.  Curling onto the bed, she pillowed her head on her arms and tried hard not to cry.  Spike could smell the salt of her tears and the misery radiating off of her.  And he knew why, too.

“D’Hoffryan want you back?”

She nodded wretchedly.  “He was waiting for me and asked me if I wanted to come back.  He said the business had been just awful without me, and he’d be willing to throw in a few extra perks that I’ve wanted for a long time, if I would just come back.  And now that I can go back. . . I don’t want to.”

The tears were falling now, quietly and without the blotchy histrionics he expected.  That told him just how deeply affected by this she was; she was too much the drama queen to go for quiet anything, unless it was the best way to manipulate her audience.  He moved next to her on the bed, not touching but still close.

“Why not?”

“What?”  She sat up, nervously wiping her face.  “Oh.  Because. . . well, I suppose part of it is that I was just getting used to being a human.  It’s quite a change going back to being a demon.  All those little aches and pains, all of them just vanished.  That was nice, at least.”

“An’ the rest?”  If she was a demon again, than he and Xander both had a bit of trouble coming their way.  Because no matter what way he twisted it, Xander had still cheated.

“I don’t want to leave Xander.  He’s a good boy,” an’ there’s that soddin’ phrase again, “and I don’t want to hurt him.  He doesn’t love me, I know that, but he could have and. . . he needs someone to take care of him.”

“Yeah, well, about that—”

Anya turned to look directly at him, face shimmering to her demon visage.  “You’ve taken him, haven’t you?”  Her demon voice was a meld of something deep and angry with her own strident tones.  Spike tilted his head, studying this new look.  Veiny, where vampires were smooth, but still browless and quite. . . delicate.  Feminine.  Almost as pretty as Dru, but unlike his dark goddess, this visage. . . frightened him.

Remember, you can fight demons, an’ vamps are decently immune to a lot of magicks. . .  None of which was really calming the nervous flutter of his stomach.  He hated things he couldn’t use fists and fangs against.

“Taken?  Er, don’t really know what you—”

Anya waved his words away.  The still surprisingly attractive demon face faded, leaving a young girl with too-wise eyes.  “He talks in his sleep,” she said succinctly.  “I figured it out.  Once Giles forced Xander to take you, I knew you wouldn’t be able to pass up something with so much orgasm potential.  And I knew that no matter how much Xander thought he loved me, he couldn’t tell you no.”

Right.  How the hell does she expect me to answer any of that?  “Well, yeah, what with him bein’ so—ah, nemmind.  Yeah, I’ve claimed him.  He’s accepted me as his pack-leader, I’ve accepted him as mine.”  He hoped he didn’t actually snarl that last word.  “Not givin’ him up.”

“Of course not.  Vampires are so territorial.”  She tilted her head back, previous bout of tears vanished into cool confidence.  This was the demon Anyanka, not the mortal girl Xander had dated.  “You’re worried I’m going to claim vengeance.”

Spike shrugged, trying to look as casual as possible.  “He did cheat on you.”

She laughed at him, eyes now completely dry and the pain she’d been feeling a distance memory.  Huh.  Looks like she was mostly worried about the boy an’ now. . . now she isn’t.  Right, not even thinkin’ about that.  Tonight has been a strange night.  “No, he didn’t.  If anything, he cheated on you with me.” 

Shaking her head in continued amusement, she stood and dug something out of her purse.  “Give him this for me.  Tell him. . . tell him thank you.  I’ll probably catch up with him someday, but right now D’Hoffryan wants me in Venice, yesterday.  Some jackass needs to be taken down a peg, and I’m just the demon for the job.”

Accepting the smallish package, Spike nodded.  “So you’re just leavin’?”

“Yes.  Xander was a good boyfriend and I think I could have loved him.  But he was always yours.”  She went through the eternal female ritual of fluffing her hair and straightening her skirt before looking down at him once more.  “Don’t hurt him.  Or the first thing he’ll see afterwards is me, telling him to make as many wishes as he wants.”

Spike nodded mutely, afraid of what he’d say if he opened his mouth.  Except. . .  “What about the rest of ’em?  We haven’t exactly been puttin’ up banners.”

She gave him a ‘duh’ face to rival the scoobies at their stupidest. “I’m going to be in Venice, Spike.”  Looking around fondly at the basement one more time, Anya touched the small blue pendent she wore and disappeared.

Spike stared at the spot she’d been in for a long time, idly playing with the ribbons on the box.  She loved him.  Or was on her way to it, anyway.  An’ she gave him up, because she wanted to be a demon again.

What the hell did that mean for him?

In his one hundred and however many years, Spike had gone through some fairly significant changes.  When he’d decided just weeks after being turned that William was a ponce and should stay dead, inventing Spike over the next few years.  When he’d been left alone with Dru, Angelus and Darla both gone, and it had been totally up to him to decide what they did and where they went.  When Dru had finally left him, and he’d been without any kind of compass to give him direction.  When he’d lain awake in the Watcher’s cold bathtub, contemplating what the hell a chipped vampire was going to do for the rest of his unlife.

Each time he’d changed himself in some fundamental way.  Usually the change was conscious, even calculated.  This time?  All my life, dark-haired, dark-eyed beauties have shaped me into what they want.

He returned to himself slowly, drawn by the scent of pizza and gasoline, with hints of nervousness and concern hidden underneath.  Xander was standing next to him, uncharacteristically silent.  His warmth bathed Spike’s cold bones.  He looked up into eyes so dark they were nearly black, beneath cave-man brows in that sweetly naive and innocent face.

What is this one going to want me to be, hm?  What’m I gonna become this time?

“You okay?”

“Anya was here.”

That got a reaction, anyway.  The boy started, practically jumping out of his skin.  Hastily putting the pizza down before he dropped it, Xander then sat heavily onto the red lounge chair.  It squeaked ominously, but held.  “Anya was here.  Anya my girlfriend.”

“Ex.”

He passed over the package, going back to the ‘kitchen’ to finish putting the rest of the groceries away.  Hopefully the boy wouldn’t notice until much later, because this was not the time to have this particular argument.

The sounds of tearing paper and cardboard ripping told him when Xander finally gathered the courage to open it.  A letter was unfolded and read for a long, long time.  The scent of pain and relief, so sharp it was its own kind of pain, overwhelmed even the scent of warm, fresh pizza.  On top of all of it, though, was the ocean-smell of tears.

He was hardly aware of moving, slipping the box onto the small table beside him and tugging the letter out of numb fingers.  “Sh, precious,” he murmured, gathering the boy up in his arms and carrying him over to the bed.  “’Salright, luv, I promise it is.  I promise.”  He held him tightly while Xander cried, snuffling into his shoulder like the little boy he was again.

Much later, when Xander was hiccupping and shuddering from crying so hard, Spike deftly stripped them both of clothing before collapsing back into a tangle of warmth and cool, soft skin.  Winding his body around the boy’s like a cat, he whispered nonsense, concentrating only on his voice being low and soothing.  Kept his touches gentle and platonic.  The time wasn’t right for sex.  Yet.

He wondered what it was Anya had told the boy to get him to react like this.  Decided he didn’t need to know that, now.  It wasn’t important.  What was important was showing this beautiful, golden boy that he was still needed, still wanted.

Still loved?

“Shh, pretty boy, don’t cry so.  I’m here, luv.  You’re not alone, not ever alone.  I’ll always be here.  You’re mine, pet.  My boy, an’ only mine.  Be glad she’s gone and not angry with us both.  Don’t think we’d be happy if she made our parts fall off.”

He slid his hand down to where the trail of hair began, swirling it between his fingers while his other hand rubbed and kneaded at tense shoulders; carefully skated along the edge of the still-healing scar.  “Yours,” the boy whispered, the first words he said since he’d come in.  “Your boy.”

“My boy,” Spike agreed.  Dragged his hand down further to stroke and tease the growing hardness he found.  “My sweet boy.”  Xander moaned, burying his head deeper into Spike’s shoulder, sucking on the skin with enough fierceness that it might even make a mark—difficult to do on a vampire.  Warm hands latched onto his biceps, the desperate scrabbling a child’s need for reassurance.  Not a man’s passionate embrace.

“Shhh, precious one.  Spike’ll make it all better.  Let me make it better.  You trust me, luv?”  Xander nodded without dislodging his mouth, moaning again.  “Then let me, pet.  Let me make it better.  Let me make you mine.”

Deep, guttural moan, and Spike quickly squeezed the base of the boy’s erection, afraid that Xander would cum from those words alone.  Once he was certain the boy was in control again, he rolled him onto his back, slithered down that heaving body and swallowed the straining cock whole.

Xander bit his arm to stop the scream that burbled up from his chest, thrashing under Spike’s expert ministrations.  It had been almost two days since the boy had cum, mostly so his bruised and sore dick could heal.  That’s when Spike had decided that the boy liked the non-sexual touching the most.  Sex he got from Anya, an’ plenty of it.  Doubt they spent much time just holdin’ each other.  Don’t think the chit had the patience for it.

Touch, touch meant so much.  Spike’s lips curled on the most sensitive part of the boy, tongue and teeth swirling and scraping, fingers rubbing and squeezing, one hand on tightening balls, the other flat on a sucked-in stomach, just resting there, occasionally rubbing, but mostly just. . . touching.

A hitching gasp warned him.  Releasing his left hand from its fondling, he reached out and grabbed the small vial he’d purposefully left wedged in the cushions.  Upending it so that the contents spread on the pad of his pointer, he recapped it and placed it back in the cushion—he knew Song Li said only a little, but how little did she mean?

“Don’t cum,” he whispered, licking at the precum gathered at the head.  “Not yet, precious.  Just wait.  I’ll make it so good.”

I’m not nervous, he reminded himself, and eased his forefinger into the boy’s body.  It opened easily, spreading wider than it ever had, to the tune of the Xander’s breathy gasps and moans.  “That hurt?” he asked anxiously.

Frantic shakes meant no.  Okay, right.  This stuff lets him feel pleasure, but not pain.  Uh huh.  She wants me to bugger the boy?  Bloody hell.  When has my sex life become somethin’ little old ladies feel the need to meddle in?

Not that he was really objecting.

Still crooning to the boy, he daubed another bit on his finger and stretched Xander one more time.  He was not taking chances and not really because of the danger of the chip going off.  If he hurt Xander now—really hurt him, not just the pleasurepain he was sure the boy would enjoy—than he’d lose him.  Spike would abruptly be lumped into the category of those who didn’t really want Xander for him, but only for their own pleasure.

I do want you for you, Alexander Harris.  I want to make you mine.  Really mine, the way a bite would.  But since I can’t bite you. . .

He took another one of Song Li’s jars, containing lube that smelled like fire.  He slathered himself with it, one hand still petting and caressing the boy’s surging body.  “Lift up, pet.  Hold your legs under your knees, up against your chest.”  Not the best position for a virgin, but he wanted the boy to see him, to know exactly what was going on.  Fortunately, the boy was limber enough and Spike had more than enough experience to make it good.

“Spike,” the boy hissed through panted breaths.  “Want it—you.  Please, please take me!”

He had wanted it to be gentle.  He had wanted it to be safe and sweet and. . . romantic.

But Xander wanted to be taken.

Snarling into game-face, Spike lined himself up and thrust in.  Hard.  Xander screamed, arching his back and pushing down to accommodate all of Spike in the first go.  Incredible for a virgin, part of Spike’s mind whispered, grateful to the potion Song Li had given him.

The rest of his mind. . .  Heat.  Tight.  Rippling.  Soft.  Tight.  Hot, so hot.  So good.  So right.

Resting his weight on his palms, Spike nudged the boy’s thrown back neck.  “Look at me,” he growled.  “See me, a vampire, taking you, a human.  In you an’ on you, you are mine.  Forever.”

And he began to thrust.  Eyes gone black from lust and pleasure looked up, tracing over brow-less features and elongated fangs.  Then they locked with yellowed eyes, showing Spike that the boy did know what was going on.  And still wanted it.

He thrust harder, using all of his strength and speed, savaging the normal human boy who took everything he had to give.  “Mine,” he rumbled, nuzzling the scar as he jack-knifed into the willing body beneath him.  “Forever mine.”

“Yours,” Xander gasped out, and Spike wondered how they both had coherency left.  The feeling. . . it was intoxicating, spiraling through his body the way nothing ever had before.  His nerves sizzled in his skin, trying to drive out rational thought in favor of just feeling.

Xander raised his hands, gripping the cushion above his head, giving Spike the sudden impression that the boy was bound beneath him, unable to do anything but accept what his owner did to him.  Because he was owned now, in a way that no cum-claim or half-bite could really show.

Why’m. . . I thinkin’ when. . . there’s a warm, tight. . . body beneath me? he gasped out in his own mind, losing himself into the feeling of thrusting in and out of Xander’s tight passage.  The boy was clamping his muscles down, making it even tighter—making Spike force his way in, taking his pleasure.

“So good,” he gasped out.  “God, Xan, so tight. . .  Wrap—wrap you’r legs ’round me.  Hard.  Now!”

Xander complied, a tremor going through sore and tired muscles as they relaxed from their tense position.  “Good boy,” he panted out, rewarded when Xander let out a strangling cry, eyes still locked on his narrowing in intense pleasure.  “My boy.”

“Your boy.”

“Gonna make you mine,” he babbled, his rhythm faltering as he began to lose control.  “Gonna make you feel so good, cause I want it.  Gonna make your hurt too, cause I want it.  Gonna do anythin’ I want, cause you’re mine!”

“Yes, please!”

“Beg me,” Spike ordered, forcing himself to regain the rhythm and not give in to the delicious warmth that seemed to melt into his whole body.  “Beg me to fuck you.”

Xander swallowed and gasped, trying to draw in air and coherence enough to answer.  “Please, take me.  I’m yours, your boy, your fuck toy.  I’m your bitch, a body—a living body for your pleasure.  Just fuck me.  Please fuck me, Spike, please!”

“Will you call me master?”

“Yes,” the boy moaned.

“Will you call me Lord?”

“Please!  Oh, god, anything, I’ll do anything!”

“Will you obey, always and forever?”

“Yes!  Please yes!”  His eyes were open, but tears streaked down the boy’s cheeks.  His hands were white-knuckled on the cushions, and his legs clamped around Spike so hard that a normal human would have had broken ribs.

“Will you be my boy?”

“Your boy, yours!”

“Will you stay with me, always and forever?”

And suddenly, despite the mind-numbing pleasure, despite using a ritual Xander couldn’t be familiar with, there was clear understanding in those dark, dark eyes.  Understanding and a kind of internal pain so deep that it almost made him want to stop.  There shouldn’t be pain, not then, because Spike only wanted him to feel pleasure.

“I’m yours for as long as you want me.”

“Don’t. . . don’t do half-measures, luv,” Spike told him, thrusting even harder now that the formal part was out of the way.  Now it was just fucking, feeling himself pull back from that welcoming body, and then lunging forward.  His nipples scraped up and down the boy’s sweaty chest, his stomach rocking on the boy’s own fierce erection.  “I say. . . forever. . . I mean. . . forever.”

“Yours.”  The whispered word spiraled in his head, filling is mind the way he filled the boy beneath him.  It was all he needed.

Throwing back his head, he roared “MINE!” as he shot himself deeply into the boy he was truly, finally, claiming for his own.  Xander was his—and nothing was going to take him away.  Nothing.

Part Ten

His ass hurt.

Xander tried not to grin like an idiot as he shelved bottles of pickles.  It was empty enough in the supermarket that no one would see him.  Not that anyone would really care that the stock-boy looked like he was totally insane, but—there’s the principle of the thing.  That, and Spike will never let me live it down if I do this at home.

So maybe he should do it here, and not give Spike the chance.  Yeah, that might be good.

Mechanically, he reached for the bottles, stacking them neatly before moving on to the next section.  His eyes were trained on the shelves, but it was obvious that he wasn’t seeing green bottles of all shapes and sizes.  A wavering, blinding grin, goofier than his usual, stretched across his face, making it clear to any onlooker that someone was very happy.

“Xander?  Wow, Anya do something special last night?”

“Wha—Buffy!  And Riley!  Hi!”  Jumping nearly out of his skin, Xander immediately went into idiot-goofy mode, the quickest way he’d found of distracting people.  If he was acting like a five year old, no one wanted to be around him for more than a few minutes, let alone take him seriously.  “And how is my favorite couple doing on this lovely day?  Or should that be only couple?  Unless Willow’s not telling us something. . .”

Which could be more than possible, if he’d read the looks between her and the blonde girl she’d been hanging around with correctly.  Quiet, shy, and very sweet, ah, the things that attracteth the Willow.  Ignoring the insanity that was me.  And, actually, this might be a good idea.  Cause I’m thinking the Buffmeister is not gonna be thrilled when she finds out that both her best friends are gay. 

Oh, my god.  I’m gay!

 He choked, coughing roughly while Buffy pounded on his back.  “Ow!”  He glared at his friend, making sure to grin once he could breathe again.  Okay.  Let’s leave the earth-shattering revelations about male vampire sex when I’m not standing in front of Homophobia Man, and his girlfriend, the Vampire Slayer.  Right, brain?  Good.  No more thinking of bad thoughts.

It was probably not fair of him to peg Riley as a homophobe, but unfortunately Xander was sure he was right.  The soldier in his head had some stomach-churning memories that Xander didn’t like to probe too closely.  Lesbians he’s probably fine with.  Maybe even interested in.  But two guys gettin’ it on?  Uh uh.  That goes against the Natural Order Of The Universe.  Stupid git.

“Xan?  What are you talking about?”  Buffy had that cute perplexed look, where she titled her head and scrunched up her face like it hurt to think so hard.  Cute, silly Buffy.  Or maybe cute, concerned Buffy, because Xander finally realized what he’d just said.

“Um. . . yeah.  About that.  Anya—kinda left me.  Got offered her old job back and decided human boyfriend didn’t match her new ensemble at all.”  Xander bit his lip, eyeing the two blondes nervously.  Please don’t make a big deal out of this.  Please, just let me enjoy the fact that my butt hurts in a really good way and Spike is being so sweet and nice to me that I’m terrified something bad is going to happen and for once I just want to be able to really enjoy the good before the bad comes, okay?

Yes, of course he could babble in his own head.  Where else would he get the practice?

“Anya left you?”  He had visions of Cave-Slayer, cautiously sounding out words like she was unsure of their meaning.  “Anya, your girlfriend, left you.  To become a demon.  Again.”  When he nodded, her face darkened into that look that scared him even as it made his heart turn to mush.  The look that said: Something hurt my friend.  I’m going to kill it.  Slowly.  Painfully.  With many witty puns and much ass-kicking, because nothing gets away with hurting my friends.

Smiling happily right now would probably not be a good thing.  Didn’t stop the desire to, but he managed to reign that in when Riley folded his arms.  “Anya’s a demon?  Great.  So I take it we won’t be hunting down this one, either?”

“Oh, there will be hunting,” Buffy hissed, looking exactly like Spike had when he’d scented the nest of vamps Monday night.  Oh, crap.

“Hey, Buffy, c’mon, please?”  He relaxed just a touch when she finally met his eyes.  “No hunting, okay?  It wasn’t—I’m not really upset.”

“Hey, that’s right!”  The predatory look softened into confusion.  “You were grinning!  Great big Xander’s-had-chocolate grin!”

“That’s because I’m not upset,” he explained patiently.  He hoped, anyway.  “I’m not, Buffy, please don’t try and kill my ex, okay?  Besides, I think she’s in Venice.”  That’s what the note had said, anyway.  Including a bunch of stuff that still hurt to think about, so he was just going to concentrate on calming down Buffy.

“Xander.  She just dumped you to become a demon again!  How can you possibly say you aren’t upset?”

“You knew Anya was a demon the whole time?” Riley added, looking more and more annoyed when Buffy hardly even glanced at him.  The hyena in Xander’s head growled; Buffy may no longer be his pack-leader, but he’d been a part of this particular pack for a long time.

“In a minute, Riley.  Xander.  Please explain this to me, using words with small syllables, because I’m missing something.  You’re happy Anya’s gone?  I thought you two were, well—happy.  Together.”

It was impossible to be annoyed with her right now.  He wanted to, since he was scrambling to find answers that he could give her without mentioning lean, blond, and gorgeous back in his basement, but he really couldn’t.  Because her anger was for him, against the one who had supposedly hurt him.

And all this, while standing in the middle of the grocery store with my boss two aisles away.  Time for my break.

“Come outside with me?” he suggested, ushering them down to the door, his dolly and their basket left behind.  He snagged his boss’ eye on the way out, jerking his head towards the clock and mouthing ten as loudly as he could.  His boss grimaced and nodded, waving him out.

Thank god he can’t short me on break time, Xander thought with deep relief as they walked over to where Riley’s car was parked.  “So, you two planning a big evening?”

Buffy’s eyes narrowed to slits and she folded her arms across her chest, spreading her legs just a touch.  Crap.  Slayer-Buffy will not be foiled.  “Xander, what happened?  Are you okay?  Really?”

“I’m fine, Buffy.  Honest.  Anya. . . well, she was never really good with being human.  She’d get so mad at me when I’d correct her.”  He grimaced, remembering quite a few of their fights.  “So when she got this chance, she took it.”

“And left you.”

“So, what kind of demon was she?  Should we be watching out for attacks of some kind?”

Both Scoobies turned to glare at Riley and Xander was feeling just flustered enough that he didn’t close his mouth in time.  “Can it, soldier-boy,” he snapped.  “This has nothing to do with you, so just back off.”

Riley blinked, going blank-faced in shock.  Then he rallied, getting that condescendingly earnest look that made Xander see red.  “Xander, if she’s a demon—”

“She’s a demon in Venice, Riley.  If you want to go hunting her, be my guest.  Don’t be surprised when she kicks your ass.”

“Xander, Riley has a point.”  Xander turned his astonished expression on Buffy, who started shifting nervously.  Not that much of one, huh, Buffy?  When are you going to figure out that this guy is all bluster and bluff?  At least with Angel, he was the real deal.  He could watch your back, when he wasn’t watching your ass.  “Is Anya gonna be. . . vengeance-y?  Around—you?”

He sighed, losing his anger.  Riley was worried about whatever he and the Initiative worried about.  Buffy was just worried about her friend.  Nice to realize she still thinks of me as one.  Sometimes I’m not sure. . .  “No, she won’t.  She. . . there was a note, and—”

“She broke up with you through a note?  Xander!  Why aren’t you getting all vengeance-y!”  The aghast look made Xander grin and suddenly he felt a lot better about this.

“Because it’s better for both of us.  Really.  I’m not angry with her and she wasn’t angry with me.  In fact, she gave me a gift before she left.”  And no power on this earth is going to make me tell you what it is.  Even Spike doesn’t know—although seven locks may not keep my curious vampire out if he really wants to know what it is.  I should probably hide it somewhere better.  “She needed to do this, for herself.  Nothing to do with me.  So I’m okay.  Really—oomph!”

Buffy threw her arms around him, squeezing tightly enough that he was going to have to remind her of Slayer-strength.  In a minute.  Or maybe five.  Don’t make me lose this, Spike.  Please.  Because as much as I need you, I need them too.  Please don’t make me choose.

The bad feeling hovering around the edges of his mind became minutely darker.

Smiling into Buffy’s vanilla-scented hair, Xander hugged her as hard as he could.  “Thank you,” he whispered.  “But I need to breathe.”

“Oh!”  Blushing, she released him and stepped back.  “You’re a pretty incredible guy, Xander Harris,” she said with a sweet smile.  “Not many boyfriends are so understanding about a girl’s job.”

She didn’t look at Riley when she said that, so Xander didn’t either.  Instead he shrugged and gave another goofy grin.  “What, I was gonna tell her no?  When she could’ve turned my insides out with a wink?”

Riley stiffened while Buffy just grinned and tilted her head.  “You think that was a possibility?  Really?”

Well, yes, before I read her letter, I did.  I was cheating on her.  Except she says I wasn’t.  Which I don’t think I want to understand.  “No, I don’t.  She said she hesitated a little because of me.  She wanted to make sure that she wouldn’t be hurting me, not really.  She said. . . she said she thought she loved me.  Could’ve, if this hadn’t happened.”

Another hug, this time not as hard.  “How could she not?” Buffy whispered before pulling back.  “So, no broken heart to get over?”

“Nah.  Heart’s doing pretty good.”

“Good.  Now, um, don’t suppose you have that lovely employee discount card with you...?”

It was past six by the time Xander was done, leaving him tired and frustrated.  He repeatedly counted the cash he’d just taken out, passing by the stairs on the side of the house that led to the basement—and Spike.

Just drop the money and go, Xander.  It’s really easy.  Drop money on table, turn around, leave.  Hell, they might not even be here.  Please don’t be here.  Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door to the main house and entered.

It shouldn’t be this hard, he knew, but it always was.  Every time he did this.

His body felt even bigger and clumsier than usual as he shuffled through the foyer, the living room, the dining room, past the kitchen and into the Bar Room.  This was the room his parents spent most of their time in.  It had the tv, the comfy chairs, and most importantly, it had the stacks of bottles, cans, glasses, and mixes.  Everything two serious alcoholics might want.

Xander stopped going into that room when he was four.

His father was in the brown chair, watching some broadcast of some game on the television.  “That you, boy?” he asked without turning around

“Yes, sir,” Xander said quickly; hesitating was dangerous, he’d learned that early on.  “I, um—here’s the rent.  Sir.”

Mustn’t forget to call him ‘sir’.  Oh, no.  Cause then he gets pissed.

“Gimme.”  Xander laid the envelope down on the counter next to him, waiting while blunt, thick fingers stained from work and hard living rifled through the contents.  “You’re short.”

“Wh—” cutting himself off, Xander swallowed and regained control of himself.  “I’m sorry.  I thought I put the right amount in.  How short am I?”  I know I put the right amount in.  I only check several dozen times.

“Two hundred.”

Two—two hundred dollars?  I am not short two hundred dollars!  That—son of a bitch, he’s raising the rent on me?  For one precious moment, Xander felt anger coursing through him, heard himself give a wordless growl that would’ve made Spike proud, tensing his muscles and curling his fists.

Callused knuckles cracked into his cheek, roughly sending him to the ground.

He blinked away the tears, instantly schooling his features into blankness while he rubbed at the mark he knew was forming on his face.  He was yanked to his feet, backhanded again, and then punched in the same place.  When he was finally dropped, he was careful to stay exactly where he landed.  “You talkin’ back to me, son?”

“No, sir.”  He wiggled his tongue, not surprised when a rush of coppery liquid drenched his tongue.  Shit.  He swallowed quickly, ignoring his distaste in a panic to hide the blood from sight.  He always gets worse if he sees me bleed—and oh, crap.  There’s a bloodsucking vampire in my basement.  Shit.

“You think we charge you too much?  Then go get a real job, you worthless piece of shit.  And stop making all that racket!  Kept your mother up last night.”  His father leaned forward, breath making Xander gag and choke, an evil glint in his tiny, squinted eyes.  “You know what happens next, don’t you, son?  I don’t know how much longer it’s gonna last.”

Oh, fuck.

Scrambling backwards, he babbled assurances that he’d have the money, that he’d behave, and that he’d keep the noise down.  He was never precisely sure what came out of his mouth in times like these, but the babbling usually got one of two reactions.  The first was to piss his father off, and get hit some more.  The second was what happened more often—thank god—the very drunk man turning away, holding his head like his brains were going to fall out.

“Shut up!” he slurred, stumbling back into his seat and grabbing at the glass he’d set down moments before.  Taking a deep swallow, he turned bloodshot eyes back on his cringing, and still prone son.  “Two hundred.  Get it.”

“Yes, sir.”  Struggling to his feet, Xander hesitated by the doorway.  “Can—Sir, may I go to my room?  The upstairs room?”  Gotta clean up, or Spike—oh, god, what is Spike gonna do when he finds out?

His father waved, already turning back to the game and his drink.  I might as well not exist to the drunken asshole. . . but just in case.  Xander managed to get his thank you out, the words choking in his throat as he turned and frantically headed up the stairs.

He spat blood into the sink, wishing his head didn’t spin so much in the downward position.  Glancing in the mirror, he almost gagged.  His cheek was a brilliant red, and his left eye was just a touch swollen.  Shit.  Double shit.  Spike is gonna be pissed that I went and got myself hurt.  He’s always telling me that he’s the only one who’s allowed to. . . he’s gonna be so mad at me.

His body began to shake, the usual after effects of a run-in with his loving family taking hold.  More blood filled his mouth, a bit of it trickling down his throat.  Gagging at the taste, he managed to get to the toilet before his body forcibly removed the blood—and anything else he’d eaten in the past day.  Which wasn’t much.  Well, Spike made me eat breakfast.  But there was no evidence of actual food in the mess, just blood.  Lots of blood.

He dry heaved for a long time, careful to keep his eyes tightly closed after the first time—watching always made him get sick again.  Once he was certain he was done, he closed the lid and turned back to the small first aid kit he still kept up here.  The much bigger one was downstairs, but there was no way he could go down there looking like this.

Spike’ll kill me.  Who cares about the chip?  If Spike finds out that I let someone else hurt me, he’ll kill me.  Then them.  That’s okay, don’t care about them, but Spike will. . . god, he’s. . . he’ll be so mad.  I’m sorry. . . not—please, I didn’t mean. . . don’t be mad. . .

The shaking got worse as he gargled with salt water, ignoring the pain when the salt touched his split cheek.  He had to stop the bleeding.  It took several repetitions and tears were streaming down his face before he was certain that it was clean and dry.  Then he brushed his teeth.

A lot.

Ten minutes later he realized his teeth had to be clean by now and that his time was running out.  It was barely seven o’clock on a Thursday night, and his father wouldn’t be drunk enough not to remember how long Xander had been up here.  Washing himself as thoroughly as he could, he began applying his ‘standard’.

Wouldn’t the girls laugh to know I put makeup on better than they do?

Five minutes and he looked—tired and obviously not in the best of health, but not injured anymore.  The makeup on his cheek was thick enough that it would hide the bruising he knew was coming, and his eye wasn’t as badly swollen as he’d thought.  Thank god.  I can hide most things, but not a swollen-shut eye.  Spike would definitely notice that.

So, Xander would just have to distract him.

He cleaned up his mess, flushed and headed towards his bedroom.  His old bedroom.  He never stayed in that room for more than a few minutes—too painful.  Ignoring the posters he’d love to transfer down to the basement—need an excuse for being up here—he headed towards his few stacks of books. 

Yes, Wills, I do actually read for fun.  And since I’ve got an attention-deficit vampire in my basement, I need to find some distractions for him.  Telly’s gonna get old.  He’d seen the signs of a bored vampire before, and wanted to head them off if he could.  Spike was dangerous when he was bored.

Stuffing his assortment of mystery and horror novels into a bag, he hesitated, and then changed his clothes as well.  He wasn’t sure how good Spike was at smelling him, but he wasn’t going to take any chances.  The clothes he shoved on were too small and even more threadbare than usual, but since they were his brightest clothes—prints on both shirt and pants—hopefully that would distract Spike from noticing either of those things.

Please don’t be mad, Spike.  I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.  Just don’t be mad at me.

“Alexander!”  The shout ricocheted off the walls, sharper than any gunshot.  Xander jumped nearly out of his skin, then hurried down the stairs, cloth bag bumping his legs.  His father waited at the bottom, a nasty glare darkening his reddened face.  Xander swallowed and lowered his head submissively.  It never worked, but that didn’t mean he was above trying to use it.

Never works cause he’s too dumb to see it for what it is, he thought venomously.  That, and the hyena whose habits he was copying was not happy about submitting to someone who was not pack, nor alpha.  In fact, it wanted to hit the man—the soldier, too.  Neither could understand the paralyzing, child-like fear Xander felt every time he ran into his parents.

“Yes, sir?”

“Aren’t ya done yet, boy?”  He swayed, and grabbed onto the banister with a white-knuckled hand, making Xander blanch pure white under the makeup.

“Yes, sir.  I’m leaving now, sir.”

“Good.  Stupid brat.  Outta m’way.”

Xander flattened himself against the wall, keeping his head down while his father lumbered past him.  Don’t look at me, don’t see me, there’s nothing here, just a waste of space.  Don’t see the cover job I’ve done, because that always makes you madder, and then you call me a fag for wearing makeup.  Which is true, you asshole.  Only for a week, but you won’t care, will you?  You figure out that I give it up to guys, and well, that’s proof you’ve been right for years.  Although how a four year old was one thing or the other I’ve never understood. . .

Just don’t see me at all, okay?  Just go upstairs, please. . .

He didn’t start breathing normally until he had raced down the stairs to the basement, door dead-bolted behind him.  Not gonna do much if he’s serious enough. . .  But he felt better, knowing that several locks, only two of which his father had the key to, and a deadbolt were between him and the loving bosom of family.

Spike was asleep on his bed, stark naked with the blankets bunched up around his feet.  He’s so beautiful.  He set the books down, dumping the clothes in the washer and pouring soap on top of it.  His hands shook so badly that most of the soap landed on the floor. 

Hopefully, that scent of the soap would muffle any other  scents until he could actually run it.  Then he turned back to the bed.  Men aren’t supposed to be beautiful.  Handsome, yeah, but not beautiful, like some statue.  Michelangelo?  Is that who I mean, Will?  He must have either been starving or worked out fanatically when he was human.  Because the vampire, ladies and gentleman, is ripped.

The familiar, panicked babble started up, and he was helpless to resist the thoughts tumbling inside his head.

Why is he so beautiful?  Moving closer, he watched as the pale white chest moved up and down, breath softly whooshing against the cotton of the pillow.  If Xander put his hand there he knew it would be cold and dry, totally unlike a human.  In and out, in and out. . . that’s what made me see it.  When I realized that it was more than just the hyena.  Watching him inhale and exhale, even while asleep, like he was human.  Like he was Buffy with the super-strength and the super-speed, except he doesn’t have the sun and the laughter that she does.  And I think he misses it.

His legs abruptly gave out.

Tears burned, and if he’d been alone he would have curled up into a ball and shook until he was afraid the teeth would rattle out of his skull.  But he wasn’t alone.  And if Spike found out. . . he’ll be so mad at me.  I’m sorry, I don’t want to make you mad.  Please don’t be mad at me?  I’ll be good, I promise.

He felt a whimper growing in his throat, and suddenly he knew what he needed to do.  Don’t be mad, please don’t be mad, Spike?  Please don’t be mad.  He searched for the little vial Spike had told him about that morning, about how it dulled pain without dulling the pleasure.  It was a magic vial.

Just a little.  Not too much.  He skimmed out of his clothing, tossing the brightly colored clothes into a corner where Spike would see them.  See, nothing wrong with me.  Nothing to be mad at.  He poured a small amount—tiny, tiny—on his finger and reached behind himself.

Ohhhh, Spike.

The finger slid in easily, filling him, making his inner muscles feel like he was suddenly in a sauna, or getting a professional massage.  His dick filled and rose without a single touch of his other hand, which was busy holding himself open.  It felt. . . not perfect, perfect was when Spike was inside of him—but close.  So close.  So good.

He carefully stretched and prepared himself, stopping only when three fingers moved in him easily.  Then he took one of the other bottles, and slicked himself up with something that smelled of rain and thunderstorms.

Xander paused once he was ready to begin.  Spike was still deeply asleep, body moving in quiet, gentle rhythm.  His penis lay soft and small, nestled in curls that matched the color of his eyebrows.  Legs tossed wide, like he was saying he knew he was the alpha and everyone else could just stop and stare.  His manhood was impressive even softened in sleep, and everyone should know it.

The whimper leaked out his pursed lips, the shaking returning now that he wasn’t concentrating on manipulating his own body.  To stave both of them off, Xander laid down in between those spread legs and nuzzled into Spike’s balls.

Smells good, he thought, frightening himself with the intensity of that thought.  It smelled wonderful, like he never wanted to move from this position again.  His mouth belonged here, licking along the crease of the sac, flicking lightly at the head of the penis as he withdrew slightly.  Then down, to that small strip of skin that Spike could drive him wild by just running a finger over.  He licked and sucked, trying not to grin when the statue-perfect body jerked under his mouth and parts of it definitely woke up.

Xander played some more, humming and sucking and occasionally even nipping, until he was sure that Spike was totally erect.  Then he used the flat part of his tongue to lick all the way up to the tip of Spike’s cock—and then swooped down to the base.

He worked his throat, remembering how much Spike had loved when he’d done that by accident, trying to ignore the growing constriction in his chest.  When it got to be almost too much, he worked his way back up, inhaling huge amounts through his nose.  Knew being a swimmer could be good for something.  It burned slightly along the left side of his face, the skin stretching painfully and pulling at the cut in his mouth, but he ignored it.  So long as he didn’t bleed, pain wasn’t important.  He concentrated on licking and sucking, thrusting the tip of his tongue into the tiny slit, hands coming up to fondle the neglected sac while he nipped hard right where the foreskin began.

Spike’s body shifted, legs changing their angle, but other than an explosive bit of exhaling, the vampire appeared to remain asleep.  Not for long, a devilish part of Xander grinned.  But the mischievousness felt forced, even in his own mind.

He licked back up to the top like a lollipop, sucking on the precum he found there and wishing he could swallow it.  It tasted so good.  Instead, he dribbled it along the length of the shaft, wondering if he even needed anything more.  Deciding that it was too soon to take chances, he scooped out another finger-full of the faintly blue-ish gel and smeared it all over the proudly straining erection.

Do I want to know how Spike is sleeping through this?  Quick glance at the top of the bed, where the sculpted face was still relaxed and open the way it never was when Spike was awake.  No.  Just. . . don’t be mad at me, okay?  I just want to please you.

He straddled the narrow hips and slowly, agonizingly, sat down.  Full.  Like home—and here he could almost smell that scent that made him feel so good—like perfection.  Oh, god, Spike you feel so good inside me.

Stifling his moans, Xander used the muscles of his thighs to lever himself up and down.  He started slow, concentrating on the feel of Spike slipping in and out of him.  The bumps and ridges and veins were easily distinguishable when he squeezed tightly.  Memorizing the feel, he felt brave enough to start going a little faster.  Not much.  Just enough that a pleasant tingling started deep within him and traveled along the length of his aching cock.

He changed the angle just a little bit, to take some of the pressure off his knees, and couldn’t stop the deep groan.  Oh, god, there, Spike, right there. . .  Every little movement brought a new kind of pressure to his prostrate, pushing him closer.

No!  Too soon, pack-leader isn’t—not until Spike is ready.  Have to wait!  He reached down to grab the base of his own erection, glancing up half-instinctively for permission.

Two eyes glowed eerily up at him.

Xander froze.  Moonlight from the far window bathed Spike’s white flesh in an ethereal glow.  Shadows obscured his face, hiding everything but those shining eyes.  There was nothing human or earthly to the vision before him.  This alien being made of marble and beauty, watching him with eyes that dazzled.

“Don’t stop.”  The words were whispered, floating along the air currents to tug at the strings controlling Xander’s movements.  No longer in danger of finishing too soon, Xander brought his hands back down to his knees and began a rolling, rocking rhythm that seemed to twist even as it moved up and down.

“Yesssss,” Spike hissed.  He made no move to grab onto Xander’s hips, something he’d half-expected.  Instead Spike pushed fists deep into the bed, his arms straining and cording in the silvery light.  “Faster.”

Instantly, Xander was leaning forward just enough that he could gain speed.

“No.  Lean back.  Yessssss.”  That same hiss of pleasure, the reflected light disappearing for an instant as Spike closed his eyes.  “Faster.”

Throwing his head back, Xander did as he was told.

There were no words, which was unusual.  Spike was very vocal in his pleasure, able to form coherent words up until the final moment.  Now, though, Spike was silent but for the panting and the occasional commands.  Just watching him as he moved up and down and up and down, squeezing himself tightly so that Spike would have nothing but pleasure.

Then, suddenly, one hand was clamped down hard on his hip, the other fisting his penis harshly.  Xander bit his lip until it bled, trying hard not to cry out from pleasure so strong it hurt.  “Now,” Spike gasped, “cum now, boy.  Xan—”

Xander swallowed his scream at the last instant, feeling his muscles contract in his release, which brought Spike to his.  Spike, too, was silent in his orgasm, although Xander could hazily see the distended muscles in the body below his.  I did that.  I made him happy like that.  Then the exhaustion kicked in.  Wavering, he gripped his knees even harder, forcing himself to remain upright, with Spike still deep inside him.

Spike gave a weak chuckle.  Hands reached up and pulled him down flat, so that he covered Spike’s body almost totally.  “Warm, you are,” was whispered into his ear.  “Like a bloody furnace.”

“Sorry,” he managed to mumble into Spike’s collarbone.  Mad?  He tensed to try and force himself to move.

“Don’t be.”  Arms snaked out from underneath his own, circling him snugly.  Xander relaxed, happy that Spike was pleased.  His body sated and content, wrapped up in Spike’s strong embrace, all the emotions from the previous hour slipped away.  He was safe here with pack-leader.  Safe with Spike.

Spike held him a little tighter, a rumbling sound vibrating between their bodies.  Xander smiled.  He loved this part of sex with Spike.  Well, no.  He loved sex with Spike, period.  But this, this holding and just being with your partner?  He’d never had that before, and hadn’t known how much he wanted it until he did.

Cordelia, he had never done something as, well, quiet as this.  She was too busy ripping me to little Xander-pieces every time she opened her mouth.  Including when it was just to stick her tongue down my throat.

Anya hadn’t liked it much, either.  A little after sex was okay, but far sooner than he liked she was pushing him off, complaining that he was too hot and heavy.  Watching movies meant each person on ‘their’ side of the couch, except if Anya wanted something rubbed.

Spike likes it, though.  Amazingly, it didn’t even have to be post-sex.  They’d spent all of Sunday curled up together in a human-demon pretzel, watching movies and munching on blood-drenched popcorn.  Spike’s bowl, anyway.  Each night was passed in a tangle of limbs, sleeping on and under each other—and Spike hadn’t ever made a single move to get rid of his human leech.  Big Bad Cuddler.  The thought made him muffle a snort in Spike’s skin.

“Whasso funny?” Spike slurred, twisting so that he could see Xander’s face.

“Nothing.”

Spike arched an eyebrow but didn’t press.  Instead he gently rolled Xander off, stretching his arms up over his head and twisting his lower half one way, then the other.  He looked up, blinking at whatever he saw on Xander’s face.

God, he really is like a statue.  The way the muscles play under the skin. . .he’s so beautiful.

“Luv?  You okay?  Look a bit fuzzy there.”  Amused confusion turned to concern.  “Doesn’t hurt, does it?”

“You’re beautiful.”  Spike looked startled for an instant, then smirked, preening a bit before tugging Xander back towards him.

“Mm.  So’re you.  C’mere.”  Xander pressed back in, sighing contentedly when Spike began petting his hair.  He could go back to sleep just like this, no problem.  “Are you okay?  Want to sleep some?  You were gone too long.”

“I only worked five hours today, Spike.”  Xander quickly checked through his various aches and pain, assessing just how tired he was.  Which was very.  But he wasn’t hurt too badly and he’d run on pure enthusiasm before. . . Spike said he had a surprise for me.  I. . . I want that.  More than sleep.  “I’m okay,” he said into Spike’s shoulder.  “Tired.  But okay.  So what are we doing tonight?

“Told you, pet.  It’s a surprise.”  He could hear the smirk and the anticipation in the vampire’s voice.  Smiling, he felt some of his tiredness slip away—a picture of Spike bouncing like Willow does when she’s like this helps, of course.  “You sure you’re okay, luv?  Gonna work you, I am.”

“Thought you just did.  I’m fine.  And I’m not pretty.”

A light smack to the back of his head.  He grinned up at Spike, amused.  “Please tell me?  Pleeeeease?”  Xander tried his hardest to look cute and pathetic, mentally steeling himself to slip back into the goofy mask he hid behind.

Spike hesitated for a brief moment and nodded.  Then the smirk came back.  “Training, boy.  Tonight I start teachin’ you how to fight, for real.”

“And Monday wasn’t?”  His grin became slightly less forced, body tensing as a new surge of adrenaline cut through the last of the exhaustion.

“Nah.”  Spike pushed them both to their feet and over to the shower.  “Monday,” he explained while they soaped each other down, “was to see what you could do.”  Xander moaned quietly as Spike sank to his knees and began kneading his calves.  Ohhh, nice.  No idea what he’s doing, but I’m not going to complain.

“Lift an’ flex,” Spike ordered, peering through the water to watch as Xander obeyed.  “Good.  Movin’ better.”

I’m huh?  “Spike?”

Spike settled onto the back of his heels, looking upward while the water continued to pound on his back.  His hair was totally plastered to his head, which was tilted in that totally Spike way that said ‘I’m thinking about something’.  He looked incredibly serious.  Almost blank-faced. . . and then he smirked, and the seriousness faded as if it never existed.  “Got a problem with me touchin’ you, puppy?”  Xander blinked, totally confused, but obediently shook his head.  No, he really didn’t.  ”Come on, then.”

Xander could feel Spike’s eyes on him as they dressed.  “Sure you’re not hurtin’?”

“No, that stuff you have works great.  No pain at all.”  And did he get that to fool the chip, or did he really not want to hurt me?  No, shut up brain.  Think about fighting.

“Meant anywhere.”

For one precious instant Xander met Spike’s blue, blue eyes—and relaxed.  Quelled the urge to babble for all he was worth; Spike would know something was wrong for sure, then.  “Nope, all good.  Not a twinge or a peep.”

Please don’t press.  Please.

The worst part was that he wasn’t badly hurt.  The worst was his left eye wanting to swell; everything else was so minor it was easy to ignore.

He’d had enough practice at it

Spike seemed mollified with Xander’s casual dismissal, herding them out of the basement and into the cool, crisp air.  “Off we go.  Half the night’s already gone, thanks to you.”  The glare had no real heat to it and the sated pleasure told a different story.  “So, we gotta hurry.  I wanna watch you sweat.”

Classic Spike-smirk, and Xander was sufficiently distracted as they walked toward the docks.  The walk helped, the quiet giving Xander a chance to take firm control of himself again.  Three blocks before it really was nothing but wooden dock, Spike turned to an old abandoned building and unlocked it.

“Um, Spike?  Not to sound like a stupid human or anything but—”

“Relax, puppy,” Spike interrupted.  He sounded wearily aggrieved and Xander tensed before he realized it was manufactured.  “Totally legit.  I know the bloke who owns this place.  He doesn’t mind us using it.”

“Bloke, meaning demon.”

“Yeah, a Than.  Decent sort of demon; you do them a favor, they’re right quick to return it.  Handed the keys over no questions asked.”

And if I believe that’s the whole story, then I’m as dumb as Willow and Buffy think I am.

He didn’t press, content to trail behind the flapping black duster and look around.  The main room was obviously meant for storage or distribution area.  It was huge, several stories tall of metal and cement and filled with dust, debris, and the accumulation of random junk.  Drifters had obviously used this building as temporary relief from cold or wet, but none of it looked recent. 

Spike led him away from the main room, through what had obviously been an office to oversee loading and unloading whatever the merchandise had been.  In the back was a metal door.

Spike forced it open, growling under his breath about upkeep and rust.  Propping it open with a cinder block found on the floor, Spike flicked at the light switch.

“There we go.”  It took almost a full minute for the florescent lights to come on, illuminating a—huh? 

Mats, not new but not old enough to be in total decay, were propped up against the walls and scattered about the hardwood floors.  Dirt was less plentiful here—no human would have been strong enough to get in, given the way Spike had been straining to open the door, and the no windows only helped.  Perfect place for vampires to nest—

Or work out?!

Several aerobic machines and quite a few weight machines lined three of the walls.  The fourth was for a wide assortment of free weights and a bar like a ballerina used, all of which reflected back at him from the line of full-length mirrors.  An ancient refrigerator hummed in the far corner, matching the sound of the lights.

“Great, he got it,” Spike exclaimed, heading over to the fridge and rummaging around.  “Perfect.  Gotta thank him.”

“So, we’re what?  Going to train me to be a body-builder?”

“Heh.  No.”  He headed for the mats stacked by the wall.  “You ain’t gonna use those until we get some basics into you.  Tonight, puppy boy, you learn how to fall.”

Xander hesitantly entered the room, still looking around in wonder.  The walls, except for the one with the mirrors, were painted black.  “Are you gonna stand there all soddin’ night or help me?” Spike growled, tossing a mat down with a whoosh and a loud bang.

“What are we doing again?”  Despite his nervousness, Xander grabbed the one nearest to him and began wrestling it over.  Spike began setting them up, creating a large area.  “Cause I’m thinking I know how to fall, Spike.  I’ve had a lot of practice at it.”

He couldn’t stop the bitterness in his voice.  Staring at his feet as he went for more mats, he hoped like hell that Spike just thought he meant when helping Buffy patrol.

“No.  You don’t.”

Xander froze at the quiet, pensive sound of Spike’s voice.  The skin of his back shivered, the hairs raising at the old, old pain he heard in the voice of an eternal teenager. . .

Use humor, Xander.  That’s what you do, remember?  “Nah, I’m thinking I have a lot of practice,” he said cheerfully, doing his damndest to look like an idiot kid who hadn’t heard the undertones and was taking the words at face value.  “There have been a lot of demons who’ve had the pleasure, shared by many a bully from school.  Oh, Angelus threw me into a wall a couple times.  And every time I go patrolling with Buffy, I fall at least once.  Sometimes she’s the one who throws—”

“Boy.”  Same quiet, spooky tone of voice and Xander shut up.  Babble was just going to piss Spike off.  Deep in his gut the thing he’d tried hard to ignore uncurled with a wail.  Please don’t be mad?  I’m sorry, I’ll be good, just don’t be mad. . .

Spike gave him a glare, and the trembling terror relaxed minutely.  “Not talkin’ ’bout gettin’ thrown, wanker.  Talkin’ about falling.  Correctly.  So you don’t get hurt, and you can get up as fast as you can.”

“You don’t mean getting tossed around, like I usually do.”

“I mean, learnin’ how to not to get tossed around like you usually do.  Learnin’ how t’ stay on your own two feet.  Get that, an’ half your problems disappear.”  Spike sighed and stared at the ceiling briefly before meeting his eyes again.  “Look, pet.  You’re strong, even for Average Joe Human.  You’re stupidly brave, chargin’ into a fight like a bloody puppy when you know you’re outgunned.  You’ve watched the Slayer for enough years to pick up on some technique.”

Xander snorted, embarrassed by the twisted compliments.  “Then why am I so damned bad?”

“Because Slutty’s got the whole supernatural gig workin’ for her.  You’re just a boy who isn’t comfortable in his own body, yet.  She’s got instincts and a feel for fightin’, the kinda thing you just know.”

A bitter laugh caught them both by surprise.  Gotta calm down, he thought fiercely.  Spike’s worried about something.  He was—Xander could see it in the dark blue eyes that tracked every movement he made.  “So what you’re telling me, is that I’ll never be as good as Buffy.”

“Hell no.  Y’ain’t the Slayer, luv.  But you sure as hell can do better’n that git, Riley.”  Spike sneered the name, adding a falsetto twist.  “You got brains an’ you got heart.”

“Yeah, but no instincts or that feel for fighting.”  Bitter sarcasm is not going to convince Spike that all is well in Xanderland.

Spike didn’t seem to hear it, though, shrugging nonchalantly.  “So, you learn it.  Can learn to do just about anythin’, luv, even if you ain’t got no feel for it when y’start.  You think readin’ an’ writin’ is natural for humans?  No.  You practiced.  You learned.  An’ you got yourself a bang-up teacher to show you.”

Spike removed coat, shirt, boots and socks, while he spoke, now clad only in the sweat pants he’d borrowed.  Xander hesitantly did the same, nervously trying to not cross his arms self consciously.  He knew his body looked horribly pudgy and misshapen.  Turning back to face Spike, he was grateful that the vampire met his eyes and held them.

“Okay.  I get that, I guess, but how can you train me?  The chip?”

Spike shrugged, digging out a bag and rummaging through it.  “Told you before.  Don’t need to hit ya to show you how to do it.  An’ you can hit me no problem.  For the rest. . . we’ll see what happens.”

“Like if you try not to hurt me, it might let you?”

“We’ll see,” was all he said, but Xander was pretty sure that’s what the vampire was going to try.  “Ready to start?”

“Um.  Sure, okay.  What, exactly, are we going to be doing?”  It’s not that I’m really scared of you, Spike, except that you terrify me.  Especially when—gulp—you get that look in your eye and your waaay too close and—eep?

Spike just smirked evilly, inches from his nose.  “Now we learn.”  Then he dropped like someone had just smacked into him and—what the hell?  Buffy doesn’t do that!

“S’called ‘slap the ground’.  You’re gonna do it over an’ over an’ over again till you bloody well get it right.  Hands like so,” Spike demonstrated, “shift your weight into the throw, so you can move your body to where you want it.”

Spike pushed himself upright and looked at Xander, expectantly.  Um.  He wants me to, what?  Throw myself onto the ground and slap it?  My life sucks.  I wanted weapons!  A sword, or a whip, maybe even an ax.  What do I get?  Slap The Ground.

Nervous, he tried to copy Spike’s movements.  “Not bad,” was the pronouncement.  “Keep more on your hands, but not so much that your wrists hurt.  We’ll do some strengthening exercises later, an’ then we gotta work on your flexibility.”

Oh, joy.  I can’t wait.

“Now, up, an’ do it again.  Get good enough tonight, an’ I’ll try throwin’ you on your back.  Teach ya how to deal with that.”

Let’s not forget, Xander thought wearily as he got back to his feet.  I wanted to do this.  In fact, I nearly begged for it.  Memories of Monday night before Spike consented to take him out floated through his mind.  Okay, so not so nearly.  I am so stupid.

Under Spike’s direction, he turned so he could watch himself in the mirror.  He glanced over to his left, reassured to see Spike when there was nothing visible in the silvered glass in front of him.  Hate that vampire thing.  It’s worse than the no-sunlight rule.  Sighing, he did what Spike told him, over and over, concentrating on the accented voice that controlled his movements with the skill of an accomplished puppet-master.

He wondered if he was glad he couldn’t see Spike’s face.

Part Eleven

**Contains graphic depictions of torture. If you don't like that kind of thing, don't read it**

“So this demon was, what?” Buffy asked the assembled Scoobies.  “Munching on little dogs and cats?  Cause. . . that’s just wrong.”  She tossed her hair, before crossing her arms and pouting like a little girl.  “Giles, we have to stop this.  It’s hurting puppies!”

“And kitties,” Willow added with the same kind of abhorrence, although she kept glancing to her left at the shy blonde girl beside her.  That one wasn’t going ‘ewww’ the way the first two girls were; if anything, she looked calmly expectant—under the ever-present hesitancy, anyway.

Spike wondered when the rest of them were going to twig the fact that this girl was dealing far too well with Slayers, and vampires, and other things that went bump in the night.  He didn’t care, precisely, but secrets were useful and he was trying to ferret out hers.

Secrets. . .

***Spike held his boy tightly, wishing that he could be what this dark-haired beauty needed him to be.  Knowing he wasn’t, whatever it was.  Because that smell, that horrible, horrible smell of fear and desperation and pain and worry was still there, after shagging, after working him hard in their new gym, and then shagging some more.  That smell was still there.  And when did I stop wanting that smell?  When did it stop being delicious?  But he knew.  He knew the moment his boy came down those stairs, smelling like that, and he’d been powerless.  Totally powerless to do what needed to be done.***

Over a month later and he was still powerless.

He glanced over to his left, to the bar stool chairs by the kitchen Xander was half-leaning on.  Leaning, not sitting, under two layers of long sleeves and thick protective corduroys—despite the unseasonable warmth of early December.

The growl started low in his throat, but it was fighting the rise of his demon that made him aware of the rumble before it was more than just a menacing vibration.  He forced himself to stop both.  Well, mostly.  He caught Buffy giving him an appraising look—fuck, she sensed it—but when she didn’t say anything he guessed that she hadn’t understood it for what it was.

Stupid chit.  Didn’t the Watcher ever teach her these things?  Bloody Slayer, she is.  There was no real derision to the words, even inside his own head.  Mostly, there was relief and a small amount of thankfulness.  He knew her slayer-senses were picking up on various things before he could control them.  She seemed, however, to write them off as ‘normal behavior’ for a vampire.

Which was partially true.

It was normal behavior, for an un-ensouled, un-chipped vampire that was three hairs away from going on a killing spree that would make Columbine look like a genteel outing to the country.

Blood spatter on the walls always makes such pretty pictures, it does.  Guts and organs like modern art, cocking up the Rarschach blots and giving it just a touch of class.  Some teeth for contrast, scattered about like little pearls.  Hair and eyes to frame it all.

Fuck.  Xander was looking at him, confused and a little wary.  He understood the emotions seething below the faint actions, even though he obviously didn’t understand the why of it, or who it was directed at.  Thank god the boy was so adorably clueless sometimes. . .

If he did know, Spike was damned sure what would happen.  Spike wasn’t an idiot.  If Xander had even the smallest inkling that Spike was onto him. . . which is why I work so damned hard to keep him clueless.  Won’t have him runnin’ from me.  Not from me.  I’m the one he should run to.

The strength of his reaction was what bothered him, when he wasn’t lost in the red mass of hatred and rage.  Part of it he readily understood—he was well aware of how frighteningly possessive he could be of his things.  The lengths he would go to for their protection.  So when his initial desire to maim, destroy, and kill ripped through him, he had reveled in it.

But it wasn’t just about protecting what was his.  Not really.  Not anymore.

Mother fucking pieces of shit.  How could. . .   He knew how.  It was a depressingly common story that he’d lived out in his own life, at least twice.  Possibly three times—Dru was fickle like that.  He knew, but knowing didn’t make it any better.

None of the others know.  That was obvious, had been the instant he’d finally twigged it.  For one moment, he’d been blind in his rage, ready to rip and tear and break the ones who called him friend.  Except. . . he didn’t want them to.  Hid it, best he could, an’ he was good at it.  I lived with him for two weeks an’ I didn’t know.  Hell, if he hadn’t come down, smelling the way he did. . .  How could they, who only saw the face he wanted ’em to?  Not like he ever got their full attention, and him so good at shiftin’ it when he did.  No surprise that he got away with it—except from Spike.

It had taken all of his acting ability to gloss over it, to pretend he was still asleep and let the events play out naturally.  A kind of self-control he never knew he possessed had kept his expression unknowing, his words unshaded.  When all he wanted to do—listen to the pretty screams as I tear their tongues out.  Break the knuckles, one by one, let the bones shatter under the skin so nothin’ can be done with ’em, even if they heal up, smell the fear and pain as the sons of bitches piss themselves and beg for mercy that they never gave. . .

He felt a kind of rage towards his erstwhile Sire he’d never felt before.  It was because of him that these people who his boy called friend based so much upon a soul—a soul meant ‘good guy’, someone who could never hurt people. 

It made Spike furious.  Don’t these chits see the real world?  Or are they so lost to the magic that they can’t see the pain an’ suffering normal people have, without ever meetin’ a demon?  Yeah, s’true most humans don’t drain their victims with their teeth, or rip their hearts out with their own clawed hands, but that don’t stop ’em from grabbin’ a knife or a gun and doin’ the deed that way.  Normal, soulful humans.  Human who’ve made even demons take note with the tortures they devise.  Who the hell cares about a soul when their actions are so. . . evil?

But these humans were curiously blind when it came to the normal every day hell that most people lived in.  It served as a coping mechanism, he knew that—it wasn’t like they didn’t know it happened.  It was just that when presented with the evidence, they looked to the supernatural first.  The more mundane explanations never really crossed their minds.

Boy counted on that.  Had to’ve.  Used it so bloody naturally that he’d had practice, an’ lots of it.  The anger came back, white hot and burning along dead nerves.  Through it all, the thought wasn’t ‘they hurt what’s mine’, the way it had been when Angelus and his bloody great arse had flounced its way to Drusilla’s bed.  That had been comprised of possession, humiliation, jealousy and a deep self-loathing at his powerlessness.  This was far, far more simple.

They hurt him.

“Bleachy!  Oh, Fangless. . .”  Spike snarled, pushed out of his thoughts by the dulcet whine of the Slayer.  Glaring at her, he raised one eyebrow.  “Haven’t you been paying attention?  You’re supposed to patrol with me.”

“What, tonight?”  Fuck, no, not tonight!  Dammit, Slayer!  Pick another night—any other night!  “Sorry, can’t do it.  Have to wash my hair.”

“This is not a request, Spike.”  Giles, the great leader of their ragtag band had apparently put his foot down, and that was that.  “This demon may only target the ah, more domesticated members of human households. . .”  I am going to rip your lungs out for that, you toff.  “. . .but what Riley described warrants the additional support.  You are our next strongest fighter, therefore, you will accompany Buffy on tonight’s patrol.”

Fuck.  Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.  I can’t do it tonight, don’t you see that, you soddin’ wanker?  Open your bloody eyes!  Look at the way he moves, the way he talks, the way he’s fucking terrified!

Spike shifted, trying hard to think of an argument that wouldn’t include little boys and the need to protect them from the Big Bad World.  Did I remember to put more money in his account?  Thank god the boy’s too clueless to really pay attention to his bank statements. 

It had been ridiculously easy to create a separate account to funnel money into the boy’s.  Xander hadn’t really noticed yet, despite the few offhand comments about the bank crediting him several hundred dollars.  So long as the balance didn’t look too distorted, he apparently was going to ignore it.  Idiot, Spike thought fondly.

“Why, Spike!  Got a hot date tonight?”

Xander choked, although only Spike noticed.  Cause I’m the only psychotic vampire that listens obsessively to the boy’s breathing an’ heartbeat.  Wanker. What the hell am I gonna—wait, that’s it.  Good.  He tried hard to ignore the relief he felt now that he had a viable plan to work with.  Though why I’m feelin’ relief leaves somethin’ t’ be desired. . .  I am utterly pathetic.  “Yeah, matter o’ fact, I do.  Boy’s comin’ with, too.”

Please just trust me, pet.  You have to play along for this to work.  He met chocolate brown eyes out of the corner of his, reading the confusion—and the willingness to babble his way into whatever Spike wanted.

Along with the ever-present terror.

He forced another growl down.  Don’t worry, boy.  Told you I take care of what’s mine.  He cursed the chip with a string of words he hadn’t used since those first horrible weeks he realized what, exactly, his new situation entailed.  The little piece of plastic and wires in his skull preventing him from doing what all his instincts were screaming for: kill the ones who hurt his boy.  Then he’d grab him and take him so far away that nothing would remind him of home.

Won’t work, though.  Even without the chip, it wouldn’t work.  Like him stubborn, I do, an’ he’d get all guilty and weepy over his dearly departed.  An’ he’d miss his friends.  So, can’t just take him an’ run.  Gotta do this subtle.  Careful.  Patient.  Damn, I suck at this part.

He had a plan, although how long he could stick to it he wasn’t sure.  Waiting was never his strong suit, he remembered gleefully telling Angelus, and this was the worst kind of waiting.  Because it could go horribly wrong at any moment.

An’ that wasn’t foreboding, was it?  Lovely.  I just buggered m’self.

“Spike.  Where exactly are you going with Xander?”  Giles folded his arms, looking like a stern parent glaring at his daughter’s prospective date.  Which actually isn’t too far off, innit?  The Scoobies had reluctantly accepted Spike into their sanctum, grudging of the Felix-and-Oscar routine he and the boy had created.  Oh, they kept it true to their personalities—he was surly and rude to everyone, Xander trailing behind cleaning up the mess when he wasn’t helping to cause it—but after a month no one commented too closely on the oddness of it. 

He’d overheard Willow saying to the blonde chit that she was glad that Xander finally had a guy-friend to do all those guy-things with—insert air-quotes and baffled expression where appropriate—even if it was Spike who was the new friend.  And wasn’t it odd that Spike was acting more like a real person lately?  “Oh, he’s still his snarky bad-ass self,” Willow had said earnestly.  “But he’s not actively trying to kill us, and he could.  So, I guess, it’s kind of like he likes us—right?”  The blonde had nodded, and Spike had been very grateful that he couldn’t actually see her expression at the moment.  He was terrified of what he might read in those fathomless eyes.

Don’t need anyone else seeing how pathetic I am.  Thanks, doin’ that just fine on my own.  An’ when the hell did Xander-babble become contagious!  He’d seen the boy space out for moments at a time, lost in his own whirling thoughts—just like he had done.  For longer than just a few moments, if the startled, confused, and annoyed glares meant anything.

“Look.  Boy’s got what, four jobs?  Five?  Can’t keep ’em longer’n a week, neither.  So, I think since I’m stuck with him, an’ if I want cable or the good stuff with m’blood, gonna have to do my part, right?  Got a friend who’s hiring, said I’d bring droopy boy here over and have a look-see.”  See, selfish, greedy Spike.  Pay off some debts to old friends, get all the fixin’s to make a biteless vamp happy, an’ there’s no confusion as to why I’m doing this.  Okay?

The room split: Buffy continued to glare at him, Riley echoing because he always glared at Spike, while Willow and Giles turned their attention to Xander.  “Is this true?” Giles just managed to get out before Willowbabble filled the room.

“Xander!  I know you’re unhappy with your job, but you can’t possibly be thinking of working for someone Spike knows. . . are you?  That unhappy, I mean?  I know those jobs are bad, and they pay so little, but I didn’t think you were that desperate.  I could, um, I could lend you some money, maybe?” 

She looked so earnest and concerned that Spike would forgive her that one—she was too worried to notice Xander wince and try to shrink in on himself. 

“Or maybe I could check out campus jobs?  They might be better than the ones you’re at.  Or is this because you want to move out?  I know how much you hate that basement, but you keep saying you won’t move and . . .  Oh, Xander, are you sure this is safe?”

There was silence while various people tried to figure out if she was done or not.  “Yes, Wills, I’m sure it’s safe,” Xander said eventually.  Spike didn’t know whether to be happy or upset at the smooth, casual tone of voice.  He trusts me enough to follow my lead. . . but he’s bloody practiced enough that he can, an’ be convincin’.  “And no, I’m not that unhappy, but Spike knows this guy and . . . well, Spike won’t let them hurt me, if it goes wrong.  Right?”

“Right?” Buffy repeated, balancing her weight to add a more menacing posture to her glare.  “If Xander wants this, that’s fine.  But you are not going to let him work somewhere dangerous, and you are not going to let him get hurt.  Get it?”

“The bloke’s human,” he sneered.  “Runs that old antique store on Halket, an’ a lot of the non-human types frequent the place.  He needs someone who ain’t gonna freak when the customer has horns an’ he’s willin’ to pay for it.  An’ it ain’t like I’m makin’ the boy take the job.  Figured I’d just make some introductions, like.”

Xander nodded, the goofy cluelessness that he’d perfected so well ably distracting the ire of the room.  “Really, Buffy, it’s okay.  I’m just meeting him.  And Spike’ll keep me safe.”

Damn straight I will, boy.  You’re mine.

“Well, I suppose it can’t hurt and if it’s what you want, Xander. . .”  Willow didn’t look convinced, but Spike knew she wouldn’t be a problem.  The little redhead was as stubborn as the rest of the lot, but—there it is, the Xander-pout.  Most dangerous weapon to man an’ demon.  Willow relented instantly, even the Slayer wavering at the sight of those crushed eyes.

"So, let me get this straight.”  Riley strode from his corner, where he’d been effectively ignored after delivering his report, glaring at everyone.  “There’s a demon out there that you, Giles, think Buffy shouldn’t handle alone.  So you take Spike.  Okay, fine.  He’s strong.”  The soldier visibly stopped himself from saying anything more on that particular subject.  “Instead, however, of him helping you, all of you accept his excuse and will instead allow him to help Xander find employment?”

Spike and Xander exchanged looks, both visibly bewildered.  “Well, yeah, pretty much, Rye.”  Xander turned back to the humans, grinning meekly.  “I figured we’d help patrol a bit first, though.”

Buffy rolled her eyes.  “Can we just go?  This thing is killing little fuzzy animals.  And I don’t want to know what the two of you are doing.  The thought of you and Spike doing the guy-friendship thing is the stuff of nightmares.  So lets go before I have to see more of it.”

Spike hung back while Xander threw his arm around Buffy’s shoulders as he escorted her out into the night.  Riley, it seemed, was not going to accompany them, instead stomping back to his dorm room or military base or whatever.  Huh.  Have t’ see about tailin’ him, one night.  See if I can find me some. . . blueprints.  Enough people—demon and otherwise—owed him that if he could figure out how, someone else could actually do it.  Maybe.

Worth a try—fuck.  He’s fucking limping!  That was not there last night!

He sped up until he could scent the boy easily in the clear night air.  Nervous, wary, cautious, relaxed—good lad, just like I taught you—afraid, oh bollocks.  After a month of nearly daily visits to the gym, Spike could accurately determine how many injuries the boy had and what kind, just with his nose.  He didn’t tell Xander this, of course, but he could do it.  Came in handy when he was using Song Li’s healing oil, knowing exactly which spots to concentrate on.

Spike catalogued the injuries with a professional detachment, forcing his anger down the further they walked in the cemetery.  Not because Spike felt the need to hide from the two demons not-so-quietly following them, but because Xander would pick up on it.

You aren’t makin’ me angry, precious.  They are. 

He knew how much Xander feared his anger—that was the scent that had woken him from a sound sleep over a month before.  Not the nervousness, not the pain, not even the arousal.  Just the deep, frantic desire to keep him not mad.  Like if Spike wasn’t mad, than Xander wouldn’t get into trouble. . .

This time he did growl, although yanking one of the demons out into the open was an effective cover.  His body moved in its familiar patterns, systematically destroying the demon while his mind was on a different topic altogether.

Spike knew how much it cost Xander to initiate sex on his own that first time.  It was only the fear of greater punishment that had driven him to do something he viewed as something he, Xander, shouldn’t ever do.  It wasn’t until he’d seen Spike, awake and very much enjoying what he was doing before the fear had lessened.  And the fear hadn’t gone away until Spike had taken that broad-shouldered body and cuddled it in tacit approval.

That eased some of it, Spike thought as he threw down the body of one dead demon and ran to help Buffy take on the remaining one.  Not that he wanted to help her—he just wanted something to pound on.  Made it better when he came home two nights later. . .

Shaking like a leaf, Xander had frantically searched the basement for any spare cash that may have been lying around.  Spike had watched, amused, until he’d finally scented the blood trickling down the boy’s arm.  Scented it, and the efforts made to stop it.  That’s when it had finally clicked.

Furious, Spike had spat out some nonsense about Willy not having any blood on hand and dumped the leftover money on the sofa before storming out in a rage.  Then he’d snuck around back, and watched.

It had been over quickly.  That was probably the only consolation Spike could offer himself.  The boy knew enough to minimize the damage—when he could.  What had disturbed Spike even more was that the boy just took it.  There was no anger or bitterness towards those who hurt him—only acceptance, and fear.

It was that strange, calm acceptance that had warned him two weeks later that another ‘check’ was about to be delivered.  He couldn’t force himself to watch, but he’d been waiting when Xander again came down.  Like before, serious effort had been put into hiding the results of the hour-long visit, although Spike wasn’t going to tell the boy that vampires could smell makeup just as easily as blood.  Instead, he’d been incredibly gentle with the boy, foregoing their normal trip to the gym and convincing him that they could just watch movies that night.  The boy had fallen asleep with Spike’s hand buried in his hair.

He was not limping when we came back last night.  Know he wasn’t, and I bloody well checked him over this mornin’ in the shower.  He was fine.  Which meant at some point during the day, Xander had come home.

Fuck.  I never shoulda left today, not when I damned well knew what was comin’.  Except if he hadn’t left. . . re-establishing himself as a dominant demon in Sunnydale had been ridiculously easy.  The rest of it, however, was proving more troublesome.  Dammit, boy, we need to have a bit of a talk, you’n me.  About how you don’t stay in abusive relationships.  An’ how I know that, since I’ve been in an’ out o’one my whole soddin’ existence.

In fact, this was the only relationship Spike had ever been in that wasn’t abusive.  Not even because of the chip—abuse didn’t have to be physical, and from the way Xander had initially reacted, he’d excepted Spike to hurt him, one way or another.

Except as much as Spike admittedly loved pain and violence, that wasn’t all he was.  Dru an’ me, we had it nice.  She liked the hurt, but she liked the sweet, too.  She liked. . . being us, together.  If Spike wanted to wreck havoc, he had plenty of options waiting for him.  But when he came home after the damage was done, he liked to know that home was for him—not the pain that kept the occupants here, or the fear that made them obedient.  And most importantly, he didn’t like smelling fear in his bed.  Or numb defeat.

That’s what was there last night, sodding hell I never should’ve gone out today!    

He knew the demon he was pounding on was barely alive, but he didn’t stop.  He couldn’t stop, suddenly consumed with the memory of Xander’s reaction to what ‘domestic discipline’ the boy might like.  Their nights at the gym had shown that so long as Spike wasn’t intending on causing pain, he was able to do a bit more.  Not much, and the chip sent out reminders, but he could function.  It made their sparring sessions easier, and Spike had felt comfortable enough to start mentioning the kinks he and Drusilla had grown to love.  Like bondage.  Or spanking.

The first one Xander had expressed definite interest in, although his face and mouth had shown neither.  The second. . . the second had evoked pure terror.  Which meant that sometime in the boy’s life, he’d had an experience with it that had mentally scarred him and. . .

Argh!  He’s still a bloody baby and already he’s got an eighty year old’s list of neurosis’s!  But don’t you worry, puppy.  Spike’s gonna get you over the pain.  Gonna make you feel so nice, pet.  My hand on you, making white-pink turn deep red, feel you jiggle with every hit, feelin’ me inside you every time my palm comes down—fuck, I’m horny.

“Hey, Fangless!”  He turned up with a snarl worthy of a vampire in his prime, glaring at Buffy in the way he knew made her slayer-senses go haywire.

“I am not a pet,” he said clearly, directly in her face.  Xander hovered around the edge, kicking the dropped demon corpse out of the way, worried but silent.  “I am not your friend.  I am not one of your damned Scoobies, I do not support you in your bloody ‘good fight’, I do this to get my rocks off.  You will not give me pet names like I was your bloody pet dog.  You had that with Angelus.  Don’t try it with me.”

“I—I was just wondering if you were going to stop any time soon.  It’s dead.”  But her wide eyes told Spike that she’d heard his words and understood the implicit threat.  Good.  Stupid brat.

“I do what I want, Slayer.  Remember that.”

She started nodding before she realized it, and forced her movements to still.  Licking her lips, she swallowed—and allowed that unbeatable confidence to take over, the way he’d known it would.  Didn’t mean the lesson would be forgotten.  “Xan, are you sure you want to do this?  What I said at Giles’ aside,” she gave Spike a quick glance, “it might not be safe.”

“I trust Spike,” were the shocking words that the boy answered with.  Totally confident.  “He won’t let anything hurt me.  Might let them hurt you,” he added with a nasty looking glare, “but he’d protect me.”

"Right, Xander, because you and he are such good pals.  Like Riley said—Spike is a demon, and what he wants is not what we want.  He doesn’t have to lay a finger on you to hurt you.”  Spike heard the confusion through the normal Buffy-knows-best condescension.  She was shaken by the boy’s last comment.  You an’ me havin’ a long talk, m’boy.  Not that you aren’t right, pet, but I don’t think throwin’ that in the Slayer’s face is smart.

“Buffy, all he’d have to do was invite a demon or a vamp into my home, while I’m out.  He hasn’t.  I trust him.  He won’t hurt me.  Look, Buff, it’s my life, and I’ll live it the way I want to.  So if you don’t mind, Spike and I have an appointment I’d rather not miss.”

Spike smirked to himself as he and the boy both turned their backs to the stunned Slayer and began walking towards the docks.  He could hear her Buffitude calling out to them, but neither reacted to her words.  Eventually, muttering to herself, Buffy finally walked away.

Perfect.  He silently steered the boy toward a nicely private copse of trees, hand burrowing in his duster pocket towards the buttons of his jeans.  Fuck was he horny.  Listening to his boy tell off the Slayer like that, using that sweet, pretty mouth to make his friends hurt and squirm better than Spike ever could. . .

“Um, Spike?” the boy asked hesitantly when they finally entered the small area.  “Where exactly are we—ohhhhh!”

“Gonna talk more?” he asked, continuing to rub the boy’s growing hard-on.  Thick hair flapped from the strength of the boy’s frantically shaking head.  “Good boy,” he purred, as Xander willingly sank to his knees.

Quickly freeing Spike’s erection, the boy sucked it deep within his mouth.  “Ah ah,” Spike cautioned—once he could inhale enough air for speech, anyway.  Make me breathless, you do, pet.  “Slowly.  Wanna be in that pretty pussy of yours.  Wanna stretch you full of me, pound into you, luv.  My pretty little bitch, squealin’ as I ride you so hard. . .”

The suction on his cock grew hotter and wetter, the boy making that humming-purr as he sucked and licked.  Never figured him for the dirty talk, but damn does he get off on it.  Which Spike was not complaining about. 

Warm hands cupped his balls, palming them and then tugging lightly.  “Harder,” he hissed, his own hands buried in the boy’s hair.  More tugs, much harder this time.  “Yes, right there, boy, so good.  Good puppy.  Very good.”  A few more minutes and Spike was pushing him off, yanking down jeans and getting Xander on all fours.

Fumbling for the little tube of lube they always kept with them now, he coated two fingers and pushing inside his lovely boy while the other hand slicked himself.  He was always careful to stretch and prepare Xander every time they did this—even when he wasn’t sure either of them could wait.

"Please, Spike, please, please, please, please,” Xander panted, pushing eagerly back.

“Tell me,” he ordered.

“Want you in me, please, Spike, need it.  Want to be yours, Spike, only yours.  Only yours.”

“Mine,” he snarled, the violence in his voice totally contradicting the gentleness as he slowly pushed his way inside.  There were times for the rough play Spike still enjoyed, but—but the boy doesn’t need that, now.  Only needs me an’ what I give him.

Fully sheathed in the boy, Spike pressed his chest to that broad back for a few moments, just panting.  “You feel so good,” he whispered.  “So hot, and so tight, pet.  So right.  You’re mine, puppy.  My little fuck toy.”  My good boy.

“Spike!”  The boy was too hoarse to say anything but his owner’s name.  Pleased, Spike began to move, rolling his hips in a dreamy rhythm, barely leaving that tight heat before pressing back in.  He sucked on the boy’s neck, holding onto both hips as he fucked his boy.

“Like this, huh?” he asked, smirking.  It drove Xander wild to have to split his attention between the words in his ear and the cock in his arse.  “Like feelin’ me, so deep inside you?  Your pretty arse so open for me, always ready whenever I want.  Isn’t it?”

“Yes. . . more, please. . .”

“Love your hole, I do.”  One hand slid down to caress the rounded flesh there, dipping to run along the edges that sucked so hungrily at his cock, down to the perineum, tickling it.  “So sweet, like candy.  My candy bitch.  Sweet and juicy and always so ready for me.”  He sucked at the boy’s neck again, bring his hand up and around and then back down the straining flesh he found.  “Good boy, you are.  Such a good boy.”

He stroked in a counter to his thrusts, enjoying the boy’s deep groan.  It rumbled through his body down to his groin, mixing with the inferno of heat there.  God, so close.  Too soon, but . . . oh, god, so good. . .

“Gonna come with me, boy?  Gonna please me?”  Those were the last words he got out before he clamped blunt teeth at the juncture of neck and shoulder.  His body shook and jerked wildly as he emptied himself deep into the howling boy.

Gasping for air he didn’t need, he had a split second to notice Xander’s elbows give out.  Twisting them, he cushioned the boy’s collapse to the ground against his own body.  “Easy now, puppy.  Can’t have you sleepin’ yet.”  He cuddled the boy close, unconcerned how that clashed with his Big Bad image.  I like it, sod what any other wanker thinks, had always been his motto, about anything.  Including cuddling.

“Got a job interview, right?” was the sleepy reply.

He chuckled.  The worry and fear was seeping back in, now that his need for sex had been taken care of.  “Yeah.  Gonna actually have to look up old Albert.  Wasn’t lyin’ about him, an’ it would make a good job for you.  I’ll ring him tomorrow, how’s that, pet?”

“Yeah.  Sleep now?”  Could he have honestly forgotten?  Spike pressed his nose against the boy’s head, fighting past the scent of sex and some kind of fruity shampoo.  No.  He’s hidin’ it.  Soddin’ hell.  He’s hopin’ I’ve forgotten about it.  Gonna wait till I’m off doin’ whatever an’. . . not a chance, boy.  Not a chance.

“Sure, pet.  C’mon, let’s go home.”  He got the sleepy, sated human to his feet, trying hard not to curse at how good an actor the boy was.  If he didn’t trust his nose so much, he’d swear the boy was totally relaxed.  Fine.  We’ll play your game for a bit, puppy.  But I’ll be watchin’ you, pet.  An’ if they do what I think they’re gonna do. . . then it’s over.

Someday, some fuckin’ day, I’m gonna catch a break.

Spike swore under his breath—an’ the boy needs to stop askin’ fuckin’ questions about me breathin’.  I do, deal, move the bloody hell on.  Glancing through the leafy canopy, he searched for the telltale sound of Initiative soldiers clumping around.

They’d been almost home.  Another hundred yards, hell, they could see the lights on in the house.  He’d been turning to try and soothe the blast of fear coming from his boy, when the fear had turned into a different kind all together.  “Spike, run!” Xander had hissed, pushing him with newly acquired strength into the hedges.

Spike had had a few precious seconds to feel a complicated of mixture of pride and offended rage—before he’d realized just why Xander had pushed him.  Just fuckin’ perfect, he’d thought before slipping away just as four heavily camouflaged men appeared on the street.

Two hours they’d been after him.  He didn’t think that they knew he was Hostile 17, they weren’t being too fanatical about hunting him, but apparently it was a slow night and they wanted to meet their quota.  Fucking wankers!  I need to be home!

How pathetic was it that William the Bloody thought of the Harris basement as ‘home’?  But it was, at the moment.  More importantly, it would have Xander in it, and he needed to be with Xander more than anything right now.

He had no idea what was prompting the feeling, but he knew that for some reason tonight was going to be bad.  He needed to be there, not playing sodding cat and mouse with retarded government boys!

An’ just what the hell are you gonna do? a tiny voice came from the back of his mind.  He tried damned hard to ignore that voice, usually, but his fear and worry made it stronger.  Can’t fight humans, remember?  An’ the boy won’t fight his parents, you know that.  Spike did know that.  The boy wouldn’t fight, but he wouldn’t leave, either, and Spike had yet to find a situation when he could force it.  So what exactly can you do, besides what you’ve done?  Gettin’ there faster won’t make it stop, and might get you caught by these soldier gits.  That will surely do somethin’, you bloody twit.  Save your hide, then the boy’s.

Spike growled to himself, cutting off abruptly when the bushes rustled a little closer than he’d thought they would.  The soldiers were idiots, one and all.  They had all the hi-tech gizmos a nerd could want, but since they didn’t believe they didn’t really know how to use them.  So they were scanning their body-heat scanners through a forest, looking no higher than their own cotton-full heads.

Yeah, cause vamps, like white men, can’t jump.  Durin’ the day we stay low cause there’s the bloody sun above us.  Hello, night, no sun!  Oh, bloody hell. I’m talkin’ like him.  I need to hang out with Rupert a bit more, if only to get rid of this damned teenage Slayerette-speak.

He pressed closer to the tree, concentrating on showing up as merely a weird branch should one of the soldiers grow a brain and scan the tree-tops.  They were being quite methodical, and they would have found him if they weren’t so incredibly dense.  How the hell the Slayer can date one of—no, wait, can see that just fine.  After my rocks-for-brains Sire, soldier-boy’d be just about her speed, then, wouldn’t he?

He didn’t laugh, knowing that the sound might give him away.  Total inability to understand the supernatural aside, these were competent soldiers and being cocky would give his position away.  God, he needed a cigarette.  He’d been smoking less and less.  Couldn’t let the horrible carcinogens near his boy, now could he?  Gotta get that room set up.  Later.  Fuck this.  I need to get soddin’ home!

But there was nothing he could do, except sit and fume and wait and mentally urge the soldiers to give up and go away.  They didn’t.  He was forced to change hiding places three more times before they finally caught a blip that wasn’t him.  Then he had to be very, very careful on his way back to the house, so they didn’t notice him again and start the bloody-damned thing all over again.

Sod the Slayer for bein’ so bloody diligent at her job.  Couldn’t she leave one or two beasties about for the government to play with?

He was a wreck, working himself up into a frenzy because he couldn’t be where he needed to be.  Normally, he’d be waiting in the basement, pacing to the sound of the telly until the boy finally came back downstairs.  Then he’d usually suggest a massage or a movie, just so he could run his hands all over that golden skin and make sure that none of the injuries were too severe.

Most times, there weren’t.  Bruises, yeah, but no serious amounts of bleeding—hell, most of the injuries wouldn’t even scar.  There were scars on his body, but the boy explained most of them away as Slayer-related-damages.  Anya may have believed that, but strips across the back sure as hell didn’t come from vampires.

Thin, though, an’ I wouldn’t have seen ’em if I didn’t like touchin’ him so much.  Even feelin’ ’em’s hard sometimes.  Which meant one of two things.  Either it happened a lot time ago, or they weren’t too bad to begin with.  Spike wished like hell it was the latter.

He put all of his energy into stealthily keeping to the shadows, pausing every few minutes to listen and scent the air for sign of solider-boys.  That got him fifty yards from the house, coming in the back way so he’d be able to see the boy’s parent’s precious barroom.  It was where the two of them practically lived and that’s where tonight’s little event would be taking place.  He paused against the trees that ringed the backyard, feeling jumpy and not understanding why.  This isn’t normal must-not-get-caught bollocks this is. . .

Blood.

He howled, shifting to demon-face so quickly it hurt, his body throwing itself to where the scent of his boy’s blood was coming, thick and sweet.

And he hit the door, barrier firmly in place.

No.  Nooooo!  Let me in, dammit, let me in!  It’s the same fucking house!  Somebody invite me the fuck in!  He’s mine, you don’t get to hurt him!  Let—oh, fuck, Xander. . .

The door was open.  They hadn’t even heard him, it seemed like, and he had enough presence of mind to hide himself in the shadows.  So he could watch.  Just like he’d watched, unable to do anything, while Angelus had tortured Drusilla until she screamed for the pleasure-pain of it.

“His kidneys,” a cool, collected voice was saying.  Followed by a thump and a wheeze.  “Face again, he’s still too pretty.  Not enough black.”  This time there was a crack with the thump, and Spike knew that at least the nose was broken.  “Now cut his legs.  More blood.”

The father, drunk, shirtless, his pants undone and hanging loose around his beer gut, lumbered over to the wall and picked up a six inch long knife.  He held it up for approval before going back to Xander, who was lying naked and spread-eagle on the pool table, and traced a thin line from hip to knee.

Then he turned back to the sofa and waited for approval.  Spike felt the overwhelming urge to be sick—until he saw it.

It wasn’t him, Spike thought numbly.  That’s why it was never that bad, before.  It wasn’t him.

It was her.

She was dressed in an elegant red floor-length dress, legs crossed primly and correctly as she reclined against the sofa, drink in hand.  Her hair as obviously henna-dyed red, pancake makeup done too thick and too bright, with enough mascara and eyeliner to give her two black eyes in her overly pale face.  She was trying for classy, elegant and sophisticated.  The result was cheap, unattractive, and utterly pathetic.

“Tony, he’s not hard anymore.  He has to be hard, otherwise, I don’t get to play.”  She pouted at her husband, batting heavily encrusted eyelids coquettishly.

Spike threw up for the first time in over a hundred years.

“Of course, Jessica,” her husband mumbled, going back over to Xander.  Constantly glancing back to the couch for approval, Tony hauled his unconscious son up by a choking grip on his neck and backhanded him.  The pattern of bruises on his cheeks indicated this was not the first time this had happened.

“Wake up, y’little fag!” Tony spat.  Spike could smell the alcohol from the doorway.  “Come on.  Wakey wakey.  Mommy wants t’play!”

Oh, god.  Oh, Xander, luv—  His back was a mass of red and black strips.  Traces of a whip, but other things too, like a belt or a pool cue, or hell, even the crowbar he saw propped against the wall.  Where there wasn’t blood, there was black, and overlaying it all was puss from skin ruptured beyond a simple break.  It went down, over his buttocks, along his thighs to mid calf.  His left leg was broken, the skin distended from the pressure of the bone against it.  His right arm was dislocated, hanging uselessly.

There were no knife marks on the back, but as Tony moved around Spike caught a glimpse of—

Drusilla loved knives.  She loved the feel of them, pressing into her skin, the white hot pain flaring along the path it traced.  She used to take the knife and try and draw pretty pictures with her skin as the canvas and her blood as the ink.  It had taken years to convince her that no, Angelus didn’t like that little habit of hers, and she could stop now.  Really, Spike wouldn’t mind one bit.  If she wanted to draw, he was more than happy to find real parchment and ink for her.  She could even use blood, he didn’t give a damn so long as it wasn’t her own.

Tomes had been written in that beautiful, golden skin.  Some of the cuts were long and loopy like classical script. Some where short and stubby.  Circles, triangles, unnameable designs and doodles, he had become their notepad for them to create upon with absent interest.  And those were the ones deep enough that Spike could see them.  There was so much blood that it became impossible to figure out where all the individuals cuts had been made.

Oh, god.  He didn’t have a lot of time, if he wanted Xander to make it out of there alive.  Humans had a lot of blood in them, more than most knew, but what skin he could see was pasty, with a blue-pallor underlining it that Spike recognized from his unchipped glory days.

Tony shook Xander, making the boy’s head loll so that Spike could see his face.  It was unmarred compared to the rest of him—black eyes, split lip, broken nose, and a shallow cut above an eyebrow.  But Spike could see the dark, wet slits that were supposed to be his eyes.

Even—even if he wakes up, he won’t be there.  Body’ll move, sounds’ll come out, eyes’ll blink but. . . but nobody’s home.

Spike felt tears prick his eyes, suddenly understanding what he damned well should have before.  All his time with Dru, and he’d never even guessed that it was more than a typical drunken father, beating up on anything convenient.  This was torture.

They must—must’ve started when he was little.  S’why whenever he’s scared or upset, he—fuck, he regresses to the last time.  The first time.  When it wasn’t safe for him no more.  What had happened?  How old was he, when his world got turned upside down?  Gotta—gotta get him out of there.  Please, oh, fuck, I’ll beg, I’ll owe, don’t care so long as he’s. . .

“Tony.”  The attempt at elegant nonchalance was waning under her increased impatience.  And the gallons of alcohol she must have consumed.  “Tony, you are thoroughly incapable of satisfying me.  You have informed me that our son, our precious baby boy, is gay.  Therefore, it’s our job to teach him the error of his ways.”

She got to her feet, stumbling over to the table.  Gesturing to it, Tony instantly complied and draped Xander back over it.  She reached over to gently run her hands along the only totally unmarred skin he could see, although it too was drenched in blood, right above where his public hair began.  “And since you are so incapable of satisfying me, we’ll fix two problems with one act.”

Spike felt sick again.

“Alexander?  You need to wake up a little, honey.”  Her voice was soothing, gentle, the way a mother’s should be.  “Come on, Alexander, that’s right.  Open your eyes for mommy.  You’ve been very bad, haven’t you?  Please, Alexander, you have to try.  You’ll try for me, won’t you?  You know how much it hurts me to have to punish you.  But you shouldn’t make us mad like that.  I can’t always control your father.”  She gave her husband a warm, sharing look, which he returned with an unsteady smile.

Sighing, his mother climbed over the table to straddle her son.  Then she rocked.  Xander’s eyes popped open and he gasped, trying to inhale.  Jessica wasn’t as skinny as she pretended to be.

“Sweetheart, there you are!  You disappeared on us.  Silly.  Now, your father told me the strangest thing.  That he saw you go into your apartment downstairs with another man.  Is this true, Alexander?”

Xander just blinked at her, mouth gaping as he tried to breathe.

His mother tsked, shaking her head like he had vehemently shouted defiance in her face.  “You know how your father feels about faggots, Alexander.  And no son of his is going to be one.  Is he.”  It wasn’t a question.  “So, we’re going to play a little game with Mommy.”

Eyes gone totally black with shock blinked and rolled wildly in their sockets—and Spike saw his chance.  That’s right, Xan.  Come on.  Wake up, just a little bit more.  Invite me in.  Please, please, invite me in.  He still had no idea what he was going to do; the chip was already sending out warning bolts, triggered by the horrific deaths he was planning for Mr. and Mrs. Psycho Bitch.

But he’d do something.  He had to.

“Sweety, you want to help Mommy, don’t you?”  Blearily, Xander nodded.  It was a rote response to the tone of her voice, Spike could tell, with no awareness of what was actually being said.  “Well, Mommy doesn’t want to have to watch Daddy beat you anymore.  He’s so rough, isn’t he?  I sometimes wonder if he’s a shirt-lifter as well.”

Tony’s face turned blotchy with rage, but he didn’t make a sound to contradict his wife.

“You aren’t going to be bad anymore, are you Alexander?  You aren’t going to make us angry anymore?  You want to be a good boy, don’t you.”  And she shimmied a bit so that she was positioned correctly, eyes half-closing with pleasure as she began to rock again.

Fuck it all.  He’s mine and I bloody well want in!  “Xander!”

He never liked all the gypsy tricks that Dru was fascinated by, but that didn’t mean he was adverse to learning a few that could help him.  One was the Voice of Command or some poncy, erudite cock of a name.  Basically, it meant a voice that certain people would be hard-pressed to ignore.  Xander shouldn’t be able to ignore it now.  I’m his pack-leader, he’s my bloody pack.  Work, dammit.  Don’t fuck up on me now.

Mr. and Mrs. Harris jerked up to stare at the snarling, animal-like figure they hadn’t noticed in their normally secluded backyard.  The tall trees Spike had forced his way through had always acted as protection against prying eyes and sensitive ears, which meant they usually kept windows and doors open.

“Xander!” he tried again, this time resulting in the boy’s eyes tracking towards the door and focusing—mostly—on Spike.  “Invite me in,” he commanded in his most authoritative voice.

Cracked lips moved instantly, and a hoarse, barely audible voice managed to get the words out.  Barely.

It was enough.

Spike was through the door in a flash, heading towards Jessica.  Tony gave an inarticulate yell when he finally got a good look at his son’s boyfriend—pronounced ridges, incredibly long, sharp teeth, yellow eyes.  Spike got right in his face and snarled.  Tony turned tail, and ran.

Right.  He was easy.  Now for the—well, mebbe not.  Jessica was staring after her husband, a look of stunned shock.  “He left me!” she screeched suddenly, shock clearing away and leaving—

Madness.

Dru on her worst days, combined with the rage and calculated skill of Angelus.  She was the most dangerous creature he’d ever met, worse than the Scooby girls when they all got their monthlies at the same time.

“He left me!  Tony!!”

“Yeah, he did,” Spike told her.  “Too bloody bad.”  Steeling himself, he let fly a decent right hook that cut her right along the jaw line.  She dropped like a stone.

Then he dropped, the chip overloading his brain.  No, dammit.  I’m tryin’ t’help him, f’r chrissakes.  Let me up.  Gotta get him out of here, gotta get—Christ, pet, you need a doctor.  You need—oh, fuck, I should’ve been here!

He was crying, he could feel the wetness on his face, but he didn’t care.  He forced himself to move despite the spasms, fighting through the pain, because he could.  Xander couldn’t.  Using the pool-table as a lever, he got to his feet.  “Xan?” he croaked out.  “Xander?  Xander, luv, wake up.  Please wake up?  You—oh, Jesus, what have they done to you. . .?”

The tears came faster now, sobs he couldn’t give voice to building in his throat.  Xander was unconscious.  Blood still sluggishly seeped from the wounds, but Spike felt no desire to taste the fresh, hot human blood before him.  His demon continued to howl in rage, but it wasn’t because of the smell that hung so heavily in the air.  It was directed at the prone woman who lay sprawled on the ground and the man who had run the minute something bigger and stronger had shown up.

The chip crackled every time he touched his poor, broken boy, and he knew carrying him was going to be hell.  Deserve it, he thought stiltedly as he covered the hideous sight with his duster.  Shoulda been here.  Shoulda stopped it.  Pack-leader’s supposed to protect his pack an’ I. . . I let the ruddy Initiative run me around town.  Knew they were gonna hurt him, but just a beatin’ yeah?  The kind y’kin bounce back from not. . . oh, god, not this.

He sobbed as he gathered up his boy, cradling the still form against his chest.  The heartbeat was so slow, so distant now.  Not the pounding sound that lulled him to sleep every night, making his own dead body pulse.

Can’t die.  Dammit, you can’t die, I haven’t—don’t have permission, Xander, you have t’ave that.  “You hear me?” he demanded as he stumbled outside.  Every twitch hurt, the chip working overtime for the pain he was inflicting on his boy.  Take it from you, if I could.  “You can’t die on me.  You’re fuckin’ not allowed!  Hear that?  You’re mine Xander, and you aren’t allowed. . . can’t die.  Please, god, don’t let. . .”

He wanted to run, but he was pretty sure that the chip would not understand why he was creating so much pain and melt his brain right out his ears.  And he couldn’t do that.  He had to get Xander help.

His nightmares would forever center on the moment he stepped from the house.  Streets dark and quiet, without even the normal demon population up and about on their own business.  Hardly any noise at all, except Spike’s unconsciously harsh breathing and the shallow, pained sounds coming from the body in his arms. 

The cold white glare of street lamps confused him, making the world a frightening mix of comforting dark with cold impersonal splotches of light which blinded him as he walked.  He couldn’t tell where he was, or where he was going.  He didn’t know where he was going, he didn’t know anything, except that he had to get help.  He had to or his boy was going to die, and he couldn’t because Spike wasn’t ready to let him go yet.  Not ever.

And then he was at a door, staring blankly at the place his feet had taken him without any input from the circling wreck that was his mind, still sobbing in fear and hardly able to stand from the pain.  He wanted to knock on the rich red wood—Red?  How can I see reds in all this damned washed out light?—but that would mean letting go and he couldn’t do that, he couldn’t ever do that.  Xander was his and he never let go of things that were his, not unless they wanted to leave and this one didn’t, he couldn’t, and he wasn’t going to go now because Spike wasn’t going to let him and—

“William!  Bring him inside.  Quickly, now.”

“Yes, mum,” he answered, stumbling dazedly through the doorway into comfortingly dark room.  “Mum, he—god, Xan—he—”

“Follow me.”  Cool, dry fingers rested on his elbow, guiding him through a maze he could hardly see.  Even superior vampire night-vision had difficulty penetrating the inky black pools once they left the front room.  Up narrow, rickety stairs and Spike struggled not to fall and bang his precious load.

He sniffled and sobbed as he followed, uncaring that someone else was seeing the Big Bad reduced to a quivering ball of terrified mush.  Nothing mattered except the boy he held.  Nothing.

“Here,” she directed, leading him to her bathroom.  A lion-footed bathtub stood proudly in the middle of the floor.  “Put him in there.”

No.  Won’t let go, can’t, he’ll leave, he can’t leave, he’ll go away and leave and—

“William.”  Light flared in the corner, bathing the room in a dull golden glow.  Spike snarled, blinking at the sudden change, instinctively ready to defend what he could never truly protect.  Song Li stood by the light, regarding him solemnly.  “You came to me for help, correct?”

“Yes, mum.”  One day, when he could think in straight lines again, he was going to rip his jaw off before he came to see this infernal woman again.  His answers felt pulled out of him, even his accent was changing, gaining more polish and less volume, just to show that much more respect.  “Can—”

“If you came to me for help, young William, then you should allow me to do so.  Yes?  Place him here.  You may remain close by.  But do not interfere and do not touch him.”

Not—not touch?  But. . . no, I have to—the heat an’ thump an’ the skin an’—I have t’ be there an’—

The hands were warm, this time, as they lay along his face, framing it as they forced him to look into dark bottomless wells.  This, this was why people thought she was a demon.  Lights pricked in the depths of those huge eyes, and he knew he could not refuse her.  “Put him down, William.  Please.”

“Yes, mum.”  He eased his boy into the marble tub, trying to keep his movements slow and steady.  One trailing sleeve of his duster caught on an edge, jerking the leather and making the boy convulse.  “Shh,” he soothed, crooning quietly while he got Xander completely within the tub’s walls.  Kneeling on the floor, he stroked blood-matted hair.  “S’alright, luv, shhh, s’okay now.  Safe now, pet.  Promise it’s safe.”  Sobs choked him and he heard his voice breaking.  He didn’t care, so long as Xander was okay.  He had to be okay.  “I’m here, Xander.  I—I’m here.”

“He knows.”  Song Li moved beside him, dark eyes flickering over what the duster revealed.  “Please, allow me to do what you asked of me.”

“But—I didn’t—I mean, I’m grateful, but—”

“I told you, young William.”  She held a jar, larger than her head, that glowed with eerie green light.  Shaking it three times, she opened it and poured the goopy fluid into the tub, and then ran the water.  The green fluid mixed with the water, thinning and spreading to cushion and cradle.  The scent of jasmine fill the room.  She dipped a cloth into a bowl on her left, carefully washing away the blood and dirt.  “You are welcome here, any time.  That is what I said, yes?  Do not think I would have issued such an invitation if I believed you would take it lightly.”  She gave him a sideways look, but Spike barely noticed her.  He was entranced by the sight her gentle cleaning revealed.

It was worse without the blood to cover it.

“You are fiercely proud, William the Bloody, called Spike.  It pains you to ask others for help.  Yet, you will force yourself to survive when odds are heavily against you.  I had thought it would be you who would be carried here, near true death.  While I am pleased that you are unharmed—”

“It should’ve been me,” he interrupted in a harsh whisper.  Distantly, he was aware that interrupting Song Li while she tried to impart wisdom was a bad idea.  Except—“It should’ve been me!  I can take it, hell, lived through enough of it with Angelus.  But he. . . he’s just a human.  Just a fragile—it should’ve been me.”

He began to rock, back and forth, on his knees as Song Li attempt to fix what he had allowed to be broken.  He watched, face empty and aloof, as she finished cleaning.  The green mixture in the tub seemed to aid her, sucking out blood and pus before she got to it, and acting as a buffer between the hard sides of the tub and the tender flesh of his boy.

Examining the results, she went over to a wooden cabinet and began pulling out towels, needle, thread, wooden strips, and an assortment of bottles of all shapes, sizes, and colors.

She set the broken bones and pushed in dislocated joints, displaying a raw strength that Spike would later wonder at, using the wooden strips as splints.  She scooped out a dollop of blue-colored salve and rubbed it from head to toe.  She did not explain what she did, as many healers seemed to prefer, simply doing what needed to be done.  Once three separate ointments had been worked into Xander’s skin, she took needle and thread and began to stitch each individual wound.

It took hours.

There were hundreds of them, and each one, no matter how small or shallow, was closed with thread that shone gold in the faint light.  She stitched and sewed, her face impassive as she worked.  Once that was done, she took the same three unguents and mixed them, coating her hands thickly with the result.  This she worked into Xander with hard movements, as if she was pushing it through the epidermis into flesh and blood and bone.

“Tilt his head back.”  The words made him start.  Hastening to obey, Spike tilted his boy’s head so that the jaw dropped down.  “Keep him steady.  He must drink all.”  She hesitated at the look in Spike’s eyes.  Spike wondered what it was she saw.  “There is internal damage.  Naught is overly serious, but his kidneys bleed.  This will seal the wound.  That,” she gestured with her chin to yet another vial, “will help replace the blood he has lost, but I wish it to stay within his veins, and not leak out over organs that do not need it.”

Song Li got to her feet and then paused, face pensive.  Sinking back down onto the mats that surrounded the tub, she handed him the bottle.  “He is yours,” she said simply.  Then she looked mischievous, “And why you have not used what I have given you, we will discuss later.”

Use what she—don’t know, don’t care, gotta stop the bleedin’.  There was blood in more than just his kidneys, but Spike suspected that she didn’t tell him that for fear of driving him into a rage.  He could feel it, simmering and thickening inside him, but right now it was unimportant.  Right now was for his boy, his precious, lovely boy.  That was all that he could concentrate on.

He stripped, uncaring if Song Li got an eyeful—although he suspected that she had turned away—and slid into the tub.  Oh.  That’s. . . nice.  Whatever this green stuff was, he wanted some of it for later.  It wrapped around his whole body in a tingling warmth that was incredibly soothing.  Comforting.  Almost womb-like, although the part of him that remembered how to be a snarky bastard mocked him for thinking that.

Settling himself in the center of the tub, Spike pulled Xander to him, holding him the way mothers held their children to nurse.  Dark head resting on his shoulder, balanced by the crook of his elbow, for a moment he cold do nothing but touch his boy’s face in wonder.  The nose had been set—the break had fortunately been clean—but the bruising made him look like he’d gone several rounds with a prize-fighter.  Tears threatened again, but Spike pushed them away.  He had to help Xander.

Picking up the vial, Spike placed it at cracked, puffy lips.  “Got somethin’ for you, luv,” he said, hoping unconscious-Xander wouldn’t hear the waver in his voice.  “It’s good, y’see?  You—you gotta drink it, okay?  It’ll make it better.  Can you do—”  Sweety, you want to help Mommy, don’t you?  He shuddered, and when he spoke again emotion made him rough and hoarse.  “Xan, pet, will you drink this?  Don’t have to.  Won’t make you.  But it’ll help, make you feel—make you better.  Will you drink it?”

No response, but Spike wasn’t expecting one.  He tilted the vial, letting a little of the liquid slid into his boy’s mouth.  No gagging, which was good, but no swallowing either.  He shifted position slightly, allowing Xander’s head to loll back so that the liquid would be forced to move, and stroked Xander’s throat.

“That’s right, luv,” he crooned, his voice low and rumbling in his own throat.  “S’all right, precious.  S’just me, just Spike.  Won’t hurt you, luv.  Swallow now, that’s right.”  Throat muscles worked under his fingers, and when Xander opened his mouth again there was silver on his tongue.  “ That’s my lovely boy.  Here’s the rest, now.”

It took a while for the first vial to go down.  Spike just held him, wishing he could run his hands all over his boy the way he did every time they showered, just so he could feel whole healthy human under his hands.  Knowing he couldn’t now, that it would do nothing but hurt.

He didn’t know when he started rocking, or crooning, humming some old lullaby under his breath, eyes never leaving his boy.  Mine, he thought softly.  Always mine.

A touch on his arm startled him, but he forced himself not to tense.  Xander would know, can’t let him worry.  “Here,” he was told, the second vial pressed into his hand.  “All if it.  I will prepare a room.”

Room?  The thought was dazed, most of his attention on getting that beautiful throat with it’s bobbing adam’s apple to swallow.  Room.  Gotta get that set up.  Not lettin’ him go back.  Gotta get everythin’ ready for him.  Keep him safe. . .  This vial finished as well, and Spike could immediately feel the heart pumping stronger, the skin warmer.

Something hard and cold uncurled in his gut.

Tears came, again.  The sound of a door shutting, and then he was lost in it, consumed by it.  His failure.  His impotence.  His fear and worry and—god, how they hurt him.  Never again, luv.  I swear it, as a vampire in the Line of Aurelius.  I will never let you hurt like this again.  He wept for the shame of what had happened and for the beautiful, sweet boy he held, who never should have felt such agony.

It must have been an hour before Spike was able to raise his head and take in his surroundings, but it didn’t feel that long.  He still ached inside, unshed tears still made his throat tight.  But the liquid around them, while still warm, was not as warm as it had been before, and he couldn’t allow Xander to become chilled.

“Mum?” he called, knowing that she would not have gone far.

He felt useless as Song Li dried the boy.  Following her down the hall, he realized they were above her store, in the tiny apartment she lived in.  He wanted to thank her, to worship at her feet for what she had done, even though he had no idea if his boy would even open those laughing eyes again.  He couldn’t, the words stuck behind a lump that would not go away.

Entering a tiny spare room, Song Li directed him to place his burden on the pallet of cushions and mats that she had created.  As Spike obeyed, she busied herself by lighting what felt like hundreds of candles.  Spike eyed them nervously—vampires did not enjoy having too many about, especially in a place that seemed entirely made of wood.

Then the smell hit him and he relaxed, unable to stay tense with cinnamon and jade, roses and lavender swirling around him, filling his head with peace and comfort.  He sagged near the pallet, hands stealing back to hover over the steadily breathing form, afraid to touch.

Song Li placed her hand atop his head, mumbling something.  “There,” she said.  “Join him, for he needs you to rest.  You will not hurt him.”

He looked up at her, amazed that she—and then he was sliding underneath heavy down covers, cuddling against the warmth and softness that shouldn’t have cool, hard lines running all over it.  His voice returned suddenly, abruptly, and he began humming, crooning out lullabies he’d sung to Drusilla when she became lost in the fragmented landscape of her thoughts.  Then, later, he reached for older melodies, found in distant memories of cool white hands, yellow fabric, and a face he could not remember who sang and whispered that it would be all right, William, it would be all right.

Part Twelve

Baloo, my boy, lie still and sleep
It grieves me sore to hear thee weep.
If thou'lt be silent I'll be glad
Thy moaning makes my heart full sad

Rough and whispering, the voice spread warmth deep inside him and to wrap around the places nothing else could touch.  The pain was vivid, every part of his body twisted and throbbing.  Tears traced crazy paths along hot skin, and the wet, gasping sound came from lungs too hurt to truly sob.

Baloo, baloo, baloo, baloo
Baloo, baloo, lu-li-li-lu

He struggled through the black to try and open his eyes, to see what sang to him and touched him so delicately.  So desperately.  But his eyes wouldn’t open and there was only the voice, telling him that it was all right.

O'er thee I keep my lonely watch
Intent thy lightest breath to catch

Cool, gentle pressure on his face, catching the tears as the fell.  Breath gusting over skin that felt raw, quieting the flame.  Touches in his hair, running over and over to the pounding of a single heart.

O, when thou wak'st to see thee smile
And thus my sorrow to beguile. . .

Murmurs in between the song, as if it hurt to sing so much.  But never silence, never stillness.  Always words, ghosting along nerves to teach them more than pain, more than hurt.  Words that made the tears come faster, because it was not for him.  Never for him the peace they offered, hard lessons learned before speech and skill.  Pain and fear were all he knew. . .

Baloo, my boy, lie still and sleep
It grieves me sore to hear thee weep.

Warmth spread over him, bundling around him like the blanket he’d lost so long ago to ‘maturity’, ‘adulthood’ and a small fire.  More touches, more soft words, over and over, never flagging, never faltering, always there on his skin and in his mind.

Baloo, baloo, baloo, baloo
Baloo, baloo, lu-li-li-lu*

It wasn’t true.  It couldn’t be true, what they said, because it never had been before, never would be now.  It couldn’t be true. . .

Have you ever heard your body scream, without ever using lungs and vocal-cords?

It was that sound that woke him, jolting him from drugged half-sleep into dazed alertness.  Freezing, he held his breath.

Not there?

Some lessons are learned so early, so deeply that they never leave.  They form a routine, and there’s comfort in following the routine, because nothing else ever was—routine or comfortable.  The first was to determine not self—but them.

No breathing.

Lances of fire in his chest made him grab sharp lung-full breaths of air; wet sounds of a body working.  The only body.

Not there?

There was comfort in routine.  Without the routine, there was none.  Wary unease pooled in his belly, making his skin itch and tighten.  Sounds: the hiss and crackle and drip and drop but no in and out and in again.  The thud-thud of a terrified heart, but without the measured counter-beats that usually greeted a waking.

Minutes ticked by.  There was procedure, even now, but without the familiarity to provide false-comfort.  Wait, be silent, don’t make the first move.  Unconsciousness brought kicks, but then withdrawal and flimsy offerings of shelter.  Just wait.

Minutes turned to hours and he must have slept again.  Light edged through closed lids, warming the left side of his face and the top of his left shoulder.  Sunlight.  Warm.  Nice.  Not there before.

Not there?

Minutes-to-hours and still alone?  No breathing but the shallow sounds they had never made.  No thumping but the tumbling beat in his ears and behind his eyes.  Not there.  Alone.  Alone?  Uneasiness coalesced into fear, the routine stripped away to leave. . . nothing.

Click.  The whisper of movement, cool air brushing along his face, and low, measured inhale-exhale-inhale-exhale-inhale—

“I will not hurt you.”

Close up throat, concentrate on deep, melodic voice, polished and proper with just a hint—

“You must breathe, child.  He was quite insistent of that.”

Bad!

Too deep, too fast, and tremors shook him as saline burned behind tightly closed eyes.  Convulsing on the solid breath lodged in his throat, he could not fear cool touch upon his arm, strong hand upon his back, pressing—

The lump dissolved, leaving shivering agony in its wake.  Hot, scalding hot tears dripped from closed eyes, and more lumps formed as breathing grew difficult.

“You must breathe.”

Badbadbadbadbad!

The wet heat could not be stopped, sliding out despite focused pressure.  The touch on his back shifted slightly, and the edged lines around his chest eased.  More deep, shuddering breaths, the rhythm pulling him back in and out and in and out. . .

“I will not hurt you.”

In and out and in and out and in and out.

“You are pack.  You are protected.”

But he did not hear ‘protected’.  Abandoned, bereft, cast out, shunned, rejected, scorned, alone. . .

A sharp tap on his temple.  The flare of pain broke through the haze and he jerked his head up to stare—at spots, from holding his eyes so tightly closed.  Blinking produced flashes of color and the image of a woman’s head.

“You are pack.  Feel!”

Feel?  Feel. . . pack.  Feel pack.  Feel the pack, no matter how small or skewed or fractured.  Feel pack, buzzing deep within areas that saw little daylight but tied directly to nerves and heart.  Ties still bound, despite the tug-and-stretch.  Still bound.

“Are you pack?”

A twitch served for a nod.  He was pack, included and not alone.

“As pack, you are safe.  I am not pack.”

Spots finally cleared, revealing huge dark eyes in a lined and weathered face.  Those luminous eyes blinked, and the lights deep within them resolved to waver and become reflections again.  Two sticks held together a bun of jet black hair.  Little hands rested on narrow legs, against a kimono of black and silver.

“I am not pack,” was repeated.

No, not pack.  But not enemy.  No hate no fear no worry—just little and scared and want.  Want smell.

“I do not wish to hurt you.”  He froze again, untrusting of that beginning.  Not wish but want. . .  “I must check the bandages.  Will you let me?”

He blinked.  Bandages?  Freeing an arm—that caught the light and glittered—he pulling his blanket up an inch.  Just enough to let light shine down his naked body.

Gold was everywhere.  Snake-like, it threaded through his skin from neck to feet, like hundreds of little worms burrowing into him.  Translucent material was dotted among the gold, over areas he knew were too serious to be stitched closed.  Wood was wrapped around one arm and one leg, thin leather holding it in place.  He looked like a child’s crazy-paving, a toy put together all wrong.

A gentle touch made him look back up.  Something she saw on his face made the aloof expression soften into something much nicer.  “You will heal,” she told him quietly.  “All will be well.”

He nodded and slumped back down against the cushions, ignoring the way various bits of him screamed in response.

She hummed while she worked, something soft that he didn’t recognize.  It kept him calm while she checked him over with professional skill and competence.  It hurt—it hurt a lot—but he was silent the whole time, concentrating on breathing.  He had to breathe, pack-leader said so.

“Finished.”  Xander blinked at the satisfied pronouncement, noticing that the stray beams of sunlight were no longer touching him.  Had he fallen asleep?  But it had hurt, and he knew better than to sleep while it hurt. . .

The whimper was growing in his throat, and he swallowed repeatedly to rid himself of it.  Except he didn’t know where he was, and he wanted—he wanted—

“He will return soon.  He has not left you, this I promise.”  He stared at the small woman, unblinking.  “Are you thirsty?  Hungry?”

He was thirsty, horribly so, but he could not open his mouth to tell her.  He wanted—he needed to know that he was still. . . still. . .

“Xander.  Look at me.”  And he was drowning, falling, lost in depths so dark that it was literally the absence of light.  There was nothing but blackness, all around him, but not lost, and not alone, and he wasn’t so little anymore.  Wasn’t he?  Wasn’t he supposed to be?  He liked it when he was little, because little meant safe and cupcakes and a dirty-white blanket he could still taste when his eyes were closed.  Little meant someone to take care of him, protect him from the things he was too small to understand, too small to deal with on his own.

Tears were falling again, burning red patterns down his skin, and the whimper had turned into sobs.  Arms stiff and throbbing, skin turned pale against true gold, moved to wrap around himself in a vain attempt to offer comfort he couldn’t feel, because he was too little!  Just small and cold and scared and he wanted so badly that it ached more than the cuts, the broken bones, more than the look in his mother’s eyes when she’d settled herself on him and he’d known, really known just how bad it was.  Just how scary it was.  When he’d understood for the first time what denial tasted like and how much he needed—

“Shhh, luv.  Love.  Hush, now.”  Oooh, pretty voice was back!  Cool skin resting against his flushed one and strong, so strong arms were moving him, positioning him, a living doll to heat the cold, cold bed at night.  He was moved against something hard and soft and not warm but so nice, touching almost from neck to knee.  Words competed with the rush-rush of blood pounding in his ears, touches dancing over skin that couldn’t take even the gentlest pressure but still needed it, craved it.  The sweet-sharp smell of blood filled him, almost drowning it out, almost overpowering it, but not really.

Musk and leather, cigarettes and pain, and below that something more, something deeper.

Home.  He wept, losing himself in the scent of it, sobbing out over a decade of pain and terror that he’d never told anyone before, never never never.  Home.  And he wanted to believe, wanted to believe so much that the pain of his broken body dimmed in comparison because he hadn’t, he couldn’t.  Wanting was dangerous, he knew that, but it was so much, so strong, and please, please make it better, make it not so much, please. . .

“I’m here, my love.  I promise I’m here.  You’re safe now, precious.  Nothing will hurt you ever again.”

This time waking was. . . better.  No silent, swallowed screaming, no mumbled songs.  Just breathing.  Soft pressure on his forehead, cool breath gusting in and out over feverish skin.  A twitch of movement and he recognized the lump at the top of his head as a nose.

“Ow.”

A sharply indrawn breath and then what had been his blanket started moving.  “Mornin’, pet,” was muttered in his ear.  He stifled a giggle—the voice was high and light, from a sleep-full throat.  It made him sound almost falsetto.

“Hm?”  Rumbling vibrations turned the laughter into a silent moan.  “S’funny, luv?”

“Silly.”  And his own voice was falsetto, but that was okay too.

Blue eyes widened and stared into his.  For a moment he thought he saw fear, true fear, the kind of fear that said ‘please, no, not this one too’, but then it was gone and there was only amusement and affection.  “Am I silly, then?”

“Yes.”  Another giggle, which called up an answering smile.  “Pretty.”

“Nah.  Too bony to be really pretty.  You are, though.  Even now, you are. . .”  There was pain in the voice again, like there had been before with the pretty song.  Pain was bad.  Besides, the pretty man was wrong.

“Not,” he said, wrinkling his nose and shaking his head.  Looking down at himself, seeing the cuts and bruises and pudgy bits and dented bits, he blinked back tears.  “Ugly,” he whispered.  “Broken.”

“Never.”  Quick as a flash, there was a hand cupping his cheek, making him look up into blue eyes that were filled with their own tears.  Eyes that were completely serious and not the least bit mocking.  “You are beautiful, love.  Don’t ever think different.  An’ you are not broken.  Don’t keep broken things.  Toss ’em out.  An’ you—” he stressed, tilting his head so that he continued looking into his eyes—“are not broken, ducks.  You are strong, and pure.  Always pure.”

“Mommy says I’m bad.  Daddy says I’m dirty.”  The comments were rote, things he knew and had known all his life.  But it still hurt to say them out loud.

“Never.  Y’er mum’s a ravin’ looney, an’ your da’s a pathetic sack o’ rotgut.  Nothing comin’ outta his mouth but drink.  Don’t believe a word of it.”  The eyes were back, staring into his own with such fervor, such deep belief that he couldn’t help but maybe—just maybe believe.  The pretty man wasn’t leaving, after all.  He was still there, still touching and talking and saying such nice things. . .

“Mommy and Daddy love me,” he whispered.  Which wasn’t true, he knew that.  But they were supposed to. . . weren’t they?

“No, Xander.  The crack-whores you call parents do not love you.  They used you an’ abused you an’ got only what they wanted from you.”  The pretty man was very close now.  Such a nice, pretty man.

“I know,” he whispered again, because he did.  He’d known that for a long, long time.  Love was red hair and cookies and ice cream in the park.  Love was a hand helping him to his feet and accepting the one he offered.  Love was quiet nights in front of the tv, heckling movies that could never capture the creatures that did go bump in the night.  Love was thank you and it looks good on you. . .

Except they loved someone else.  They always loved someone else.  And even when it was him. . . it wasn’t.  Because he was bad and ugly and broken and no one could love him.

“They were idiots, Xander.  Utter gits.”

Nice, pretty man.  So silly, the pretty man.  Because they weren’t gits, they were his parents.  And maybe if he hadn’t been so bad, and stupid, and ugly, and broken then maybe they might have loved him.  Been nice to him.  And then maybe. . .

“They shoulda loved you, pet.  Right morons of them not to.  Know why?”  And the pretty man was moving, sitting up and carefully moving him so that he was still pressed up close, legs wrapped around a narrow waist, and an arm supporting him around his back.  Hair was brushed away from his face and a forehead rested against his own, so that their noses rubbed together.  And blue, blue, blueblueblue eyes were looking straight into his and he couldn’t look away and didn’t want to because they were so pretty, even though he was so close it looked like there was only one big blurry eye, instead of two.

“Because I love you, Xander.”

Feather light touch of lips against his own, and suddenly he remembered.  Not what happened, that was easy to remember, even when he wanted to forget. . . he remembered that he wasn’t little.  He hadn’t been little for a very long time, and this was Spike, kissing him.  Soft, gentle, loving kisses, warm against his mouth, and shouldn’t he be kissing back?

His mouth opened involuntarily, not much, just enough that a tongue could lap at the openness there, and he must have morning-breath from hell, but it didn’t seem to matter because it was gentle touches, sweet, loving touches that never faltered as they kissed and licked and sucked and gently nipped.

And this was different than before.  Than ever before.  There was no gloss or fruit, or plump softness.  There was stubble, and rough, broken patches, and a hard aggressiveness that even his dominant lovers hadn’t been able to match, even now when it was couched in loving gentleness.  There was cigarettes, and fear, and a lingering hint of copper, along with pain and love.  And it tasted better than anything.

He moaned, or gasped, or something, because his mouth was open wider and a slick tongue was rubbing against his own, and he was kissing.  Really kissing.  Tongues tangling together, not battling, just touching, tasting, feeling.  He was crying, he knew, his fingers curled into ice blond locks that weren’t cemented down with gel, and that alone told Xander everything there was to know.  He kissed back harder.

“I’m sorry,” was whispered when they both realized that Xander had to breathe, and the kisses trailed along his face, removing tears that still fell.  “I’m sorry.”  Nibbling delicately at an earlobe, before returning to press hard at lips that welcomed the contact, craved it, never wanted it to end, except there was that breathing thing—

I love you.  I’m sorry.  I’m here.  Beautiful, special, wonderful, strong.  Mine.  Mine.

The words poured out in between the kisses and Xander wallowed in the emotion behind them, became a sponge, the Sahara, desperate for the liquid relief the words brought.  More kisses, and this was the first time, he realized.  The only time.  Over a month, and never had there been kisses, let alone like these.  There had been everything but kisses, and he hadn’t realized he’d wanted them until he had them.

Had him.

The ceiling was pretty.  Swirls of black were worked into the wood planing, creating a soothing pattern he ran his eyes over again and again.  He figured it wasn’t random, maybe some kind of Asian character?  He didn’t know.  But it was pretty.  Soothing.  That was good.

He had no idea how long he’d been studying the pattern above him, but he guessed that it didn’t matter.  He was warm, resting on oddly shaped yet strangely comfortable cushions.  The pain wasn’t even too bad, so long as he kept his body mostly still.  His mind was calm, staring up at the pretty patterns.  They made it easier not to think about—other things.  Made it easy to think about nothing but the patterns.

Which was wrong.

He remembered coming home.  Little fag’s finally showin’ his face?  Prick!  Look at wha’ y’ve done t’ your mother!  He remembered when the beating started, remembered when it got so horribly worse.  No son o’ mine’s gonna be a fag.  Your mom didn’t raise a fuckin’ fudge-packer.  Icy hot pain that dragged through his skin, followed by rivers of blood.  The sharp crack and dull thuds as his body was pummeled into submission.

Xander!

The drunken, cruel look in his father’s eyes.  Pretty little boy.  The look in his mother’s as she ran her hands along his body, uncaring of the injuries she touched.  Oh, Alexander.  I’m so disappointed in you.  You were such a promising boy.  Her weight upon him and the sticky, slimy feeling of warmth wetting—

Let me in!

“Come in,” he whispered in the stillness of the room.  His voice was hoarse, but not scratchy and weak the way it had been the first time.  His eyes returned to the whirling patterns above him, visible in the warm sunlight, tracing them in a more conscious attempt to calm down. Being agitated made him hurt more.

But not enough.  Not as bad as it should.

Broken leg.  Dislocated arm.  A host of cuts, some of them quite deep, on his front, the ones on his back—reaching from neck to knee—intermixed with bruising that felt down to his bones.  Ribs were at the very least cracked, possibly outright broken.  The hot, wet feeling in his gut that had followed a particularly vicious hit with the crowbar had to have broken something, which meant internal injuries.

He should be dead now.  Or in traction.  Or screaming in tortured agony, waiting for a break in the pain so he could beg for morphine, for an overdose, for something.

He wasn’t.

Not that there wasn’t pain—there was definitely that.  But manageable pain.  Bearable pain.  The kind he imagined he’d feel if he went several rounds with a Slayer who wasn’t pulling her punches, followed by a few very active patrols, finishing with a trip to the gym.  He hurt and he knew it was going to take time and work to feel okay again. . .

But he would.

Xander!  Let me in!

He’d let Spike in.  He remembered that.  Thank god he’s okay, he thought inanely, suddenly remembering why Spike hadn’t been there to begin with.  He’d die if he had to go back to the Initiative.  Trapped behind glass with too-white walls and people poking and prodding and dissecting and taking every—

Pretty patterns in the wood.  He traced them for a while, his mind circling warily while he gathered his thoughts.  They had a tendency to fly away and it was so pretty above him. . .

Spike saved me.

He understood that.  It was hard to miss, given he was lying here in a strange room that wasn’t a hospital, feeling. . . recoverable.  What he didn’t understand was why.

Opening aching eyes, twisting his head just enough that he could see the familiar combination of white and black glowing eerily in the doorway.  Something in him forcing lips and tongue, throat and lungs to produce the combination the voice demanded.  Sinking back down onto scratchy cloth, fighting a smile because now, now it was over. . .

All that blood, soaking into everything.  A feast for a starving vampire, with two humans ready and willing to act as pre-chipped hands.  Xander had slipped away to the peaceful realization that at least Spike would benefit.  He’d get a good meal, and Xander was happy that his death would give that to the vampire.  That his death would be good for something.

Spike saved me.

There was something that was supposed to accompany that thought.  An addendum, a clause, an explanation, a something.  He didn’t know what it was.  He hated that more than anything; the parts of his life where he would do something, say something, and it would be lost to the void of black unconsciousness.  This time, though, the lack of memory tore at him, ripping apart gray matter to find the something that would make him breathe easier, the bit of knowledge that would explain why he felt so—

“Good morning, Xander.”

He froze.

A whisper of cooler air across his skin told him the door was opening, quiet footfalls approaching him.  He did not look away from the ceiling, even when whoever it was knelt beside him.  “How are you feeling?”  Something was unsnapped, making him start violently.  “You must breathe, please.  He was rather insistent about that.”

He?  Pack-leader.  Pack-leader says I have to breathe.

He inhaled too quickly, coughing as sweet air turned rough and cut into his already abraded throat.  Warm, small hands touched him and this time his violent reaction propelled him up against the wall.

Or it would have, if those same small hands hadn’t held him down.

“None of that, please.”  The hands did not move, resting comfortably where they touched his chest and shoulder and he gradually relaxed into their warmth.  “Will you stay calm?”

Will you hurt me if I don’t? he thought.  The fear was instantaneous.  Deep in his mind, something wailed and keened in counterpoint.

“You must stay calm, Xander.  You must breathe.  If you do not, I fear for what William might do.”

It was the amusement rippling through the smooth silk of the voice that made him finally calm down.  That, and the realization that pack-leader would be upset if he wasn’t well behaved.

Spike saved me.

“Now, then.  Let me do most of the work.”  With that bizarre admonition, Xander lay passive as the small, warm hands exerted a startling amount of strength in moving him around.  Soon he was in a sitting position, able to actually see more than the pretty ceiling that still called to him.

The small room seemed covered with candles.  Most had gone out, but a few still burned fitfully.  Beside him a small woman in a black-and-silver kimono watched patiently.  “I know you,” he whispered, his throat still not particularly happy at being used.  “You own the magic shop.  Willow likes it.”

“Indeed.”  Which was an odd answer, and he was able to catch several different nuances in it.  If only he knew what they meant.  “I must check your wounds, now.”  Hands touched him again, but this time to turn his face so that he was looking in her eyes.  Deep, dark eyes. . . depths so dark that they were the absence of light. . .  “I will be as gentle as I can,” she said quietly, “but this will hurt. Do you understand?”

He nodded, throat suddenly tighter.

She worked quickly, occasionally interjecting comments about his recovery and the means she had used to get him there.  It did hurt, but concentrating on her voice and the patterns above him helped immensely.  I’m going to be okay.  That was what she stressed again and again.  Glancing down at himself only served to convince him of it.

He knew what he should have looked like—a lifetime at home and years with the Slayer had given him many mornings to examine injuries from the previous night.  Instead, smooth, mostly unbroken skin stared back at him.  There was an occasional bandage, which was carefully removed.  Most revealed reddened patches of skin, already in the final stages of healing.  His leg was bound in black strips of some material he couldn’t identify, which were also removed.

“Scars?” he asked while she rubbed something cool and tingly into his back.  It felt good, which surprised him.  She’d hurt him plenty before, and this should have hurt like hell.  Wasn’t the first time the crowbar had been used, and he knew how long cracked bones and the bruised flesh atop them remained painful.

“You will have them,” was the immediate response, “but not many.  There is a salve you must apply regularly.  It will help convince the skin to knit back seamlessly.”

No scars.  Well, no more scars.  Which, given what they’d done to his front—

A sharp tap to his temple made the world loose its red-tinged madness.  “You are here, and you are safe.  No one will hurt you, Xander.”  A brief hint of a smile crossed stern features.  “Well, no more than I have already.”

“Okay,” he replied dumbly.  She got him turned over again and a tray containing a bowl and a glass appeared in his lap.  He blinked at it.  “How—what—how did—”  His mouth seemed unable to get the words out coherently.

“You are here because William brought you here.  I have been tending to you for four days.”

Shock kept him docile as she began feeding him a rich chicken broth.  Four days?  I’ve been here days?  God, Willow never lets me go two without calling—  Click.  Oh, god, she knows.  Those unreadable eyes, watching him and waiting. . .  She knows, she knows, she knows, she knows, she—

“Enough!”  Black eyes glared at him, pinning him to the cushions, unable to do more than gasp.  “You were hurt, and I healed you.  I neither know nor care what hurt you, so long as I know it will not happen again.  I do not like my healing to be undone.  William has promised to see you safe, and that is all I care about.”

“But I—but you—must—”

Whatever she read in his face softened her grim demeanor.  “I have guesses, yes.  William has not confirmed or denied anything, so they remain guesses.  I do not, however, think they are wrong.”

Wrong, bad, dirty, don’t touch, bad, ugly, stupid, broken, broken, bad, go away, don’t touch!

“I think no less of you for what I guess,” she continued.  “If I had, William would not have brought you here.”  She caught his eyes, something sparking in their depths.  It made him take a deep breath and pay attention to her words.  “You are safe here, Xander.”

The litany halted, shocked at what he couldn’t have seen.  He couldn’t have.  Because it looked like she. . . cared for him.  But that couldn’t be true because he was . . . he was. . .

Spike saved me.

Lost in his thoughts, he remained quiet while she spoon-fed him the soup and helped him drink the liquid in the cup.  It wasn’t water, but it tasted cold and clean like water did and quenched his thirst.  It was nice.  Then she helped him lie back down and he looked at the patterns some more while she bustled about the room.

She doesn’t bustle, he thought muzzily.  She glides.  Floats.  Mm.  Cool.

She finished whatever it was she was doing and went to the door.  “I’ve closed the shutters,” he heard her say quietly.  “He is dazed, and will possibly grow more so as my medicines take effect.  Perhaps not.  He is coherent.  I will leave you, now.”  The door shut.

The sound of someone settling beside him and a cool, gentle touch on his cheek.  “Hey, puppy.  How you feelin’?”

“Spike.”  He leaned into the touch, just a little, keeping his eyes on the ceiling.  “I don’t hurt.”

“Yeah, Song Li’s good.  Very good.”  Feather light touches caressed him, and he hummed a bit, under his breath.  “Hey.  You awake in there?”

“Pretty.”  It was too hard to look away, so he didn’t.  Just pressed himself closer to the cool, soothing touch as it moved up to pet his hair.  “Nice.”

“What’s pretty?  The ceilin’?  Yeah.  Li was tellin’ me, got symbols up there, worked into the finish.  Supposed to be good for patients.”  More petting and Xander was feeling nice, now.  Not hurting.  Not really sleepy.  Content.  So long as the fingers didn’t stop moving.  “Can I see too?”

“It’s pretty,” he said by way of agreement.  Big, strong hands moved him with a gentleness he would have scoffed at a month ago, arranging him so that another body could lay next to his.

“You make a good pillow,” he said from the crook of Spike’s shoulder.  One hand continued to pet, pet, pet, pet him, the other rubbing slowly over his un-damaged arm.

“Glad to oblige.”

They lay quietly for a while, lulled into a half-doze by the twisty, curvy patterns.  It was nice.

“What do you remember?”

Xander!  Let me in!

“You saved me.”  His voice wasn’t supposed to be that high, was it?  Swallowing only made him notice the lump in his throat.  “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”  It was too tranquil to yelp, but that’s what it sounded like.  Just with less volume.  “Pet, Xander. . . what the hell are you sorry for?”

“I was bad.  I went back.  I knew you didn’t want me to.  I knew you—”

“Shhh, now.  Don’t cry, luv.”

“I’m not.  M’not a baby.”

“Not a soddin’ baby.  Gonna quote me, do it right, dammit.”  But the humor was strained and Spike let it die a muted death.

Silence again.  The feeling that he was missing something important was back, stronger than ever and very much connected to Spike—but it was hard to stay worried about it.  With the pretty pattern and nice, safe touches on him, and the smell that exuded pack and safe and home, it was hard to do anything except lie there.

“You knew.  Didn’t you?” he blurted out, even though he knew he shouldn’t be talking.  He shouldn’t be pressing this, because he didn’t want to know.  Not really.

“I knew.”

“I’m s—I thought I hid it better.”  The cool form beside and below him tensed.  Apologies were bad, then, and he accommodated the knowledge instantly.  “I thought I hid it better,” he finished softly, relieved when the muscles below his head relaxed.

“You hid it well enough.”  Spike turned his head so that he was speaking almost directly into his ear.  “Too well, really.”  More silence, and Xander wondered what that comment was supposed to mean.  “I smelled the blood.  An’ the makeup.”

Oh.  That was. . . bad.  He wasn’t supposed to be bad, except the words were being pulled out of him because he was bad and— “I’m sorry.”

Arms tightened around him, and he was nuzzled gently.  “For what?  For gettin’ beat on by them you couldn’t fight against?  For takin’ it when you coulda fought back?  Not your fault, luv.  Not ever your fault for that.”

But it was.  Wasn’t it?  Spike was right, of course, he could have fought back for. . . for years, now.  He could have, but he never did.  “But—but only you can—can hurt me.  That’s what you said?”

Spike growled low in his throat, freezing Xander’s tears before they fell.  Shifting, he repositioned them so that they were both on their sides, Xander’s head still on Spike’s arm, blue eyes boring into brown.  Blue, blue eyes. . .  “Not about that.  Not about mine or theirs, just about you.  An’ hurtin’.  You shouldn’t hurt, Xander.  Not ever.”

When has Spike ever called me by my name?

Xander!  Let me in!

“But you knew,” Xander protested weakly.  “You knew, and I was lying and that was bad and I don’t—I don’t want to be—you knew.”

“I knew,” Spike confirmed, “an’ I never pushed you away.”  How had he known what Xander was trying to say?  Was Xander trying to say that?  He didn’t know, but it sounded so good that he didn’t argue it.  “I knew, an’ I never thought you broken or worthless.  I knew, Xander, an’ I kept you closer.”  Big hands, killer hands, brushed away a stray tear.  “Told you, pet.  You’re mine.  Not about them touchin’ what wasn’t theirs to play with.  Bout you not believin’ I’ll keep you.”

Something deep within the back of his mind flared bright, a glorious cry of happiness sounding even as tears rolled down his face.  “Keep me?”

“Told you, puppy.  Don’t do anythin’ less than forever.”

“Oh.”  The something was there again, he could see it in Spike’s eyes.  But he didn’t know what it was and even as he watched the light faded into a muted pain.  Within his mind the happiness became twisted, tainted.  He was hurting pack-leader.  He didn’t know how, and he didn’t know how to make it better, but he was.  That was bad.

Spike didn’t seem to think so, content to pull Xander closer and hold him until the tears stopped.  “Um, S—Miss Li, she—she said. . . four days?”  Spike made a soft hm noise when spoken to, eyes half-closed in drowsy contentment.  “What happened?  I don’t. . . I can’t remember.  After I heard you.”

Lids flickered up, and for a moment Xander swore he saw—  “You invited me in.”  The words were flat, and this time Xander did see pain and remembered rage flaring in dark blue eyes.  “Got in.  Got you out.  Took you here.”

“F—four days?  Ago?”

“Yeah.  Four days.  Li, she’s. . .she’s a healer.  Of sorts.  When I—when—” he cleared his throat roughly.  “Figured here was best.  No officials askin’ funny questions, no Scoobies clusterin’ about.  An’ better healin’ too.”

“Oh.”  He bit his lip, wishing he could concentrate more.  There was something he wanted to—oh, that was it.  “Is she human?”

Rueful chuckle, but the pain and rage lessened so that was good.  “Don’t know.  Don’t rightly care.  She’s powerful, very powerful, so I’m not about to go askin’ after her parentage.”

“She said she used. . . magic.”

“A bit.  Mostly was just Eastern medicine, ’stead of Western.”  The comforting croon he vaguely remembered was back in Spike’s voice, slurring the words together.  It was nice.  Comfy.  He liked being comfy.  “But yeah, some magic.  That a problem?”

“No.”  He thought about it some more.  Turned his head so that it was pressed deeper into Spike’s neck.  His lips tickled white skin stretched over a collarbone.  “Giles says that magic can’t be used to heal people.”

“Yeah, cos the Watcher knows everything’ ’bout everythin’, he does.”  A sigh and Spike cuddled closer.  Pretty Spike.  “He’s half-right.  Can’t use magic like he knows to heal, um, sickness.  Illness.  But injury, that’s different.  Wounds, specially those done out o’ violence, they leave a signature, an echo, in the magic.  Least, that’s the way Li tells it.  She can use that echo to tell your body the way it should be, whole an’ healthy an’ not hurtin’.  Makes the healin’ faster an’ better an’ you won’t scar as much.”

“That’s good,” he said placidly.  “Is Willow mad at me?”  He wondered why he sounded so dreamy.

“Christ, I know she warned me that you’d act funny, but you sound like you’re bloody stoned!”

Xander turned his head again; that was a weird answer.  “M’not. . . stoned.  Not a druggie.”  He wondered why he sounded so petulant.  And childish.

“No, you’re just flightier’n hell.  Right.  S’been long enough, I think.  C’mon, puppy.  Time to get up.”

“Don’t wanna.”  He pouted outrageously, knowing he was pouting, but surprised when Spike just rolled his eyes.  The pout usually worked.  “Sleepy!  And, it’s pretty.  Don’t wanna leave the pretty.”

“There’s more—pretty where we’re goin’.  Now, don’t fight me, pet.  Gotta get you in there.  Come sunset, we’re leavin’.”

“Leaving?  Leaving where?  I like it here.”  He grinned inanely as Spike swung him—carefully—up into his arms and carried him from the room.  “Bouncy!” he exclaimed, wondering why Spike was giving him that look.  “What?” he pouted again.

“This is not just you regressin’.  You are stoned.  Bollocks.”  Spike shifted him so that he was being carried with only one arm.  Whoa, he thought; Spike wasn’t even straining.  Vampire strength is so cool.  He watched as Spike poured some gloppy green stuff into a big bathtub and then ran water over the top of it.

When the water was steaming invitingly, Spike shifted him and Xander suddenly realized just what was going on.  “Hey, no!” he said and began to struggle.  It hurt, but he didn’t care.  “That’s green!  And slimy!  I’m not going in there!”  But despite his protests he was being lowered into the greenish goo.

“Oh, for bloody—!  It’s not gonna hurt you, pillock.  It’s gonna—just get in the—fuck, chip, I’m not tryin’ to hurt him—bathtub!”  Xander glared up from his position seated in the water before he realized—

Warm. 

He held very, very still while Spike slid behind him.  Why was he struggling again?  He wasn’t sure.  Then Spike’s voice was in his ear and he forgot.  “See?  Song Li has good stuff, yeah?  Gonna get some o’ this for us, in our place.  Take baths together just like this, all warm an’ tingly.”

It was warm and tingly.  Suffusing his body with soothing calm, and—oh!  There were patterns on this ceiling too!  Pretty!

He relaxed back against Spike’s chest, humming a little as strong arms encircled him again.  Legs brushed his, coarse hair scraping together and suddenly Xander realized he was naked.  Had been naked the whole time.  So was Spike, behind him.

The warm chuckle reverberated through him, legs tightening a bit to enclose him further.  Touching?  Touching. . . good?  “Just figured it out, did you?  Don’t worry, pet.  Song Li’s the discreet type.”

“Oh.  Okay.  Why is the water green?”

Muffled laughter bounced off his neck in response.

They stayed in the tub a long time.  It was nice in there, and he was losing some of the ‘flightiness’ Spike didn’t like, the more they stayed there.  Also, Spike was very happy to touch him.  Not in a bad way—his mind shied away from the very thought—but a nice way, petting like he was a puppy—my puppy, you are, boy—all over his body, in a soothing caress that felt very, very nice.

First, though, there had been the shame.

How could Spike want to look at him?  He was dirty.  Broken.  Ugly.  Worse, the heat, the incredibly sensuality of Spike’s gaze made him think. . . bad things.  Bad things about heaviness and sticky moisture and—

But Spike had slithered around so that he could face Xander, staring into his eyes, whispering things that Xander couldn’t believe.  Except Spike kept saying them, and there was no hint of mockery or bullshit or anything but utter sincerity in the eyes that wouldn’t let go of his.  There was just concern and honesty and something that blinded Xander even as it reassured him.  Something that he should recognize but he didn’t, and it made him so frustrated. . .

And then Spike was touching him, differently than he had been before, because this wasn’t just comfort—at least, not Xander’s comfort.  Sliding over skin that should have been red and raw.  Running over bones that should have been shattered.  Gliding over blood that should have filled the bathtub instead of his skin.  Spike just touched, tracing imagined patterns, rubbing soap into skin that was oily from sleep and sweat, rinsing it clean with fresh water.

He wanted to stop it.  He was ashamed, a disjointed litany of bad and ugly and broken circling in the back of his mind.  But the touch on his skin was gentle, almost reverential, and the look in Spike’s eyes when Xander dared meet them was blinding, and so happy.

He didn’t know why.  He couldn’t possibly fathom what was so great about touching his skin.  Even skin that was much more smooth and unbroken than it should have been.

He stopped thinking, eventually.  It was hard to think and easy to trust Spike.  So he just let go, relaxing back where Spike directed and allowed the vampire unrestricted access.  It felt good, what Spike was doing.  So good.  Those big, dangerous hands were so tender as they rubbed and massaged and eased.  He drifted under the caress, only noticing one little detail in the back of his mind. . .

“Hey, pet, no sleepin’.  C’mon, wakey, wakey.  Li wants t’see you, an’ we can’t be in here that long.  C’mon, puppy, wake up. . .”

Xander blinked to find Spike hovering over him, anxiously petting him.  “Don’t pet the puppy if you want him to stay awake,” he mumbled, still more than two thirds asleep.  “Hey.  Um.  We’re still in the bathtub.”

“Yeah.  She said that if I added more, it’d stay warmer longer.  It’s good for you, yeah, but too long an’ we turn into prunes.”  Spike waggled five very pruney fingers, showing off a subdued version of his usual smirk.  “Come on, then.  Time to get you out, yeah?”

Xander agreed.  He was feeling very nice, without the heavy lassitude in his limbs that meant too much sleep.  Still a bit silly and. . . fragile, though.  Part of him was rational enough to want it to go away, but not strong enough to do it. 

“Oh, pretty,” he said when Spike dried him off and dressed him in a silky green kimono.  There were pictures picked out in white, but he couldn’t focus on them long enough to make out what they were.  “Spike?  My head hurts.”

“I know, puppy.  Gonna go see Li, now, let her make it better.  Up we go.”

He likes carrying me, Xander thought with a mental giggle as he was once again swung up into Spike’s arms like a girl.  He wondered vaguely if he should be offended by that, but it was nice to rest his head on the muscled shoulder and listen to a heart not beat.

“Xander.  William.”  They were in a kitchen, now, Song Li working with green plants by the sink.  She gave them a brief smile as Spike settled them both onto the mats beside a low table.  “How are you feeling?”

“Good.  Kinda really good.”  He giggled, and this time he heard how drugged he sounded.  There was a flicker in her dark eyes, but she said nothing.  Another bowl and glass appeared and this time his stomach cheered at the sight.  He was hungry.

“Can you manage this on your own?  Or do you want William to help you.”  He could do it.  All he needed was to get the bowl in his hands and then he could tip it down his throat, no problem.  He was starving and the broth from before had been really good.  He stretched out his hands for the bowl, uncaring of the snort of amusement from Spike.  He held it to his mouth—and then realized he was being glared at.  Fine.  He sipped delicately, obscurely happy when Spike relaxed.

He finished the bowl quickly, watching with interest as Song Li began crushing various herbs with a mortar and pestle.  “Hey!  I know you!  You run the magic shop that Willow really likes, but she can never seem to get in it, but I never have that problem so she asks me a lot to go and get the things she needs, which is odd but kinda cool because it’s helping and I like to help, and you always smile at me when I come which is nice because you’re kinda scary sometimes and I don’t think you’re human and neither does Spike and did I say this already, I can’t remember?”

He inhaled a short breath to keep going, whoofing when Spike wrapped an arm around his waist and clapped a hand over his mouth.  “Mum?  Did you give him speed?” he asked very, very calmly.

The dry chuckle killed any desire to continue babbling.  He sucked his lips together, biting them, to let Spike know that it was okay to let him go.  The hand was removed but the arm remained.  Nice arm.  Good arm.  Ohh, nice hands stroking his belly.  It made him feel shivery—and why was Spike looking at him like that?

“Did you give him a lot of speed?  Maybe a bit of amphetamines on the side?”

“He will calm.  One of the side-effects of several of the medicines in him augments the regression.”  Regression?  What does that mean?  “He will sleep deeply when he—” she paused, obviously searching for a word.

“When he crashes like a hundred ton rock?  Yeah, I get it.  You wanna look him over again?  Sun’s nearly down, an’ I wanna get him over to the new place.”

“New place?” Xander turned to ask Spike, wobbling when his lower half didn’t turn as well.  “Ow.”

“Oi, don’t do that,” Spike scolded.  Gathering up his twisted body, Spike plunked him down in the vampire’s lap.  Hm.  It was nice, there.  “Now, let her look at you, okay?”

Touch?  Touch. . . bad.  “Don’t wanna.”  The sullen tone was back, and he shrank against Spike.  He’d been good and let her look at him before and he didn’t want her touching him now.  Only pack-leader could touch him, because pack-leader didn’t care that he was bad and broken and dirty and ugly and—

“. . .due to the nature of his healing.  It will pass.  However, the emotions are already there, William.  He is simply switching between them faster.”

“Yeah, I get that, but—listen, here he goes.”

Why were they looking at him like that?  He curled his arms tighter around himself, rocking a little and—he was talking?  Was that what they were listening to?  Cause Spike had his head cocked just a little like he did when he was concentrating on something.  He listened and heard someone with his voice saying, “Bad, dirty, broken, bad, ugly, stupid, bad, broken, bad. . .” over and over again.  Why was someone doing that?

“Dunno what sets him off, but he’s done it at least once a day,” Spike said, even as he began petting Xander.  “Sh, puppy, no more now.  Quiet, please, luv?  Be quiet now?”

The words died off, but the rocking stayed.  Spike tightened his arms, holding Xander forcefully to his chest.  Trapped, Xander started to struggle.  His mind flashed, and the pleasant little room dissolved into cold and grey and Again, Tony—

“Let go.  Let go—don’t touch!”

“No, luv, no, it’s okay it—”

Little asshole.  Why the hell your mom wanted t’keep you. .  He was vaguely aware that the litany had started up again, but all he heard was such a bad boy, Alexander. 

“Fuck, I didn’t want to do this and damn you, mum, for bein’ right, but—Xander!  That’s enough!”

The harsh, authoritative voice shut Xander up.  He trembled, wanting to crawl away from the bad sound, but knowing instinctively that pack-leader would not be happy if he did.  So he sat there, trembling, waiting.

“Look at me, Xander.”  He didn’t think he’d ever seen Spike look so forbidding.  “I’m your pack-leader, right?”  Nod.  “So that means when I tell you to do somethin’, you do it, right?”  Another nod.  “Now, it also means that if I trust someone, you do too, yeah?”  Pause, half-glance towards the patient, silent woman, before he looked back and nodded.  “Right, then.  I trust Song Li.  She isn’t gonna hurt you.  So if she asks you to do somethin’, s’like me askin’ you to do it.  Okay?”

Xander nodded again, too afraid to speak.

“Good, that’s good, luv.  Now, you’re gonna sit here an’ let Song Li look you over again, okay?  I’ll stay with you the whole time.  Just relax now.”

Xander slumped back against pack-leader, trying not to move as Song Li again approached him and began to look him over.  She made clucking sounds when she examined his leg, and rubbed a cream over his entire body, even his face.  Spike crooned and whispered to him the whole time, petting him.  Xander let himself relax into pack-leader’s touch, but he refused to meet his eyes, the few times Spike tried.  Not because he was ashamed, although he was—he was being bad, and pack-leader had every right to scold him.  He avoided Spike’s gaze, though, because it hurt.

Dark blue eyes were silently screaming out in torment Xander couldn’t identify, couldn’t understand.  All he knew was that every order made the pain worse.  So much worse.

I’m bad, he thought, quietly in his own head so that pack-leader wouldn’t hear.  Bad pack, to hurt pack-leader.  He saved me. . . and all I’m doing is hurting him.

“There,” Song Li said eventually.  “Remember my instructions, William,” she admonished.  “Follow them, and be gentle with him.  He will look healed long before he is healed, and the pain will linger longer still.”

“How long we talkin’, here?”  Spike helped him to his feet, redressing him in the long kimono.  The silk felt nice.  “Pain-wise, I mean.  Don’t like him hurtin’.”

“A few weeks at most before he feels perfectly normal again.  Follow my instructions and all will be well.  He will sleep often, especially two hours after an application of the salve in the blue jar.  That forces the body to heal faster and must work much harder.  It will exhaust him.  Use it sparingly, and only upon signs of trouble.”

“Yes, mum.”

“Bring him back in five days, and if there are any problems—”

“I know, mum.”  Xander didn’t think he’d ever seen that amused, respectful exasperation on Spike’s face before.  He wasn’t even sure Spike could do that kind of look, previously only seen on Willow or Giles.  “Ask you, immediately.  Don’t worry, I will.”  He snorted, and the amusement got stronger.  “Good thing you like us both, eh?”

Song Li bowed, tactfully not answering.

While Spike was obviously debating on helping him walk or just carrying him outright, Xander studied Song Li.  The stuff she’d rubbed in him was making him feel. . . clearer.  The silly fuzziness was starting to fade.

He remembered when he’d come to her store for the first time, clutching a list of what Willow wanted.  She’d complained over and over that she never had time to shop herself, so Xander, ever the knight-errant, had volunteered.  His trip was uneventful and unimpeded, something Willow said was impossible for this store.  She always seemed to remember something she had to do, right then, and the magic items were never bought.  She’d cursed herself for a forgetful mind and Xander had wondered, even then, why she didn’t see there was something wrong.

He’d been nervous, right up until he made it through the doorway.  Then he relaxed  completely.  Even when meeting the proprietor—who had terrified him and even now pretty much scared the crap out of him—he’d remained. . . calm.

Just like he was now.  And really, even though he knew he was being crazy and childish and not mentally healthy. . . it was never as bad as it could have been.  He could see that very clearly.

“It’s in the air, isn’t it?” he asked abruptly.  He felt Spike turn to look at him, but kept his eyes on Song Li.  The tiny, fragile little woman who had healed him.  Who had accepted Spike as a friend.

“No,” she answered quietly.  “It’s in the heart.”

“Say your goodbyes,” Spike directed, watching with a father’s patience while Xander awkwardly tried to bow from his seated position.  Song Li waved him off, as well as his stuttering inquiries about compensation.

“Be well, Xander,” she said in parting.  Spike swung him up a third time.  He let his head rest on the vampire’s shoulder, part of him marveling at how easily the slightly smaller man handled his greater weight and bulk.  “And William, do not forget what I told you.”

“I won’t,” Spike answered evenly.  Then he nodded and headed down the stairs.

Outside, the sun had just barely set, lingering rays brightening the early-evening gloom.  A snapping, playful breeze tugged at the kimono he wore, flipping the edges about.  It felt weird, but good.  “Do you have my car?”  Uncle Rory’s latest DUI had resulted in the classic Bel Air residing with Xander.

“Yeah.”  Spike stopped abruptly, looking at Xander directly for the first time since Xander ate.  “You know I’m not takin’ you back to the basement.  Right?”

“No?”  He thought he maybe should be upset with that, but it was pack-leader.  If pack-leader said they weren’t going home, pack didn’t really have a chance to argue.  Right?  “Why not?  I have to go home.  It’s where the bed is,” he ended logically.

“S’not a bed, it’s medieval torture device,” Spike snapped back, leaning against a brick wall.  Still easily holding Xander like he was a swooning woman.  Thank god no one was around.  “We aren’t goin’ back there, Xander.”

“But it’s home.”

“No.”  Xander blinked, hearing patience where he expected frustration.  He was counting on that frustration, dammit, it was useful in convincing Spike that you were right and he was wrong.  He had to go home, the human in him was adamant about that. 

“Xander, it’s not home.  It’s hell an’ it’s torture an’ I am not lettin’ you go back there.  Not ever again.”  Eyes glittered in the growing darkness, oddly bright.  “That ain’t home.  But where I’m taking you might be.”

Xander wanted to argue.  He had nineteen years of training convincing him that he should go back, now that he was better.  He always did.  That’s what he was supposed to do, because. . . because it’d be different.  Wouldn’t it?  For a while, it used to be.  But then Daddy would find something wrong, and Mommy would look at me. . .

He shook his head, ridding himself of memories he couldn’t face.  Not now.  “I have to,” he whispered, little again and confused.  Because that was home. . . except pack-leader said it wasn’t.  He said it was a bad place.  And he hurt there.

“Hey.”  Spike bumped him with his chin gently.  “You’re my pack, yeah?  Means I take care o’ you.  I pick the lair.  Right?”

“Yes.”  Pack leader protects pack by finding a defensible lair.  The basement wasn’t defensible, even the little boy who was still repeating over and over again knew that.

“Right, then.  We’re goin’ to our home now, Xander.  Okay?  Tell me it’s okay, puppy.”

“Yes.  It—it’s okay.  Spike?”

“Yeah, luv?”  Spike walked up to the car, somehow supporting Xander one-handed long enough to unlock the door.  Xander didn’t think about cars and other homes, not right then.  It smelled so good where he was, face pressed up against Spike’s neck.  Except—oh.  Being put down.  In the seat.  Belted, the door slammed shut.

He had an instant of pure, absolute terror—before Spike opened the other door and slid inside.  “What is it, puppy?”

“I’m sorry,” said one last time.  Because he was sorry.  Something was making Spike upset, and pack-leader shouldn’t be upset, ever.  It was the pack’s job to make it better, not worse.  “I’m so—”

“Sh.  Don’t be sorry.  Nothin’ you need to apologize for, white-hat.”  Spike put the car in motion, his right hand dropping down to take hold of Xander’s.  “Now, you need to be calm when we get there.  You’ll wanna sleep soon, I’m guessin’, so I don’t want you riled up.  Will you do that?”

He made some kind of sleepy noise of agreement, enjoying the vibrations from the car like he did when he was a little kid and he’d been stuck on top of the dryer so he’d sleep through the night.  It was nice here, with pack-leader.  Going home.

Not going home.  Going to a new home.

Rational thought was returning slowly.  He had no belief that it would last, but at the moment he was calm and in control of himself again.  He knew who he was, what he was—and that there was no way in hell they could be getting a new place.

“Spike?” he said eventually.

“Back again, are we?  Probably wonderin’ what’s going on, too.”

“I really hate it when you patronize me,” Xander muttered, listening to the various voices in his head howl at his insolence.  Except. . . “I am back, so why don’t you explain what’s going on?”

“Not takin’ you back there.  Not fuckin’ lettin’ you near those arsewipes ever again.”  The tightly controlled fury convinced Xander that now would not be a good time to argue.

“Okay.  Except they’re usually very well behaved—afterwards.”  And way to go Xander’s mouth!  That’s gonna help with our next step, of convincing Spike that this was a one-time-deal.  The snarl of rage certainly wasn’t a good sign.

“Yeah, they might be.”  Spike was obviously trying not to break Xander’s hand or rip the steering wheel off.  He took a deep breath and lowered his voice.  “But I doubt they’ve ever gone that far, before.  An’ you’ve never been a ‘fag’ before.  So, no, Xander, we are not goin’ back there.”

“I—”  The sound came out, but there was really nothing to say.  They hadn’t ever been that bad before, not really.  All of the individual acts had been done, true, but never all at once and never with ferocious look of pleasure and. . . pretty little boy. . .

“Luv, look at me.”  Spike pulled the car over to the side and threw the break.  “Xander, we can’t go back there.  What if they were t’do somethin’ else?  I—I can’t.”  Forced, deep breath.  “I can’t protect you, Xander.  I was lucky, damned lucky that your da took off an’ your mum was too shocked to try an’ stop me.  If they try somethin’ again. . .”

Xander swallowed, imagination painting a vivid picture.  Spike was utterly defenseless against this kind of thing.  The only weapon he had left was his ability to fast-talk, and chances were his parents wouldn’t respond to that kind of thing.  Not if they were drunk enough.  And they would be.  If they found them living together in the basement, proving that Spike was his boyfriend. . .  He trembled violently, but he refused to let go of his mind again.  He had to stay focused.

“I know,” he whispered, “I get it.  I do.  But Spike, I can’t just—pick up everything and leave!  I’ve got things there, I’ve got—oh, my god, Willow!”

“Hey, hey, calm down.  Xander!”  The belt was unbuckled and Spike was twisting so that he had a lap for Xander to sit in.  “Easy now, easy.  C’mon, breathe, pet.  No, hyperventilating is bad, luv.  Breathe.  That’s right, in an’ out, there you go.  Calm down, precious.”

“Four days, Spike.”  Spike was running his hand up and down Xander back to the cadence of the breathing pattern he obviously desired.  Xander found himself matching it unconsciously.  “It’s been four days!  Willow must be going crazy!”

“No, she’s not.  Told you, pet, Song Li’s good at what she does.  She magicked it so that she sounded like you.  Told the Scoobies you were sick as a dog.  They’ve got some problems with the Initiative goin’, so they’ve been busy enough to let it pass.  For now.”

Xander could only imagine with Buffy or Willow must have said to engender that tone of voice.

“The Watcher, puppy.  Threatenin’ me with imminent stakin’ if I was hurtin’ you, he was.  Said they were all comin’ over this weekend, no matter what.  I dunno what the hell he was doin’ warnin’ me, but. . . what is it?”

“Giles?  Giles did that?”  It wasn’t that he didn’t believe they were his friends.  It was just . . . hard to remember, sometimes.  They all had this thing going, and Xander was just comic-relief donut-boy.  No special powers to keep him part of the Super Friends team, not even military background.  Just normal, Zeppo boy. 

It was nice to be reminded that they did care for him.

Spike snorted, but the look in his eyes said that he understood.  And didn’t mind.  Which was weird. 

“Yeah, he did.  This was after, mind, both girls took turns badgerin’ me to make sure I wasn’t lyin’—which I was—and demandin’ to hear you.  If it hadn’t been for Li mimickin’ your voice, they wouldn’t have bought it.”

“So, they’re coming to see me?”

“In two days time, at which point we should have our new place all tip-top for a decent house warmin’.  An’ you won’t look half dead.”

“I look that bad?”  Xander blinked, caught off guard by the blinding happiness that had shone from Spike whenever their new place was mentioned.  Like he was so pleased that he could do this—for Xander.  He wants me to be happy, he realized slowly.  He wants me to like this place.

“You look like crap,” Spike was saying.  “Now, back you go.  We’ll be home soon enough.”

Xander slid across the slick leather seat, leaning against the door for the rest of the trip.  It wasn’t long—Sunnydale was too small for it to be that long—and it was in the decidedly wealthier neighborhood that Spike turned into.  In fact, this wasn’t all that far from where Giles lived, and his condo complex was a definite step up from most in the city.

All that Watcher money, Xander thought.  It was getting harder to think again, although he wasn’t as loopy as before.  Just tired.  Wonder what he’s doing now that he doesn’t have anything.  No money from the council.  No money from the school—although I doubt that was enough by itself.  Hope he doesn’t get—yawn—evicted.

“Here we are.”

It was a warehouse.

Xander dissolved into snorting giggles, made worse by the look of effrontery on Spike’s face.