One, Two, Three

by
Lady Cat

Part One

Anya was putting away their dishes.  Their new dishes in their new apartment with its unfamiliar layout and odd quirks they were still learning.  Xander had wanted to bring the crap he called tableware, but Anya had put her foot down.  Or rather, she’d shrilled until Xander shelled out his half and they purchased the grey-and-white set from Target, with the matching silverware.

There was something boiling on the stove, another new convenience Xander was still getting used to.  Working stove, a refrigerator that wasn’t older than he was, a dishwasher, a ceiling fan in the bedroom, clean not-brown running water, and nice furniture.  Okay, yeah, a lot of it had come from goodwill, but Anya had a sharp eye for good bargains and she knew quality.

And she’d promised to make a cover for the horrible flower print on the sofa.

“Hey, Anya,” he greeted.  Nervously.  Trying not to be, because Anya picked up nervousness like a vamp picked up fear.  And wasn’t that a bad thing to be thinking about, right then.  Erk.

“Xander!”  She flashed a megawatt smile and bounced into his arms, kissing him soundly before bouncing back to the cabinets.  She was really getting into the Suzy Homemaker thing, although Xander was well aware that this was a passing excitement.  Wonderful as his woman was, she was a contrary, independent, and easily-bored woman, too, and the drudgery of housework was going to get old quick.  That’s when the nagging, and complaining and badgering would start—but that was okay.  Xander liked that in a woman.

Bad thoughts!  Bad thoughts!

“How was demon-hunting?” Anya asked, pouring her mug of tea before starting on the glasses.  Real glass glasses.  Weird.

“Uh, fine.  Buffy got him.”

“Did you ever find out what the stick that gave Giles his latest concussion did?”

“Uh huh.”  And that was practically squeaked, which meant he deserved the suspicious look Anya was giving him.

“Is something wrong, Xander?  You’re very pale.  And starting to sweat.”

Why did the greatest moment of his life—moving into his own place, paid for with his own money, with his own girlfriend—have to be ruined?  Not that he wasn’t expecting it.  Oh, no, that’d be too simple.  Xander happy meant bad things happened to Xander.

This was probably the worst.

“Hey, Ahn, did I ever tell you about some of the traditions of having your own apartment?”

“Besides having sex in each room?” she asked brightly.  “Oh, I fixed that handle you kicked loose in the bathroom, by the way.”

“Okay, great,” he responded, not really hearing anything but the word ‘sex’.  “This is a different tradition, though.  It’s more of a. . . a friendly tradition.”

Two well-plucked—and god, he’d been horrified when he learned that female ritual—eyebrows lowered in confusion.  Anya stopped putting away the glasses and turned to face him fully.  “A friendly tradition?  Is this the housewarming party you don’t want to throw?  And I still don’t know why not.  We need a new toaster.  Giles could afford to give us a toaster.  And so could Buffy.  She didn’t need that new shirt she wore yesterday.  Although she does look good in pink.”

“Anya!”  This was not a good time to let her rag on his friends, because if she worked herself up into a righteous snit. . . bad.  Bad, bad with a side order of bad.  “Not the housewarming party and I want to do that.  Later.  This tradition. . . this tradition involves the sofa.  Specifically, the sharing of the sofa.”

Anya wasn’t stupid.  Naive, and often very innocent when it came to the daily practices of modern human life, but she wasn’t stupid.  The beginnings of a scowl appeared and Xander knew fear.  “Sharing our sofa?  Who would we share it with?”

He really deserved whatever she did to him.  He knew that.  “It’s more like—oh, hell.  Lemme show you.”  Xander went back through the still open door of the apartment, unsurprised to see there’d been no movement in his absence.  He said, “You can come in, now.”  A brief twitch was the only response.  Offering up a small prayer, Xander manhandled his ‘surprise’ inside, kicking the door shut behind him.

Long legs.  Narrow hips with just the barest hint of curves.  Long torso, longer neck.  White arms.  Pouty pink lips.  Straight nose.  Cheek bones sharp enough to cut.  Big blue eyes.  A shock of white-blonde curls.

And breasts.

"Buffy and Willow are in their dorm rooms, and Buffy refused to let him go to her mom's house, because Dawn's there, even though Dawn knows, and Giles is getting his place fumigated so he's living at the shop for a few days, and Buffy said that we should just let him go back and live wherever he's been living, but Giles says we need to study what did this to him, and he hasn't said a word since this happened and Willow and Tara think he shouldn't be left alone, and I think I agree with them 'cause I'm kinda worried, too, and I did not just say that out loud."

Xander slowly opened his eyes, trying not to gasp for air after saying that in one long breath. Anya was staring at him, face blank. Almost considering.

Fear turned into terror.

"Ahn? Are you—please don't kill me?"

"Don't be silly, Xander. I'm not going to hurt you."

‘Not hurt' did not negate the possibility of death. It didn't have to be painful, if she made it quick enough.

Anya walked with slow, deliberate steps to stand right in front of their guest. Wide blue eyes tracked her movements, but retained their glazed, shell-shocked look. That look hadn't faded for even an instant, and that really did worry Xander. To meet something like this and show no reaction? Bad. Wrongness on an epic scale. There should be shouting and bitching and comments about pants that were suddenly too long and a shirt that swam on the altered frame. Definitely some threats and a lot of demands that this be fixed. Immediately. Now, dammit.

And then, maybe, there'd be some innuendo. Because there was always innuendo.

Xander realized his hand was still resting on the small of the back, right before the flare of perfectly rounded buttocks that he'd never stared at before. He yanked it back hurriedly, moving around to stand behind Anya. Where it was safe. Where he could ignore the half-twitch in his direction, the first unbidden move Xander had seen all night.

"He's very pretty," Anya said eventually. "If that's what the stick did, I wonder why the demon wanted to use it on Buffy. Men are stronger than some women—or maybe it would make her lose her Slayer powers? Because if she was a boy, then she couldn't be the Slayer."

All things Giles had speculated on, but that didn't answer the burning question of whether their couch would hold someone that night, and if Xander got to live to see the morning.

"He's in shock," she continued, circling him with a thoughtful expression. "And he needs new clothes. These shorts are awful. Green and yellow look good on no one." The shorts were a loan from Willow, who happened to have a pair in the shop, since the skin-tight jeans now extended almost six inches further. It had been really entertaining to watch the stumbling and the tripping for a little. Then it got sad. Then Xander started thinking things like it wasn't so much that the jeans were too long, but that the legs inside them were suddenly much thinner. And the pants rode much lower on wider hips.

That's when he'd suggested the shorts. And then wanted to tape his mouth shut, since now the legs were exposed.

"And a bra," Anya announced, not noticing her boyfriend's flush. "I keep telling Buffy I don't understand how she goes braless all the time. I know she's very small, but it's uncomfortable for me, and I'm only c-cup." Cocking her head, Anya appraised the chest in front of her with a professional eye. "He's a b, probably. I have some sports bras that he can use."

There was an arm twitch, and for a brief second, Xander thought he saw a horrified expression.

"So he can stay?" Xander asked, steering the conversations away from cup sizes out of an odd sense pity. Or maybe it wasn't pity. Maybe he just really, really didn't need to be focusing on the wrong set of breasts.

Frowning over her shoulder, Anya was clearly already reviewing her closet. "Of course he can stay," she answered distractedly. "Xander, go get those ugly curtains your mother gave us. I don't want them in our living room, but they're thick and should cover the windows enough. And I think he'll look very good in the midnight blue shirt that you bought for me, Xander, the one that's just a little too small."

Question one answered, and Xander thought he might be safe on question two. Thank god. Although there was still the other conversation waiting to happen, but Xander was quite happy to put that off as long as absolutely possible. So he opened their rapidly-filling closet and dug out the curtains his mother had given—really, tossed at—them when Xander did a final check of the few things he was actually bringing from the basement. Xander had mixed feelings about the curtains. They were a hideous green-and-gold paisley, and probably offered more as an insult than a parting gift. But it had come from his mother. Xander couldn't remember the last time his mother had given him anything—unless you counted complaints that were supposed to be insulting, in which case she'd given him lots of things.

Hanging up the curtains didn't take nearly long enough, the room stuffy and dark by the time he was done. Anya was in the bedroom. He could hear her rummaging around in the closet and addressing each article of clothing: "That's far too good for him, and I don't want him stretching this one out. His shoulders are wide, for a woman's, and I like this shirt. That's what Buffy told me when I asked to borrow her red leather mini skirt. Except she told me it was my hips."

It was kind of scary that listening to her made him feel content and fondly amused. Could anyone under thirty years old pull off ‘fond'? He wasn't sure. It didn't have that hip, first-apartment flare.

"Xander, I've got some extra blankets and sheets for our guest!"

"Thanks!" he called back, joining her in the bedroom. A stack of linens greeted him, since Anya was still almost completely swallowed up by the closet. That, of course, immediately prompted the horrific image of it actually happening, an unfortunate side effect of the Hellmouth. No metaphor was safe, here.

"We need to think of a name," Anya said, still within the closet.

He debated on asking her to come out. "A name?"

"Well, he's a girl now. He needs a girl's name."

"But why do we have to think of his name? And what's wrong with the name he has now?"

"Xander!"  Finally exiting the closet, Anya smacked him lightly with the shirt she held. "Have you ever heard of a girl named Spike?"

There was no good way to answer that, so Xander grabbed the stack and headed to the living room to make a pallet on the sofa. It really was a nice sofa, if you ignored the girly fabric. Extra long and even a little extra deep, because Anya didn't mind when he wanted to cuddle in front of the tv, but she wasn't going to be uncomfortable doing it.

He thought the black sheets were a nice touch. Kind of homey.

Finished, he looked up to see that all of four tiny steps had been taken. And not towards the nice bed Xander had just made for him, but for the table-that-still-had-no-chairs. Spike was looking uncertain, too, which was a nice change from utterly blank.

"You can sit, you know," Xander snapped. He was still half-waiting for the expected comment on his hospitality—either something horrible he'd missed or how his being accommodating was an example of his loserness. Snickering at the apartment. Biting comments on his—well, Anya's actually—choice of decor.

But Xander realized none of those comments were forthcoming. Instead he got arms that were starting to tremble and a few more steps, this time towards the sofa. But not enough to actually reach the sofa. Oh, no. Not the sofa he'd so kindly made and—

The insulted indignation Xander was trying to work up was impossible to continue, not when the fifth step after a five-second pause included a nervously bitten lip.

"And the best impression of a living statue goes to—you! We get it, Spike, really. Now go sit down, okay?"

That earned him a sustained, if hesitant, walk all the way over to the sofa, and Xander knew he was in deep, deep trouble. Before, the walk had always been graceful; lean and predatory, with a confident sexuality that had oozed past gender and all sensibility. That had been bad enough. But now? Now it was a slow, hip-swaying walk of sensual abandon. The pivot and bend to reach a seated position was mesmerizing. And if Anya caught him with his tongue hanging out like a dog, Xander thought as he rapidly stuffed it back in, he would deserve every last painful thing she did to him.

"Here." Anya appeared with clothes bunched in her hand. "Put these on."

Xander was too busy trying to compose himself to notice what was going on until slender, delicate arms tugged at the too-large black shirt and time went into slow-mo as the shirt was lifted up and off. With the nothing underneath. And the Xander standing right there, watching.

"Whoa! I'm, uh, bye!"

Diving into the safety of the bedroom, Xander took the opportunity to change out of his clothes. No demon stains, or worse, blood stains, this time, but he did reek of the fragrant eau de Sunnydale Dump. Ew.

The clothes went into the black garbage bag kept expressly for that purpose. Xander took a moment to survey the wreckage of Hurricane Anya and had to wonder why she'd been so. . . thorough. This wasn't a big deal, really. Bad magic, Giles and Willow fix, Xander goes insane in the mean time, and poof, everything's back to normal.

Right?

So why Anya had at least three outfits spread out on the bed, including the dress that was just a bit too small on her, was unknown. He understood the feminine need to play Barbie, he'd spent his childhood with Willow, thank you. But that didn't explain why Anya wasn't seeing the whole temporary nature of this. Because this was temporary. Giles and Wills were on the case, and they were good at finding the answer quickly, especially when one of them. . . was in. . . trouble.

Oh, hell.

"Xander? What did you put in our refrigerator?"

"Oh, Giles gave me that." Back in the living room, a fully-clothed Spike was slumped against the sofa, dressed in a black tank-top and loose black sweat-pants. He could see the straps of the bra where they weren't covered by the tank and that was just disturbing. There shouldn't be straps on those shoulders. The ones that sloped just slightly and were covered in skin that looked peachy soft and—he wasn't looking, he wasn't looking. Except obviously he was looking, because he saw Spike's half-lidded eyes flicker away.

"Xan?" Anya held up a bottle in confusion. "I understand why Giles gave us the other items. But why did he give us a bottle of bourbon?"

Xander ran a hand over his face. "For me, Ahn, he put that in there for me."

Anya tilted her head, assessing him. "You're making a joke. You are a minor and Giles would never give you alcohol. That's illegal." So decided, she disappeared back into the kitchen.

Xander glanced at the sofa. "I hate you."

"Do you want meat in your pasta sauce? Like I made that last time?" The clank of pots—pots! they had pots!—made coppery music, augmented by Anya's humming. An old lullaby, she'd said when he'd begged her to sing it all for him, the foreign words spinning through his mind, incomprehensible but beautiful because they had come from her.

The smell of onions and frying meat was the last, wholly masculine touch this place needed. Which explained why Xander was making the salad and asking if Anya wanted the radicchio or the iceberg, and clucking at her when she wanted iceberg.

Neither of them mentioned their unexpected guest, still sitting on the sofa in a daze, or what to do about him.

Deciding to bring Spike here had been easier when Giles was smugly declaring his landlord's desire to fumigate, and Buffy threw a hissy fit at Willow's innocent suggestion that Joyce might be willing. Listening to them play hot-potato when the potato was right in front of them—especially when this particular potato was unusually quiet and oblivious to his fate—hit every manly, protective instinct he had.

Also? Gorgeous.

The body was lifted straight out of Xander's fantasies. Small breasts and almost boyish hips, pale milky skin, and a wild tangle of curls—hello, to all of Xander's buttons. Not that, well, Anya didn't push buttons because she did, the Good Boyfriend reminded him. Even with the vague thought that, whoa, weird, Spike-male now Spike-female and that could be him and would he look as pretty if he was a girl? That should be scary enough to put a damper on anybody's hard-on, right? Xander glanced down, his erection tenting his jeans. Anya's sixth-sense was going to pick up on it really soon now, but what was he supposed to do? This was the fantasy woman he'd seen in his head since junior year of high school. And now she was sitting in his living room. Very alone, and nervous, and just waiting for a big strong man to offer his arm. Or something like that.

And that was why he couldn't calm down and why this lasting more than a few days was going to kill him. Right now, he was contemplating two ways to go. Anya would eviscerate him, or the lack of blood in his brain would make him do something like walk in front of a car, or tell Anya what he was thinking. Which led back to method number one.

He was a bad, bad man.

Xander made damn sure Anya sat in the middle.

They watched the news and some kind of reality-dating show as they ate, ignoring the way Spike accepted his dinner and then returned to staring out into space. At least, Xander ignored it. Until Anya put her empty plate on the floor and gave him a look every male in existance recognized, and he cringe in anticipation.

"He's not eating," she said critically. "He's just holding it. Xander, make him eat."

"What? Why do I have to be the one to make him eat?" Xander waved away her answer before she opened her mouth. "Right, right. I have to make him eat. Great."

"I'll clean the dishes," she volunteered, taking their dirty plates back to the kitchen. Since cleaning the dishes involved putting them in the dishwasher, Xander wasn't that mollified. But he slid over on the sofa and wrapped long fingers more firmly around a tall plastic cup, one of the few Anya had deemed keepable.

The mildly affronted expression on Spike's face wasn't a surprise—even for zombie-boy. Girl. Something. "Hey," he said awkwardly. "You've got to eat. Look at that, nummy nummy, right? It's mostly even warm, still."

A long, slender middle finger raised an inch.

"Come on. If you don't, Anya's gonna be pissed at me, and besides, I can smell it and I don't want to do this and would you just—"

The cup trembled but successfully reached petal-pink lips. When he started swallowing, Xander quickly turned away. Watching that would be bad, and Xander was trying to be good.

Really.

The cool touch of plastic on his arm told him when the cup had been emptied. Looking back up to retrieve it for immediate rinsing, Xander accidentally met Spike's eyes.

Five year old Willow with a booboo on her elbow. Eleven year old Dawn when she'd broken her leg. Absolutely none of that compared with the liquid scream of pain and confusion he saw, begging for help that couldn't be voiced.

God, he was such a sucker.

Xander didn't realize what he was doing until he was kneeling on the floor, running his fingers through short, curly hair, with only half-open eyes and a bit of the nose visible from the blankets he'd smoothed down. He was whispering like he did when Anya had a nightmare, low and crooning, from the back of his throat. Quiet entreaties to sleep, to relax, to trust them. That Spike was safe here.

And right then, Xander believed that completely.

When the eyes slid closed and the soft rush of water meant the dishwasher was on, Xander got back to his feet and went into the bedroom. Anya was waiting for him. And maybe the apartment was a bad thing, because they didn't make love that night. Just kissed and cuddled and talked about their day. Totally domestic and Xander knew in a few days his teeth would be rotting, but right then, it was perfect.

Part Two

Latte mochaccinos were the perfect way to start the day.  Buffy truly believed this.  And hey, being a Slayer meant not having to worry about those extra calories!  She smiled brightly as Willow and Tara got their own drinks—tea and juice, respectively.  Witch-craft obviously wasn’t physically active enough for them to join her in her guilt-free enjoyment of coffee, chocolate, and milk.

“What do you think Giles is going to have me do?” she asked as they found their table.

“Aren’t you supposed to be training with him?” Willow asked.  She sipped her tea, made a face and reached for the sugar packet.  Regular sugar, not sweet’n’low.  Ha!  And she didn’t have the super-Slayer-defense for those calories.  “That is why you’re up before noon on a Saturday.”

“Well, yeah, but that was before that Thoth guy appeared.  Shouldn’t he be researching?  And aren’t you two going to help him?”

Tara caught on first.  “Th-that’s not nice,” she said, staring at her juice.  Spending the summer together had gotten rid of a lot of her shyness, but she still wasn’t comfortable with direct confrontation.

That was okay, Buffy wasn’t in the mood to be confrontational.  “Nope, but still so very funny.”

“Buffy, that’s mean,” Willow chimed in, leaning slightly towards her girl.  Little things like that, small, casual touches, were becoming more blatant.  Or maybe Buffy was getting better at looking for them.  It was nice, either way.  Wills was so happy with Tara.  “He’s all helpless now!  I mean she.  Is he really a she?”

“G-Giles thought so, l-last night,” Tara answered.  “A-and he’s not helpless, really.”

“No, he can still go all grr face, but he’s so. . .”

“Pretty?”

Buffy saw the way Tara’s eyebrow went up and realized that Willow was being teased.  She grinned.  “Why Will, should Tara be worried?”

Embarrassed and exasperated, Willow balled up her sugar packet and threatened both of them.  “Not funny, you two.  But come on.  You have to admit this is weird.  Even for us.”

“I know that Spike not talking for a whole hour was nice.  Of course, him not being there would be nicer.”  She caught Willow’s expression.  “But, we do have to help him, since he was pushing Xander, who was pushing me out of the way, I know, I know.”

“He is awfully pretty as a girl,” Tara confided, half-smiling in a way that made Buffy almost understand what Willow saw in another girl.  Almost.  Because, well, girl.  Lacking all those interesting parts.  “B-but I think he was pretty, um, messed up about it.”

“No-talking Spike?  Spike going with Xander without a fuss?  After he swore he’d never live with Xander again, after he left the last time?”  Willow nodded emphatically.  “He’s really messed up.  Maybe I should go and check on him, later.”

“Oh, come on, Will.  This is Spike.  He doesn’t need mothering.  But, you know, if he does . .” Buffy composed herself to look neutral.  “Anya’s always there.”

“Hey!  Somebody got bit by the nasty bug,” Willow reproved.  There was a glint around her eyes, though, that told Buffy she understood.  God, she could just imagine Anya explaining things in the worst, most blunt manner.  Oh, to be a fly on that wall. . .  “He’s probably driving Xander crazy, really.  I was surprised Xander said yes so fast.”

“Eh, Xander’s been weird lately.”  Taking a careful sip, Buffy decided that her drink had cooled enough.  Mm, mocha-goodness.  “That new swank apartment he has?  Didn’t ask me once to help him lift stuff.  I think he actually hired movers.”

“Well, I know Anya’s got money coming in from somewhere.  She never says, but she still has her apartment and I know Xander didn’t pay for that Dolce top she had on last week.”

“Willow!  Makin’ with the fashion-lingo!  See?  I knew I’d rub off on you someday.”

Willow grinned mischievously, leaning even closer against Tara.  “I think that was actually Cordelia, Buffy, and I’m not proud of it.  I have a fashion problem.  It’s my secret shame.”

Tara looked back and forth between them.  “D-do you think that we can, um, fix him?  Or is this. . . permanent.”

Well, there went her good mood.  Permanently female Spike?  Buffy conjured up the image from the night before and thought hard.  “Oh, my god.  He would look perfect in that skirt, you know, the one I bought just in case I didn’t want to wear the sarong?  Totally meant for him.  I’ve got to let him try it on.  Oh, and the spangly black thing that Dawn doesn’t like.”

There was a second where Buffy thought she might get away with it, but then Willow was giving her a long face and turning to Tara.  “I don’t know, sweety.  Giles said he was going to check a couple of leads this morning, so we’ll know more when we get to the shop.  But it shouldn’t be.  Any spell that’s done can be undone.  Uh, I think.”

“Because I d-don’t think that Spike’s going to, um, stand for this.  N-not for long.”

Stupid Spike, ruining her perfectly good morning.  Sighing, Buffy let herself be serious.  “No, probably not.  So, we’ll just figure out a way to make him man-Spike again.  Then he can go back to being glowery and smokey and living in his crypt.  But that’ll make Xander happy, I guess.”  She glanced up at Willow.  “This can’t take that long, right?  This is Xander and Anya we’re talking about.  Spike might get staked long before he’d need a suicide-watch.”

Not that she’d be upset if Xander did stake him.  Even if he was defenseless.  And looked so innocent, huddled on the ladder-steps last night.  Argh!  No, bad images!  She wasn’t supposed to be feeling sorry for Spike!

“I think Anya would probably stop him,” Willow determined.  “But you’re right.  Maybe we should start researching sooner?”

Buffy nodded, picking up her mochacchino.  “I bet he’s gonna make me research,” she grumbled as they headed down the street.  “I mean, here I am, ready to punch something or kick something under his expert tutelage, and he’s going to make me research.  I just know it.”

Stupid Spike. 

* * * * * * * *

It was a nice dream.  Two tongues swirling around him, two pairs of breasts pressed against his legs.  Kissing someone’s mouth while he was deep throated.  Sliding into hot, wet flesh while equally hot, wet flesh was suspended temptingly over his tongue.  Short, bleached curls under one hand and longer, Miss Clairol-dyed red under the other. . .

Xander’s eyes popped open to stare down the length of his body.  Crap.  No way was peeing going to get rid of this morning hard-on.  If he could pee.  This wasn’t the normal half-hard that all men dealt with.  This was the Eiffel Tower of erections.  If the Eiffel Tower had a pulse.

No way was he going to hide this from Anya.

A trip to the bathroom was the first line of defense.  Easing out of the bed, Xander tiptoed as quietly as his sleep-fuddled body would let him.  Which wasn’t very.  But Anya slept like a corpse, so he wasn’t worried about her.  No, that worry was reserved for the actual corpse, the one that could wake up when Xander breathed too loudly.  At least, he had when they’d unfortunately roomed together for a short time last year.

He was halfway across the living room before realized that checking on Spike with the hard-on from Paris was a bad idea.  Particularly when that curled up, trembling form had caused it.  Well, had been part of the cause.  Whatever.

Peeing was as difficult as Xander had feared, but thinking hard about work and how not to staple your thumb to a piece of wood helped relax him enough.  Barely.  Finished, Xander looked down at himself.  Half-hard.  Still.  Something, again, Anya was sure to notice—and his handy explanation had just been flushed away.

Why did his life have to be so complicated?

Checking on Spike, he pulled the blankets a little higher.  He did not think ‘awww, how cute’ in his head, and definitely did not think about ways of making Spike feel better, when he finally woke up.  Because that was Xander’s sofa Spike was shivering on, which meant Xander had already been more than gracious.  He wasn’t going to smooth back the twisted curls.  Didn’t want to know if skin like cream was as soft as it looked.

And he really, really didn’t want to pull Spike into his arms and hold him until the trembling stopped.  Really.

It made a nice litany as he went back to the bedroom.  Eight thirty on a Saturday morning meant he could sleep a few more hours, if he wanted.  Today was supposed to be shopping-day, which didn’t require early attendance.  Good.  Sleep.  Sleep without dreams of two thin bodies twisted up with his own.

“I’m not upset.”

Mourning for his now-lost extra hours of sleep almost overpowered the panic.  Almost.  “What?  Upset?  What would you be upset about?  Even though you’re not upset, which is good, because I don’t want you to be upset, ever.” 

Xander winced when he heard how nervous and babble-y he sounded.  Those were, after all, the two best ways to calm Anya down.

In an alternative universe.

“Xander.  Relax.  I said I’m not upset.”  Rolling onto her side, Anya gave him a knowing look.  “You are not 007, despite the game you wanted to play two nights ago.”

“Hey!  I look very suave in a tux, you know!”

“Yes, you do,” she agreed.  “But you aren’t subtle and you aren’t good at hiding anything from me.”  Bright smile, severe tone of voice—Xander always understood why people thought Anya was confusing to deal with.  Fortunately, the knowing of the significant other went both ways.

Xander was being teased.

“I suppose you can’t help it,” Anya continued.  “You are male and Spike does make a very pretty girl.  He’s your type, too.  Don’t look at me like that, he is.  You love strong women who depend on you because they want to, not because they have to.  Like Willow, who used you to validate her self-worth.  Or Buffy, who used you to keep herself grounded.  Or even me, who—”

“Anya.  Remember the discussion we had about psychoanalyzing things?  And how early mornings, while we’re in bed, is not the best time?”

Anyone else would’ve thought they were fighting.

Kissing him good morning, Anya inserted herself into his arms.  “And you say I have no sense of humor,” she said, smugly content.

“No, I say you have a weird sense of humor, there’s a difference.”

“I’m still not upset, you know.  Spike is very pretty.”

That sounded suspiciously like appreciation.  And appreciation was bad.  Because Xander did know Anya, very well.  And while she’d never consider it with any of his current female friends, Spike didn’t have the same kind of emotional baggage attached to him.

“No.  No, no, no, no, no.”

“Baby.  You don’t even know what I was going to suggest!”

“I am not having a threesome with you and Spike!”

Shrieking with super-sensitive vampire hearing on the other side of very thin walls was a bad idea.  So was making Anya glare at him like that—determined-glare, not to be confused with angry-glare.  Angry-glare meant he still had some chance of getting his way.  Determined-glare meant he was fighting a losing battle.

“Why not?  We’re both attracted to him,” Anya explained reasonably.  “And sex is very comforting when going through a traumatic and stressful experience.”

“So, what, we’re going to just dump him into our bed?”  And no, bad mental images!  Bad!

Anya furrowed her brow.  “No, Xander, that would be rape.  But we could ask him.  I’m certain he’ll say yes.  I know male-Spike was attracted to me, and you’re very good at sex.”

The matter-of-fact way she complimented his prowess always blew his mind.  But not enough to make him lose the train of the conversation.  “Ahn, we’ve talked about threesomes before.”

“Yes, we have.”  Exasperated, Anya sat up and crossed her arms.  Uh-oh.  That was foreboding-glare, the scariest of them all.  “Xander, no one appreciates your interest in monogamy more than I.  But rational, consenting adults in a loving, stable relationship can sometimes have sex with other people.  With or without their significant other present.”

She sounded so clinical.  Like a teacher.  And that was a good image, because they played the teacher-and-student game often—but not even those memories could hide his discomfort.  “But that’s cheating.  You know, the thing you cursed men for?”

“It’s not cheating if it’s consensual, Xander.  There is nothing wrong with a threesome, or a foursome, or even an orgy, so long as it’s agreed upon beforehand!”

Great, this argument.  The one they had every time they both agreed that a man or a woman was attractive and Anya inevitably decided they should invite that person—co-workers, random strangers, didn’t matter—into their bed.  And Xander always frantically said no, which led to Anya huffing in exasperation and calling him an immature little boy who needed to grow up before she was too old and ugly to attract people for their threesomes.

“But just the two of us should be enough,” he said, knowing that once again, she didn’t understand what he was saying, and he was too ashamed to try and explain it.  Of course the idea of a threesome was appealing.  He was a guy.  Watching two girls go at it was high up the list of ‘things that make Xander horny’.  Even watching another guy with Anya had its charm.

But he was her boyfriend.  Girlfriends weren’t supposed to want people other than their boyfriends, except when they fantasized about famous rock-stars or actors or something.  He was supposed to be her one-and-only.

But more importantly, she was supposed to be his.

He didn’t know how to explain it to her.  Hell, he didn’t really know how to explain it to himself.  He just knew that their semi-regular argument about threesomes made him uncomfortable in a way her social awkwardness never did.  And have a potential partner right outside their bedroom door, pretty and vulnerable, and yes, so very much Xander’s type, made this version even worse.

Rolling her eyes, Anya got out of bed and dug around for her robe.  “I’m going to the Magic Box.  Giles might need help with gift-wrapping again and he has the mandrake root in the wrong part of the store—it’ll go bad if it’s kept too dry.  Also, that’s where the researching will be, to find out how to make Spike a boy again.  You will stay here and take care of girl-Spike and the apartment.”

“Stay?  Here?”  Alone, with just trembling, frightened girl-Spike to coddle and cosset and he was reading way too many of Anya’s Victorian romance novels if he knew what the word ‘cosset’ meant.

Anya belted the robe, clothing over her shoulder.  “Yes, here, Xander.  I don’t mind that you’re fantasizing about me and Spike without our clothes on, but it makes you even more useless at research than usual.  So you’ll stay here and think about what I said.  Okay?”

Was it very wrong that Xander loved Anya most when she was at her scariest?  Which was usually her most accurate?

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.  Climbing onto his knees, he offered his best puppy dog face.  Anya’s stern expression melted, and she gave him a final kiss.  “Have I told you how beautiful you look in the morning?”

“No, you haven’t.”

“You look beautiful in the morning, Ahn.”

She blushed.  He loved making her blush.  Then she immediately swatted his arm.  “Xander!”

Argument over, even though there was no clear victor, Xander felt he could be magnanimous.   “Well, hey, if you’d understood that it was rhetorical, I wouldn’t have had to repeat it!”

“Go back to bed, Xander.”  She was still flushed and sharper because of it.

“Yes, ma’am,” he repeated, falling back onto the sheets.  Anya laughed at him and went to the bathroom.  He listened carefully.  No dripping pipes when the water ran.  No gurgling sound when she made her coffee.  No creak of old plaster molding.

“Love you,” he called as she put on her make up.

“Go back to sleep, Xander.  You’re obviously delirious.”

Grinning, Xander did as ordered.

* * * * * * *

Something about guns.  Or bombs?  Something. . . about police men?  Waking up felt like swimming through molasses—understandable, since he’d slept an extra three hours.  Ick.  Irritable and headache-y from sleeping too long, Xander stumbled into the living room and sat down next to Spike on the sofa.

“What is this?” he asked through a yawn.

Spike shrugged one shoulder.  Two men snappily decked out in loops of extra bullets cursed on the screen.

“You gonna continue being a mime?”

Two fingers rose, posed, and then settled back in his lap.  Spike looked. . . very focused.  Better than the daze of last night, but there was something almost menacing about it.  Something that silently screamed ‘go away or I will hurt you.’

Probably not a good idea to disturb him, then.

Coffee was necessary for more complex thought.  Definitely.  His darling, beloved Anya had anticipated that and there was a pot warming in its mechanical cradle.  Thank god.  Sipping carefully, Xander poked his head out.

“Want anything?”

Silence.  Then, “Booze.”

Xander nodded and quickly retreated back into the kitchen proper.  It was the first time Spike had said anything since the spell, and for some reason Xander had never contemplated what girl-Spike was going to sound like.

Probably because he knew how boy-Spike sounded.

Low.  Mellow.  Rich like the very expensive merlot Giles had once let him try.  Still very British, but the accent was softer, more rounded.  A hint of culture to smooth out the abrasiveness of the usual harsh, clipped tones.  Spike had always sounded like smooth, creamy chocolate, dripping with sexual innuendo, even for the most innocuous of phrases.

And he still did.  Just as an alto.

Retrieving the bourbon Giles had given them, Xander poured a hefty amount into a normal glass, grabbed a pop-tart and stuck it in his mouth, hands busy balancing coffee and bourbon.  Spike looked stony and furious when he came back out.  Uh oh.  Hard to pretend you weren’t a girl when you heard yourself speak an octave higher and distinctly feminine-sounding.

Spike knocked back the entire glass in one swallow.  Held it out for more.

“Okay, not objecting to the drowning of sorrows, pal, but I’m not going to let you get drunk.”

The temperature dropped suddenly.  He didn’t know how Spike did it, since he was still just sitting there, watching tv.  Something about the way his eyes tightened, maybe.

“If you’re that drunk, then Willow’s spell might not work.  Magic and alcohol no-mixy.  Like drinking and driving.”

Spike’s lower lip trembled once, but he didn’t say anything.  Xander was almost grateful.  That voice, combined with that expression?  Yeah, Spike was still scary as hell when he wanted to be, but the chip removed the lingering fear of pain and death.  So mostly Spike looked scared.  And helpless.

Xander wondered if there was a big neon sign somewhere that said ‘Here are Xander’s buttons.  Push them!’

Of course he couldn’t stand up to that.  Sighed, even shifted a little, before asking, “Promise not to go on a destructive rant if I let you get drunk?”

“Sure.”

Oh, god, that voice went straight to his cock.

Xander went and got the booze.  Took a swig himself before handing it over to Spike.  Then tried very hard not to watch Spike: the way those delicate hands closed around the neck of the bottle.  The way his head tilted back, the lip of the bottle resting on slightly pursed lips, already wet from the previous drink.  The way his throat worked as he swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed. . .

Gah.  Look at the tv, Xander.  Not at the pretty girl sitting next to you.  The tv.  Good tv.  Full of—hey, when’d it turn into an infomercial?  About—

Xander made a hasty grab for the remote.  Realized mid-grab that he was reaching around Spike, which meant possibly touching Spike.  Panicking, he jerked backwards.  And because he was the great and clumsy Xander, this meant he lost his balance and slid onto the floor with a thump.

Spike giggled.  He also held onto the remote, even when Xander made a seated grab for it, humor fading into confusion and slightly upset.

“Oh, so you want to watch an infomercial about viagra?”

“Kinda ironic, innit?”  Spike moved the remote so it was under his leg, hunching slightly to protect it.

He should’ve known that Spike would start playing remote-war already.  What he didn’t understand was why there was no smirk accompanying it—Spike, after all, delighted in being an annoying pest.  Instead, he looked. . . hurt.

“Um, okay.  I can. . . see that, I guess.  But it’s also very boring.  Can I change the channel?”

“I can’t even watch a bloody advert now?”

Xander stared.  “And you don’t find watching a show about chemical help to get an erection just a little bit humiliating?  Since you can’t get an erection?  You know, without a dick?”

Bad question.  Very.  Because Spike’s eyes widened in stunned hurt.  “Fuck off, Harris.”

Sighing, Xander ran a hand over his face.  Wow, had he screwed that one up.  “Fine.  Whatever.  I’m going to shower.  You can have it after me.  You’ve got eyeliner streaks on your face.”

And wow, he was doing great at the kick-Spike-when-he’s-down game, since it was pretty obvious why the eyeliner had streaked so badly.  Something Spike probably hadn’t wanted Xander to know about—or at least not comment upon.

Xander wondered if he should paint his foot with chocolate sauce.

Attempting to fix this would just mean chowing down on his ankles and perhaps his knee-caps, so Xander showered and got dressed, all without once looking at or thinking about girl-Spike.  No, really.  Not once.

Instead he thought about boy-Spike and how this current behavior was starting to wig him out.  Even more than boy-Spike growing very tempting breasts.

Spike never shut up.  Ever.  He talked when there was nothing to talk about, and god help you if there was something to talk about, because he never let anything go until you laid down in utter defeat.  Even if you weren’t arguing.

So far, Spike had opened his mouth a grand total of five times.

Was this what Anya had meant by ‘taking care’ of Spike?  If so, it was time to have the ‘asking the impossible’ conversation again.  Cause how?  And why?  And also, how?

Exiting the steamy bathroom, Xander was too preoccupied to notice that the tv was off, an empty bottle of bourbon was laying on the floor of the empty living room.  He was also too preoccupied in the bedroom with dropping his towel and hunting for his underwear, which hadn’t yet made it into the dresser.

The dresser where Spike was standing.

“Holy—Spike!  What the hell are you doing?”

One frantic scramble for his towel later, Xander rewrapped himself and turned back to Spike.  Who hadn’t moved or responded in anyway.  The mirror showed the serene picture of an unmade bed, and a red, slightly puffing Xander, wet and haphazardly wrapped with an equally wet towel.  It didn’t show Spike, standing directly in front of it.  Or Anya’s hairbrush in Spike’s left hand, tangled up in messy, gel-crusted curls.  Or Spike’s right hand, which was also tangled up in messy, gel-crusted curls and pulling so hard that some hairs had already come out..

Great.  They’d reached the self-mutilation stage of shock.

Spike stood dumbly while Xander extricated the brush—hair hopelessly snarled around the bristles—and then Spike’s other hand.  More hair came out when he forced Spike’s fingers to unclench.  It was gross, definitely, but mostly it just made Xander very sad.

“I’m—I’m a girl.”

“Yeah.  Look, Spike, we’ll fix this, okay?  Everybody’s over at the shop right now, looking for ways to fix this.  Don’t worry.”

“I’m a girl.  I have tits!”

They both glanced down at said tits.  Xander manfully refrained from complimenting them.

“Temporarily,” he stressed instead.  “You temporarily have tits, and pretty soon Willow is going to call, babbling about the cure she’s found, and then you won’t have tits anymore.  Or Giles will order us to the store or maybe Tara will find it—it doesn’t matter.  Pretty soon, someone will figure it out and poof.  No more tits.”

Xander realized he had his arm around Spike pretty much the same moment Spike realized he was leaning against Xander’s naked shoulder. 

Except Spike didn’t pull away.  And he felt very, very nice under Xander’s arm, so Xander didn’t let go.

“What am I gonna do?” Spike said plaintively.  “I’m a sodding girl.”

“First thing you’re going to do is go take a shower.  If you take it before twelve thirty, you’ll still have hot water.  Then you’re going to get dressed and eat something.  After we do all that, if we aren’t too exhausted, we can go to the Magic Box and help research.”  Beat.  “Or we could hang around here and watch movies until Anya comes home with dinner.”

Spike whimpering like a wounded animal was almost as bad as Spike giggling.  But Xander had been pretty sure that going outside was not something Spike wanted to do: the guy had enough trouble holding onto his rep because of the chip, he’d never live down this—hopefully very brief—stint as a girl.  So Xander had had the second suggestion primed and ready.

And hey, a legitimate excuse to do nothing all afternoon. 

After a moment thinking it over, Spike nodded amiably and got to his feet.  Stopped in front of the reflection-less mirror.  “Am I pretty?”

Warning bells sounded loud in Xander’s head.  He’d dreaded this question since the first time Spike tipped those huge eyes up at him and looked pathetic.  “Um, you’re. . . you.  Just girl-you.”

And where the hell was Anya when he needed her?

A flash of expression, half wickedly mischievous, half decadently sultry meant Spike had to be feeling better.  And that was good, right?  Spike feeling better?  That’s what all the kind words and reassurances and the touching had been for, right?  “Must be smashing, then.  Since I was such a pretty man, an’ all.”

Xander didn’t answer, on grounds of incriminating himself.  On several counts.

“Well, m’legs aren’t bad, anyway.  Still soddin’ short, though.”  Spike tugged at a pant-leg, throwing the outline of his leg in sharp relief.  “Hm, not too skinny.”  Xander didn’t miss the glance up to check his reaction, and he surreptitiously checked the position of his towel.  Spike was so doing this on purpose, the immature little bastard!

Then he stopped breathing as Spike ran his hands over his body, describing each aspect as he felt it.  “Nice ass, though the hips aren’t real wide.  Belly—firm, but think I’ll be layin’ off the blood a bit.  Need to loose this little round bit.  And now these aren’t very big, are they?  Do make a nice handful, though.  Or are my hands smaller?”

Spike was cupping his own breasts.  Looking thoughtful.

Xander really wanted to get up—with the towel staying on, thank you—and yell at Spike for being a prick.  On purpose.  Because he’d been a guy yesterday and he should know what that was doing to Xander, dammit!

Except he obviously did.  Because underneath all the bravado was the despair Spike was desperately trying to hide.  Not doing a very good job, either, since now he was looking more sickly than cocky.

“Go shower, Spike,” Xander said neutrally.

Spike blinked, surprised.  Clearly, he’d expected Xander to either get very upset or. . . or take him up on it?  He rewound the video strip of his memory and watched Spike tease him.  Deliberately.  With occasional little glances towards his blatantly obvious erection.  And Xander remembered what Anya had said this morning, and his own experiences with the incredibly vain vampire standing two feet away from him.

Had he explained to Anya that it was rude to gloat?  ‘I told you so’ had a very short shelf-life, after all, and. . . and she was never going to buy that.

Oddness, meet Xander’s life.  Xander’s life, meet oddness.

“Shower, Spike.  Before one?  Unless you like cold showers. . .   Hey, do vampires feel hot and cold like we do?  Never mind, tell me later.  You need hot water just to get that crud out of your hair.  Here, I’ll show you how the taps work.”

Spike was adorable when he looked stunned.

Part Three

“Hello, Xander?”

Not Anya.  Thank god.  Xander forced himself to look away from the sofa and concentrate on the wall in front of him.  The nice, safe, not-shaped-like-Spike wall.  “Hey, Giles,” he said into the phone.  “How goes the researching?  Do you need me to come down?”  And pawn Spike off on someone—anyone—else?

“Oh, no, in fact, that’s why I was calling.  Researching isn’t—Buffy, please don’t pick up that book, yet, you’re covered in peanut butter.  There’s a sink near my office, I beg you to use it.”

“Don’t worry, Giles, I wiped my fingers like a good girl.  See?  Look, I’m picking it up and. . .um, oops?  I’m gonna go wash my hands now.”

Buffy’s response, muffled but still audible, made Xander grin.  Until he realized what this call was going to be about.  And that was bad.  Because as much as he really, really didn’t want Anya to come home—he really wanted Anya to come home.

“Giles?”

“Yes, Xander, the researching is going. . . poorly.  We’ve discovered what the demon is and what the rod was supposed to do—”

Risking a glance to his left, Xander tried to pay attention.  “Not seeing the badness here, Giles.  If we know what it is, we can undo it, right?”

“Yes, that’s true,” Giles said.  How come he sounded so strained, huh? He didn’t have to spend hours and hours with Spike looking the way Spike looked now.  No, that was good old reliable Xander who had to do that.

Wait a sec, Giles was speaking.  And Giles was saying— “It was supposed to what?”

“Split someone in two,” Giles repeated, long suffering tone making Xander grin.  Poor, poor Giles—wait, Giles was Spike-free.  So lucky Giles.  “The Dorishant passage says that the Gemini rod will create from one, two halves unequal between them.  Yin and yang—well, not actually yin and yang since the demonic equivalent is less—”

“Giles, he’s not going to understand the concept of rishal,” Anya’s voice commented acerbically.  “Will you please just—”

“Anya, he’s perfectly capable of understanding things not of human nature.  And please don’t stop going through those invoices—if we can’t find the mugwart, then we can’t contact your demon friend and—”

“Well, if someone hadn’t gotten them all mixed up—”

The two of them would argue forever if someone didn’t interrupt.  “Giles?  Giles!”

“Will you just—yes, Xander?”

“The rod-stick thing was supposed to split people in two.  Got it.  So how come that didn’t happen for Spike?”  Hey, he could be Concise-Guy sometimes.

“Oh, yes, we, uh, aren’t entirely sure.  It should have created a human-Spike and a vampire-Spike, but since it obviously didn’t. . .  Anya believes she can contact a former demon friend of hers to get more information; she owes her for a dismemberment, I believe.”

Things Xander tried hard not to think about in relation to his girlfriend.  “So you’re going to try and contact this demon-friend tonight?”

“Oh, for—will you just give me the—” There was a brief scuffle and then Xander could hear Giles cleaning his glasses.  He wondered what Anya had done to cause that reaction.  “Xander, I’m going to be at least another few hours, because talking with Larisha always takes forever.  She decided to take a mortal husband even though everyone told her that wasn’t a smart thing to do, and when I showed up a few years later to grant her wish, it took her three hours to actually say ‘I wish’.  So you should order pizza and drink the beer I don’t like, so I can have the beer I do like when I get home later.  How’s Spike?”

It took a few seconds for Xander’s brain to catch up, and when it did, his eyes decided it would be a good time to look at Spike, just for the visual confirmation that Spike was still exactly where he’d been a minute and a half before.

Which of course meant Xander gulped and thought desperately about stinky cheese.  “He’s fine,” he squeaked.  “He’s, um, not so shocky anymore?  Uh, so pizza.  You want us to order pizza?”

“And drink the beer I don’t like,” Anya finished, her self-satisfied nod audible over the phone-line.  Or maybe Xander was just expecting it, because that’s what Anya did, and a little warm jolt made him smile and calm down a little.

“And drink the beer you don’t like, check.  Buffy’s going with you, right?  Wherever you’re going to meet this Larisa?”

“Larisha, and yes, Buffy’s coming too.  Willow and Tara are going to take Dawn home, and then Riley’s going to meet us at the docks.  Have you thought more about what we talked about this morning?”

Panic.  Panic was good.  Because yes, in fact, he had thought a lot about it.  In fact, he’d been pretty much unable to think of anything else—once Spike got over his little freak out that morning, anyway.  He glanced over to check on Spike, again, and then hid.  Again.

“Uh, sure, I thought about it.”

“Xander, are you all right?  You sound very tense and nervous.  He hasn’t found that red-and-black outfit that you bought for—”

Low-cut red bustier, crotchless black panties, and imagining Spike dressed in that was not helping.  “No,” he yelped, “no he’s just, um—I should go.  Pizza and the beer you don’t like—that’d be the Heineken, by the way—and make sure you stay close to Buffy tonight.  Love you!”

There was a chorus of ‘bye, Xander’s from the girls, although only Anya said she loved him back, and Xander hung up the phone.  He inhaled very slowly, holding it for three beats, and then releasing it.  He did not want to go into the living room.  Where Spike was.

Pacing.

It was a very Spike-like thing to do, get agitated and start pacing, slight body almost vibrating with contained energy.  Except there was no flapping duster with it’s cool, sexy leather, snapping at Spike’s heels.  There was just Spike.  Dressed in a pair of Anya’s jeans and her black halter top.  Barefoot.  Walking that hip-swaying, breast-jouncing walk, over and over again.

Xander had spent most of the day in any room but the living room.  And he’d done a lot of cleaning.

“Well?  How long am I gonna be like this?”

Xander edged into the living room, eyes fixed on the carpet.  “Uh, they’re not sure.  Anya’s going to check a contact of hers tonight, so maybe we’ll have something then.”  Information dutifully related, Xander shifted his eyes up to the tv.  Nice tv.  “Hey, do you want pizza?  And I’ve got beer.  We can do the whole manly-guy thing.”

“Fuck you, Harris.”

Oh, look, annoyance.  That should help clear his mind, except Spike was still pacing.  How the hell was he supposed to concentrate on anything, when Spike’s ass was bouncing like that?  “You know, Spike, you might want to be a little more appreciative, here.  I mean, here I am, letting you stay with me, letting Anya dress you, and offering you free pizza and beer.  Free, Spike.  No payment asked for or required.”

“Pretty much the least you can do,” Spike snapped back.  “Yeah, order your bloody pizza.  Gonna go kill things.”  He began searching through the front closet, digging out a pair of Anya’s sneakers.

Xander nodded, pleased—then stopped.  “You’re what?”

Spike continued rummaging around, although Xander had no idea what he could be looking for in there.  “Gonna.  Go.  Kill.  Things,” he said slowly, sarcasm and derision dripping from each word.  “I’m bored, and the sun’s finally down.”

“Spike, you can’t leave!”  Spike froze.  So did Xander, desperately trying to think of why Spike couldn’t go.  “I mean, people are gonna see you.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” he added when Spike shifted just enough to glare at him.  “But, well, don’t you want to get switched back before people find out about this?  And by people I mean other demons.  You know, the ones that already kicked you out of Willie’s?”

And that was so far beyond ‘low blow’ that Xander took an instinctive step back, expecting Spike to try and hit him.  Spike did whirl around, fists clenched, but didn’t come any closer.  He didn’t look angry and frustrated anymore, either.  Now he just looked furious.  “This is your fault, you imbecilic wanker,” he hissed.  “Was minding my own business, wasn’t I?  Had nothing to fucking do with me, but no.  Oh, no.  You bloody white hats can’t bloody stay away from me!  I look up, see robed and scaly aim that thing and then you jumped right in fucking front of it!”

Spike was turning red.  Didn’t lack of blood and circulation make it hard for vampires to turn red?

“And now I’m a sodding girl!  I’ve got tits and everything!  I knew throwin’ myself in with you lot was trouble, but I’ve soddin helped you!  What would you feel like if some spell whacked your cock off and stuck a pair of tits on you!”

When the silence stretched too long, Xander tentatively answered, “Um, bad?” 

“Bad.  Bad, he says.”  Spike threw up his arms and roared—well, screamed really—before turning a glare of pure ice on Xander.  “I don’t give a rat’s arse who happens to see me, cause I’m going to kill everything that fucking moves.”

He wasn’t Spike’s jailor.  And he knew the vampire well enough to understand just how much Spike needed the physical release—no, not that kind—that fighting offered.  So there wasn’t anything else to do but grab a few stakes and his keys  “Okay.  Let’s go.”

* * * * * * * * * * *

Key in lock, turn.  Open door.  Enter apartment, take off jacket, and hang it in the closet.  Go directly to kitchen, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, and instead take out three beers.  Two of them for Xander.

“Hell, did you see the way this body moved?”

Yes, yes in fact he had.  It was burned onto his brain and appeared any time he closed his eyes.

“Did you know women have a different center of gravity?   It’s lower, now, near m’ gut.”  Hands on said gut from the sound of moving cotton, and Xander kept his eye on the second bottle of beer while he finished the first.  A finely-boned white hand appeared in his vision, snagging the beer.  Then came the sound of a top being popped and liquid being poured down an exuberant throat.

So exuberant wasn’t exactly a sound.  So screw him.

Wait—no screwing!  No screwing!

“Did you see the way that wanker, Leo, exploded?  Knew him, from back before the chip.  Used to work for me, little pissant, when he needed some dosh.”

“That’s the one that recognized you?”  Was he supposed to talk now?  Or was this the time when he let whichever girl he was listening to babble until she actually started asking him direct questions again?  Spike was still a guy, yes, but he’d always had disturbingly. . . well, flexible qualities to him and that made Xander think about things he really didn’t want to.  “With the weird stripe down his skin?”

“That’s Leo,” Spike confirmed, followed by a small whoomping sound.  Maybe he’d thrown himself on the sofa?  A very Spike-like thing to do, especially when he was amped like this, but Xander wasn’t going to turn around and check.  He wasn’t.  Really.  “The way he exploded like that, just when he was screamin’ how he was gonna tell the bloody world about Spikette?  Beautiful.  Not much of one for creativity, our Leo,” Spike continued, enthusiasm melting into something a little more sarcastic.  “I’m sure no one thought of the name ‘Spikette’.”

He reacted without thinking, head turned and glaring.  “Have I called you anything other than ‘Spike’ the whole time?  Huh?”

“No, but the Slayer did, yesterday—bint forgets that I can hear her when she thinks she’s whispering to Willow.”

He wanted to object again—Buffy wasn’t a ‘bint’—but by then it was too late: Spike was sprawled out over the sofa, head propped up on the join between sofa and armrest so he could watch Xander.  His legs were spread, one over the back of the sofa, the other flat on the floor, and he was scratching lazily at his exposed belly.  The halter top was dirty and torn, somehow managing to stay on but exposing way more than it should have.  The jeans were now shorts, since they’d been torn badly enough to flap around and be a distraction, and Spike had ripped them off before throwing himself back in the melee.  Xander noticed distantly that Spike had shaved his legs this morning—which might explain why he’d been in the bathroom for almost a full hour.  Maybe.

All of this, topped with an expression as smugly comfortable as a cat spread out in the sun, lazily enjoying a scratch under a bejeweled collar, knowing dinner was whenever he wanted it.

It took effort not to drop his beer.  “Erk.”

“Xander,” Spike purred, “why’re you looking at me like that?”

He had to look away.  Now, while there was still blood in his head.  The one that controlled his neck muscles.

“Are you hurt?” he croaked out.  “You got thrown around pretty bad, before—”

That made Spike scowl and, while just as stunning as every other expression on that face, it freed Xander from his paralysis.  Thank god.  He retrieved the first aid kit from the bathroom without waiting for Spike’s answer, since he knew it was probably ‘yes’ and Spike was probably going to say ‘no’.

Not actually looking at Spike, despite the way Spike moved his body to make Xander do just that, the undead twisted bastard, helped.  Except he could smell the spicy hint of Spike himself, plus the smoke from his duster and a hint of what had to be Anya’s floral perfume as Xander efficiently doctored the few cuts or scraps that needed it.  The first two fights had been a disaster and it was only due to clumsiness on the part of the newly woken fledges and Xander’s few lumbering attempts to help that either of them survived.  But then they’d met Leo, who had immediately recognized who the girl with the Slayer’s friend was, and laughed so hard he’d nearly collapsed.

When Spike tried to attack him, still off balance and uncomfortable in his new skin, Leo had danced away and laughed even harder.

Then he’d turned on Xander.

The fight had lasted a while after that.  Xander, from his courtesy-of-Spike perch on top of a nearby mausoleum, had watched the enraged vampire with growing amusement and. . . okay, fine, he could admit it.  He’d spent years honing his credentials for watching strong women kick ass, so why should this be a surprise?  Watching Spike beat the shit out of Leo, and then a few of his friends, was hot.  Hotter than hot with a hint of scorching heat on the side.

It didn’t help that Spike was still so wound up from the fight, even after making another circuit before returning home.  Oh, the comments were normal Spike-snark, but he’d never noticed how much the vampire bounced when he was happy.  And how much that made other things bounce, now.

Anya was coming home soon, he reminded himself.  It would all be better when Anya was home. 

“You done staring at my back?”

“Oh!”  Great; deep introspection while tracing the patterns tiny, fine hairs—glinting gold in the lamp-light—made on Spike’s skin was not helping anything.

Anya.  Remember Anya.  Who wanted him to have a threesome and pretty much implied she wouldn’t mind if they started without her—so long as she got to join in, of course.  Was it because she was an ex-demon?  Or ex-evil?  Or even just ’cause she was really old?  Maybe when he was forty—or a hundred twenty—or eleven hundred he’d be able to be so blasé about this, but right now?  Xander couldn’t do it.  Plus, Spike was still a guy and could become one, well, at any moment.  Who was to say that if Xander did break down and took Spike back to the bedroom and did—stuff—that he wouldn’t change back to a guy in the middle?  It was the kind of thing that happened to Xander all the time, and then he’d be stuck with male Spike, naked and in his bed, still aroused and—

Maybe he should start thinking about other things, because this was not helping.

He put away his first-aid kit, mentally searching for any kind of distraction.  Spike was back in the cat position when he returned, watching him with a little smirk and half-lidded eyes.  Gah.  Distraction.  Any kind of distraction.

“Are you hungry?” he babbled, again not really waiting for an answer.  “I’m not, no siree, but we can order pizza if you want, and I have beer.  Anya doesn’t like it, so please feel free to drink it or pour it down the sink, I don’t care.  Do you want blood?  Or pizza?  Anya said to get pizza.”

“Not hungry,” Spike answered dismissively.  “ Had something while you were doing. . . whatever you were doing in the bathroom, before Giles called.”

Twenty-four hours and there was the innuendo Xander had expected.  Why the hell couldn’t it have stayed away longer?

“I was cleaning.”  His voice was stiff and offended, which some how prompted Spike to slink down even further on the sofa, his body damned near rippling as he got comfortable.  “There was grout!  In the shower!”

“Looked all spic-n-span when I was in there.”

If Anya didn’t come home soon, she was going to find Xander-parts all over the room from when he finally exploded under Spike’s knowing and annoyingly unrelentless attack.  There wasn’t a hint of needy insecurity or desperate unhappiness any longer.  There was just Spike, suave, sanguine, and sexy.  The cocky swagger was gone, now, in its place a boneless feline seduction that shouted ‘take me, take me now’.

How the hell was Xander supposed to resist this?

“Phone’s blinking.”

It took a minute for Xander’s lust-fogged mind to notice that Spike’s voice had returned to normal and by then, Spike was on his feet, pressing the play button on the answering machine.

“Hello, Xander.  Hello, Spike.  Still stuck at the docks—you’d think a thousand year old demon would stop acting like a whiny, childish little brat—so I don’t know when I’ll be back.  Xander, don’t forget what we talked about: it’s still okay, to have fun without me.  Don’t wait up!”

The disconnection was abrupt, but Xander was used to that.  He was also used to his life never going his way.  He just couldn’t remember a problem of this magnitude ever occurring before.  Not even Mrs. French had been this hot—um, bad.  Bad.

“So, just you an me, yeah?  Fancy that.”  Spike offered another heavy-lidded smile.  “What ever will we do to pass the time?”

Spike could be winding him up.  It wasn’t exactly unheard of for Spike to ‘take the piss’ with Xander, his preferred victim for such mocking.  But it wasn’t like Xander and Anya had never tumbled straight into bed after a bad fight, and that was without superpowers urging their hormones into overdrive.  His first lover had been Faith, after all, she of the no-slay-sex, and he’d seen Buffy mauling Riley after a particularly vicious patrol.  So this was probably a real offer.  So there was really nothing standing in his way if he wanted to grab Spike and throw him onto the sofa and rip the halter off entirely, just so he could see if the nipples were pinkish or reddish and if those really were two different colors like Anya claimed.  Nothing stopping him at all.

“I’ll go see what’s on tv.”

Flipping channels determinedly for ten minutes was a good mood killer.  Either that, or the siren song of the boob-tube was too powerful for Spike to resist.  He did sit a little too close, but he wasn’t touching or making with the sex-laden speech anymore.  Thank god.  Possibly gods.  Or any kind of deity out there.

Determined to ignore any more attempts at waylaying him, if there were any, Xander concentrated solely on the television.  Ah, Saturday late-night TV.  He really needed to order HBO, or Cinemax, or something.

Spike was restless as Xander scanned, idly commenting every three seconds while he shivered and shimmied on the sofa, eventually tucking his legs underneath him, feet pressed against Xander’s ass—“For warmth,” Spike told him when Xander looked down.  No accompanying leer, so Xander shrugged and let it go.  It wasn’t like he minded it, particularly since Spike’s lack of internal heartbeat made it easy to forget they were feet at all.  Just some weird object that happened to be smooth when he started rubbing them, delicate bones and long toes wiggling in lazy enjoyment.

“Hey, wait, go back!” 

A non-insulting comment about whatever was on TV or why Xander wanted to watch that particular program?  Scary.  Obediently flipping back three stations, he was surprised to see Steve Martin’s familiar white hair on the TV screen.

“L.A. Story?” he guessed.

“Yeah.”

“You want to watch L.A. Story.”

“Yeah, I do.  Now kindly shut the hell up, will ya?”

Xander turned away from the tv, mind-boggled.  Because Spike.  Watching what was basically a chick flick.  And enjoying it. 

Was Spike turning into an actual girl?  He hadn’t really acted girly, so far, but it had been barely more than twenty four hours.  Maybe the mental transformation took longer than the physical?  And that was a truly frightening thought, because Xander was already outnumbered five to three.

“Love Steve Martin.  Back when Saturday Night Live came out?  Bloody made the show, when he hosted.  Totally hysterical.  His King Tut is priceless.”

Now Spike was enthusing about an actor.  A male actor who had none of the things Spike usually focused upon—tits and ass, primarily.  He’d once heard Spike wax nearly poetic about an actress’ long, dark hair, but, well, Steven Martin definitely didn’t have that.

Oh, god.  Spike really was turning into a girl.  Ack.

“Come on, Harris.”  Spike was spread out over the length couch now, both legs across Xander’s knees, one foot on the arm rest, the other still in Xander’s hands, attention focused on the television.  “You can’t tell me you don’t like Steve Martin.  This is a bloody fantastic movie!  Just listen to this.”

“I could never be a woman,” Steve Martin was saying as Xander followed the line of Spike’s pointing hand to the screen.  “I’d just stay at home and play with my breasts all day.”

They froze.  Spike in mid-twitch, Xander in mid-rub, and Xander didn’t like thinking about either of those things after that line.  He wasn’t going to look at Spike.  He didn’t have to, actually, because he knew exactly what Spike would be doing right now, and he knew he really didn’t need to see it.  At all. 

He looked anyway.

Spike was staring at his breasts, stunned expression slowly bleeding into lust so powerful Xander quickly put Spike’s feet down onto the sofa.  Not because Spike looked so sinfully carnal that porn actors probably poured gold at his feet for lessons.  No.  Because underneath all of that, the expression was innocent—wonder and curiosity about his new body, what it could do, what it could make him feel—and Xander knew it was too late.  Much too late.

“I’m uh, feelin’ a mite tired,” Spike said, still staring at his breasts.  “Think I can borrow your bed for a bit?” He rose and was practically in the bedroom before finishing, “Just stay an’ watch the flick, I’ll be fine by myself.  Won’t damage nothing.”

The door shut firmly behind him.

Five breathless minutes later, Xander heard a quiet moan.

Lightheaded from lack of blood and oxygen, Xander clenched his fists against his thighs and forced himself to think.  He shouldn’t do this.  Because Anya would. . . be very happy because then she could join in.  And Spike would. . . probably also be happy, because the bleached bastard had spent a considerable amount of time and effort trying to get Xander to do what Xander was now contemplating, complete with technicolor images and porny soundtrack.

Another moan sounded from the bedroom, lower and huskier than before.

He still shouldn’t do this.  Because Spike would turn into a guy again, like some demented frog, with true love’s kiss involving Xander’s dick, of course, because the universe loved to taunt him.  And now he was picturing just how he’d kiss Spike and. . .  Another moan sent a flash of heat through his body, reminding him that he’d had those fantasies, too, and. . . and. . .  and mocking!  That’s right, if he did this, Spike was going to mock him forever once he was a guy again.  Except, well, Spike couldn’t really blackmail him, because Anya would know and she’d protect him—and because if Xander really did do what he wasn’t going to do because it was wrong, he’d be able to say ‘you were a girl and I saw you naked’.  That beat tiny-dick comments, right?  Like rock over paper?  Or was it paper over rock?

“Oh, yeah. . .”

He shouldn’t do this.  But Anya said he could.  But that didn’t make it right.  He shouldn’t do this, it was all kinds of wrong, and—

“Oh, yeah. . . fuck. . .oh, fuck, there. . . ”

Oh, right, like he could stand up to that.

Slowly and deliberately, Xander turned off the television and stood up.  Took the requisite four steps from the sofa to the bedroom door and pushed it open.  It swung easily at his touch, revealing the entire room, from its messy floor, its papered walls, and its messy bed.  Containing a messy Spike.

A mostly naked messy Spike.

The pants—shorts?—were still on, not even unbuttoned.  Not that removing them mattered since Spike had his hand between his legs, the heel grinding down right at the bottom of the zipper.  Xander knew that place.  All guys knew that place, because if they didn’t their girlfriends got pissed.  Xander didn’t like it when Anya was pissed, but he did like it when she screamed, so he knew that place very well.  And he had another three seconds of brain power to wonder if Spike knew where it was from his decades of experience or if this new body came with instructions—

Then there wasn’t anything at all.  Except maybe ‘hummina’.

Spike’s eyes were open, wide and staring at nothing, his head pressed hard against the pillow.  He was gasping in time with his rolling hips, inhaling as they rose up, exhaling as they fell down.  His other hand was attached to his right breast, squeezing it, rubbing it, and pinching the nipple until it was hard, tight, and very, very red.

Xander swallowed.  Loudly.

“Xan, it’s—oh, god, it feels—”

He’d been expecting a leering invitation to join in.  He knew he was going to say ‘yes’, but he’d expected Spike to play the seducer—seductress?—enticing Xander into bed, promising things not even his froofy thousand year demon knew about.

Instead there wonder.  And maybe just a little fear.

The pressure of the zipper on his aching hard-on told Xander that he was kneeling on the bed, but he didn’t pay attention to that.  Spike’s eyes had fluttered closed at Xander’s approach, too lost in the sensations to do anything at all, not even breathe—and wasn’t he lucky he didn’t have to.  When Anya had done this, she’d choked and coughed and accused him of trying to kill her, once she could speak again.

Xander tugged Spike’s hands off himself, ignoring the strangled protests and pulled Spike into his lap.  The vampire quieted only when Xander started touching—long strokes, short strokes, hard touches that went to the bone, feather-light touches that teased and made Spike shiver.  Along his face and down his neck, skating over breasts that heaved just like in a romance novel, circling the areola as lightly as he knew how.  The skin pebbled behind his fingers, Spike gasping and writhing and generally acting like this teasing was worse than anything he’d ever experienced.  Which made Xander want tease him for hours, carefully staying above the barrier of Spike’s pants, wondering if he could make Spike come just like this.

“Wha—what’re you doing?”  Spike was trying to sound blustery and annoyed, but Xander heard the hesitation underneath.  And the fear.  “Want you to—”

Xander pressed his mouth to the curls resting on the crook of his neck.  “Remember a few weeks back, you told me that Anya had me well trained?”

“Yeah?”

“She really, really does.”

He swallowed Spike’s response with a kiss, urging the vampire back down against the sheets.  The almost frenzied note in Spike’s breathing meant a change in tactics, so he mimicked what Spike had done before, kneading a breast and tugging on a hard nipple, while rubbing along the seam of Spike’s jeans, hard enough that the vampire squealed.  He didn’t stop kissing, either, forcing Spike to push into his mouth, fucking him with his tongue while Xander started exploring a little more.

The lights were still on, lending an unreal quality to an already unreal night.  Spike was gasping and panting, trying to form words but not able to; Xander never gave him the chance.  He placed punishing bites from nipple to zipper, skillfully removing Spike’s shorts as he moved.  He left the panties on, tracing over the impressions Spike’s body made in the silk until it was soaked and clinging to each and every fold.  Only then did he slide two fingers underneath the elastic, repeating the process on bared skin.  It was like all the frustration from before had vanished; Xander was clear-headed and calm for the first time since he’d seen Spike’s enormous eyes look up at him in the junkyard.

Spike shouted when Xander pinched and bit his nipples, fingers lightly passing over the opening to his body but never going inside.  He moaned when Xander sucked on his neck, right above the pulse-point.  He laughed when Xander licked the inside of his elbows, but gasped when Xander nibbled the insides of his wrists.  His body rocked and rolled against Xander’s until Xander flattened him, grinding his erection between Spike’s legs.

“’S—it’s different,” Spike said at one point.  He kept trying to touch Xander, which was nice, but mostly ignored.

“Hm?”  There was a belly button in his mouth, he was supposed to think about anything except ‘bite now’?

“What you’re—oh, god—doing?  S’different.”

“Good.”  Xander bit down, moving his forefinger up through coarse, dripping curls until he found what he was looking for.

Spike shouted when he came.

“That’s one,” Xander murmured.

“One?”  Spike blinked up at him, dazed and lost and utterly, adorably, young.  Kitten-sexy in every way.

“I told you Anya trained me, didn’t I?  One’s nothing.”

Spike swore like a sailor when he was eaten, legs squeezing almost too tightly around Xander’s head and his voice raspy with want.  He was silent when Xander slid a finger fully inside him, mouth too busy searching Xander’s for every bit of his own flavor.  When one finger became two, and then three Spike started sucking on Xander’s tongue, almost biting as his body was breeched.  Stretched, filled, walls fluttering around Xander’s fingers, not hot, but definitely not cold. . .

He mewled when Xander truly entered him, eyes so wide that he couldn’t be seeing anything at all.  The scent of sex was thick in the air, making them both lightheaded, their gasps caught on the same rhythm.  Xander eased himself in carefully—he’d already been through this one time, and he wasn’t going to let the incredible tightness or Spike’s high pitched whimpers distract him, just in case. . .

A sharp hiss of pain made him freeze.

“Oh, bloody hell.”  He had to give Spike credit; it didn’t take him long to figure out what Xander already guessed.  “I’m a sodding virgin!”

Carefully muffling his snickers, Xander bit his lip hard before speaking.  “Yeah.  Anya was, too—she said it was D’Hoffryan playing a nasty trick on her.  And since guys don’t really have a, ah, physical mark from devirginizing. . . .”  Spike was almost past the pain enough to glare.  Time to speed this up.  “Breaking it’s gonna hurt.  Do you still want to—”

Spike blinked at him and then gave a grunt of disapproval, thrusting his own hips sharply up and forward until something broke around the head of Xander’s cock.

Muscles were clenching and quivering around Xander in reaction, and fuck he wanted to move, but he knew better.  He wasn’t going to be able to hold it for long, but certainly long enough to stroke Spike’s lip, right where he was biting it against the pain.  “Gee,” Xander said softly.  “No more virginity.”

Spike gave him a dirty look, but his body relaxed almost instantly.  “Fuck me, already, Xander.”

Good thing he liked bossy lovers.

Xander kept his pace slow at first, letting Spike get used to being filled.  Anya said he was big—enough times that Xander believed her—and it had taken her a few moments to go from just taking it, to wanting it.  But when she had. . . she acted pretty  much the way Spike did, now.  Moaning, begging, hips working frantically, meeting each thrust with a gasp, pleading for more and harder and faster, and yes, right there, god what is that, again, hit it again, harder, dammit, feels so good, right there, oh yes, right there, please, there, it’s so good—

“Told you,” he whispered, right before he knew he would have to let go.  “Anya trained me very well.”

His own orgasm, delayed for so long, hit first.  He muffled his yell into Spike’s neck, making sure he continued to thrust until he felt Spike clench impossibly tight, shrieking, and shivering, body arching so his breasts were flattened against Xander’s chest as he came twice more, one right after the other, until Spike was almost sobbing from release.

When Xander finally had the strength to push himself onto his arms, he discovered why the noises had trailed off.  Spike was passed out.  Completely cold.

“’Course,” he muttered, pulling out and collapsing onto the bed.  It took his remaining strength to drag Spike into his arms.  “I really did like practicing. . .”

Part Four

There was a mouth on his cock.  Not warm, which meant either he was dreaming, or someone other than Anya was licking him from balls to tip, and then—

“Ahhh!”

“Oh, very good,” he heard Anya saying as he tried to calm his racing heart.  “You made him scream. I didn’t make him scream, the first time I blew him.”

“Probably too nervous, luv.  Lucky bloke like him, having your sweet mouth on him?  Throat probably blocked up—you know, like when you’re torturing and get ’em hurting just enough, that they can’t hardly breathe?”

“Hm, true.  I hadn’t thought of that.  Thank you, Spike.  You’re very good at validation.”

“Aim to please, luv.  Got any more tricks I should know?”

Spike.  Kneeling between his legs.  Anya.  Kneeling next to him.  Both naked.  Both staring at his cock like it was a chocolate eclair.  He could almost see them salivating over it.

“Morning?” he squeaked.

“Hush, Xander, I’m trying to explain to Spike that thing I do with my tongue.  The curling thing?”

Oh.  That was a good thing.  But—“Wait, Spike?  You’re—”

Spike looked at him like he was nuts.  “Know how to suck cock, Harris.  Not the first time I’ve done it.  But every bloke’s different, a bit, an’ since I’ve got the inside scoop. . .”

Xander really wanted to go back to sleep.

Then Spike sucked him down, eyes on his, cheeks hollowing, doing that thing Anya did with her tongue that made every hair on his body stand on end.

Okay.  So maybe he didn’t want to sleep.

“Very good,” Anya applauded when Spike pulled back up.  “You made him blank out completely.  I love it when he’s like that; you can get him to promise the most interesting—”

“Okay!”  It came out squeakier than he wanted, but he could live with that.  “Okay, ladies, while my dick is very happy to be the center of attention like this, my mind is having some problems.”

It chilled him right down to his balls when Spike and Anya looked at each other, identical expressions of confusion and amusement marring their features.  “Xander, honey,” Anya started.  “If your dick is happy, how can your mind not be?  The two are connected.”

“An’ please don’t tell me I’m not doin’ it right,” Spike drawled, a bit of scorn and self-satisfaction making him look very much like Spike.  Except a girl.  Also, naked.  And pretty.  Ack.  “Benefit of havin’ had blowjobs before, pet, means I know what all the boys like.”  Leaning forward on his hands and knees, breasts temptingly framed by his arms and the length of his torso, Spike purred, “I’m a very talented cocksucker, Harris.  Very.”

Oh, god.  Spike.  Saying ‘cocksucker’.  The word slid along his body like Anya’s silk feather, leaving goose-bumps and anticipation in its wake before wrapping around his cock and—no!  He was a man, and dammit, he was going to talk before there was sex!  And, okay, there was something really wrong with that, but his mouth was moving so his brain thankfully went quiet.  He didn’t have enough blood to run both at the same time.  “I’m sure you’ve got a resume full of names and phone-numbers, Spike, but can we please temporarily halt the sex-a-thon for just a minute or two?  Please?”

“Hm.  Spike, what do you think?”  Anya glanced over at Spike, who was raising a single eyebrow at him.  “Should we let him go?”

“What kinda man wants to talk when he’s got two chits that look like we do in his bed?”  But that was rhetorical, because Spike was heaving a sigh and waving a magnanimous hand.  Like it was such effort to let Xander go for five minutes.  “Yeah, all right.  Be quick about it though, yeah?  Got a few tricks me’n Anya wanna try on you.”

Xander was never so happy to be alone in a bathroom before.

Accidentally banging his erection—ow!—into the very cold porcelain sink got it to go down enough that he could do normal morning things, like pee and brush his teeth.  The return of blood to his brain also brought some semblance of coherence.  Because yes, two gorgeous women in his bed promising to do things that would make him scream in the really, really good way did fluster him more than he could handle.

For one thing, it wasn’t supposed to occur outside his male, pornographic fantasies.  For another thing—the last time Xander had had this many women offering him their complete and undivided attention, it’d been that stupid spell to win back Cordelia.  The one where they’d tried to kill him, rather than share him.  So, yes, he felt it was completely rational for him to want to take a few moments to work out the preliminaries. Before he did something really stupid, and Anya got out the ax she kept in the spare room.

Besides.  Xander didn’t have sex to just have sex—no matter how insane he might be for turning it down.

Cleaner and in more control than before, Xander went back into the bedroom.  Anya and Spike were talking quietly on the bed, stretched out on their sides and looking incredibly comfortable.  Like they belonged there, both of them.  Not just in Xander’s bed, but in Xander’s life.

Much too weighty a thought before the impending threesome.

“Okay.  Minty-fresh breath assured—”

“Are you coming back to bed, or do we really have to do that talking thing?” Spike interrupted.  Bad Spike.  There was a whole speech writing itself in his head and Spike was interrupting!  “’Cause we’ve only got a few hours; don’t want to waste ’em yapping, the way Anya says you like.  Shoulda known you preferred talking to shagging, anyway.”

That was supposed to be a scornful dig.  Xander knew that, having been the recipient of many scornful and mocking digs in the past.  This time, though, Spike wasn’t sneering at him.  And his voice was decidedly mellow.  Odd.

“I’m not saying no, you two insufferable—wait, a few hours?  Why only a few hours?”  He heard this disappointment in his voice, but didn’t bother wincing.  Disappointment was perfectly justified, of course.  If there were two of them, it was going to take twice as long.  Or so his mind explained in perfectly reasonable terms.

“Because Larisha gave Giles some useful information,” Anya said in a bored voice. “I didn’t understand it, but Giles said that he did.  He’s probably bluffing just to make himself look good, but he said to come over to the Magic Box sometime this afternoon, he might have something done by then.”

Spike propped himself up on one arm and gave Xander a lingering once-over.  “An’ I don’t wanna get turned back till I’ve been fucked at least one more time, Harris, so get your bloody cock over to the bed so I can ride you.”

Tendrils of fire eating down his body, and oh, god, the totally matter of fact way Spike said that was hotter than any purring come-on he’d ever heard.  “Nyah,” he moaned, half way to the bed before his brain rebooted and reminded him that he wanted to talk first.

Glaring at the two girls so they stayed where they were—pouting and making big eyes at him the whole time—Xander sat himself at the top of the bed, leaning against the headboard.  Pulled a blanket over his lap to give himself a little bit of dignity. 

The blanket tented out obscenely.  Dignity laughed at him.

Skin seemed to be the better option, so Xander pulled the blanket off.  Thought about what he wanted to say.  “You made me lose my speech,” he accused Spike after a moment of mental groping.  After words, he was groping after words, so his hand really should stop moving now.  “It was about cheating, and fidelity, and Anya not eviscerating either of us.  Also about making sure that you were okay, not that you wouldn’t be because you’re a vampire, and you’d never admit it even if you weren’t okay, and—”

“Oh, for the love of St. bloody George,” Spike groaned, rolling onto his stomach.  He moved in a slinky panther-crawl until he was hovering over Xander’s body and whoa, kissing.  Nice kissing.  Without tongue or the all-consuming lust from the night before, just lips and a kind of pure sweetness that made Xander’s gut ache.  “Heard you two yapping yesterday,” Spike said quietly, when he finally pulled away.  “Knew Anya wouldn’t get pissy, so I decided to see what all the fuss was about.  An’ I’m fine.  Thank you for asking.”

No mockage.  No sarcasm.  No twisted little smirk that meant Spike was laughing at him, even when his voice said things like that in an incredibly sincere tone.  Just blue eyes looking up into his, and Spike had never really been able to lie with his eyes.  So he wasn’t lying, not even a little.  But since when did Spike thank someone?  Without being bullied into it?

“Spike, I mean it,” he tried one more time.  “I don’t want to do this unless all of us are—”

Then Anya was kissing him with that same sweetness that felt a lot like tenderness.  “I’m glad Spike had you for his first.  You’re very good at it.”

“What, you don’t want to have a go with me?” Spike pouted at Anya.  “Cause you know I’ve always had a thing for you, pet.”

Anya immediately started defending how much she wanted to sleep with Spike—“I haven’t practiced cunnilingus in almost a century, of course I want to make sure I’m still good at it, Spike,”—but Xander wasn’t listening to them banter.  Spike’s hand was on Xander’s thigh, absently petting.  In a non-sexual way.  Spike was also darting little curious glances over to him, and it took Xander a minute to finally figure it out.

Spike was trying to take care of him.  Sort of.  Okay, he could’ve just been waiting for Xander to stop blushing so hard, since Spike needed the blood somewhere else, if there was going to be riding.  But Xander didn’t think that was the primary reason—no matter what Spike told himself.  Spike was trying to be nice, to be. . . a lover.

And Anya was holding Spike’s hand.

Suddenly, Xander felt much better.

* * * * * * * *

Buffy scanned the Magic Box, oddly restless.  The super-duper-important training sessions Giles had planned for the weekend turned out to be a bust, since Giles was spending most of his time researching what had happened to Spike.  A few hours yesterday, barely an hour with her Watcher, and another half an hour with Riley today.  Not nearly enough for a healthy Slayer on the go—but that still didn’t explain the wiggy feeling in her gut.  A tremor in the force, Xander would tease her, if Xander weren’t buried nose-deep in a book.

Hey, maybe that’s why she was so disturbed?  ’Cause Xander reading without any quips or help-me-I’m-bored faces?  Pretty apocalyptic to this Slayer.  Buffy titled her head, thoughtfully watching Xander read a dry, dusty book on transmogrification.  No, she decided, that wasn’t it.  Xander sincerely reading was wiggy, but not wiggy snakes-in-your-belly-enough.

Tara was in the corner, distracting Dawn with pretty rocks that she’d assured Buffy didn’t cost a lot, if Dawn happened to break any.  Because Dawn would, and maybe Giles wouldn’t make her pay for them, but Anya definitely would, and—and maybe she shouldn’t think about it, because Dawn had this uncanny knack of knowing exactly what Buffy didn’t want her to do.  Riley was still in the training room, pretending he wasn’t sore and stiff by cleaning up.  Her poor boyfriend—he didn’t spar with her that often anymore, finally understanding that the Chosen one really was graced with the strength to stop vampires, strength normal men just didn’t have.  And she hadn’t pulled her punches enough.  Her frown came back, but well, she’d needed the work out, and he’d volunteered!

So, she’d make it up to him tonight.  Thinking about how was definitely something to put a smile on a girl’s face—but not enough to make the itchy-rolly feeling quiet down.  Drat.

Willow was curled up on the couch, muttering to herself while she paged through different books, the picture of studious helpfulness.  Of course, that would have been more impressive if Buffy didn’t instantly know the crinkly sound of glossy, treated paper being turned.  Casually moseying over, Buffy reminded herself to pay better attention to Giles’ lessons on being stealthy.  Or explain to Willow that she was allowed to look over her shoulder like that—hey, best-friend privileges!—without getting glared at.

When caught, go with a distraction.  “Entertainment Weekly?” Buffy mouthed, raising one eyebrow.  Spike wasn’t the only one to master that particular trick.

Muffling a giggle, Willow nodded and tilted the book so Buffy could see more than just the familiar layout.  Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt smiled in frozen happiness, and Buffy grin-frowned, adding an eye roll when she was certain Giles wasn’t looking.  Willow’s little obsession with happily married movie stars was getting just as freaky as Xander reading without protest.  Why Willow cared about people she was never going to meet, in a profession she was never going to be in—oooh, was that a new Dolce outfit?

“. . .not wearin’ pink!  Don’t care how bloody good you think I’m gonna look in it.  May be a girl, pet, but I’ve got sodding limits!”

“But Spike, it’s leather—”

Giles cleared his throat loudly.  “Children, if you don’t have anything useful to contribute, then do please be quiet.  This is an exceedingly difficult translation.”

Uh-oh, cranky Giles, and—that was it!  The reason for the wiggy feeling!

She didn’t let herself whip around the way she wanted to, even grinned an apology to Riley when he reentered the shop proper and mimed being quiet when Giles glared at her.  But her attention wasn’t on her boyfriend or her three oldest and dearest friends.  It was on the round table, where two girls sat, heads bent close together.  It looked perfectly normal, well, except the whole Spike as a girl, thing, but that was actually oddly normal too.  He’d still stomped around the room when he came in, sitting down only when Giles ordered him to.  Anya sitting next to him wasn’t that odd, either, since they occasionally had that ex-demon solidarity thing.  Usually right before something icky slimed her, but Buffy wasn’t bitter.  Much.  The memory-trading thing wasn’t any better, either.

But no, Spike and Anya sitting together and researching wasn’t that odd.  Spike and Anya discussing clothes was odd.  Very.

As casually as she knew how—which was very, she told the mocking voice that sounded way too much like boy-Spike—Buffy picked up a book and sat down at the table.  Flipping through the pages, Buffy scanned over words that were definitely not written in English and waited until Giles was distracted.

“So,” she whispered.  “What’s this about Spike in pink leather?”

Wow, Spike could still look incredibly hostile when he wanted to.  Almost snarling, Spike curled a hand over whatever they’d been reading, expression clearly telling Buffy to piss off now, you bloody stupid bint.  Or something as accented and ‘bloody’.

“I want to go shopping later,” Anya explained without preamble, although her voice thankfully quiet.  “And I want Spike to wear—give it to me—this.”

Huh.  Maybe Xander was doing the magazine-in-a-book trick. too, since he was so unnaturally studious.  His was probably Playboy, though, while this was definitely a fashion-mag.  “You want Spike to wear a pink leather mini-skirt?”  Anya had the weirdest fashion-sense Buffy had ever seen, even worse than Willow’s.  “Wait, how about this red one instead?  You like red, Spike.  But not with the white top.”  Looking Spike over critically, Buffy shook her head.  “Definitely not white, you’re way too sallow.”

“What?  I’m not—what the hell did she just call me?” he hissed at Anya.

“She said you have too much yellow in your complexion to wear true white.  And you do, which is why I was going to put you in the nice black tank-top on the next page.   The pink mini was on sale. . .but fine, if it’s red will you try it on, Spike?”

“Maybe.”

“What if I try to convince you?”

Buffy blinked.  No way had she just heard Anya sound. . . sexy.  Towards Spike.  Shaking her head slightly, she found the appropriate shirt—black with silver sparkles worked in, but not too garish.  “I like the cut of the shirt,” Buffy complimented.  “Oh!  If you use that new eyeliner you got, Anya, and that weird lipstick Dawn bought even though it’s not her color?  That’d be perfect for the Bronze tonight.  I could bear to be seen with you.”

Spike hadn’t lost his ability to make Buffy feel about three years old with just a look, either.  But this time, Buffy didn’t feel the need to hurl insults or just give in and hurl her fists.  She actually felt like, well, grinning.  Spike looked so young as a girl.  The lines in his face he utterly refused to acknowledge—despite her helpfulness in pointing them out—were smoothed away, and his eyes were bigger.  It made him look a little like Dawn—a pointy-chinned, innocent-seeming hellion.

“I am not wearing eyeliner.”  It was weird how Spike still sounded like Spike.  He was an alto now, but had the same scathing, derisive, really annoying dismissal: totally Spike. 

“Oh, please, Spike,” she scoffed, quieting when Willow coughed a reminder.  “Who was it that wore more eyeliner than his girlfriend did?  And I know you wore lipstick, don’t try and deny it.”  Hm, could she ask the one question she’d been dying to know?  “You know, since we’re all girls together. . . I’ve got to ask. How do you put on make up without a mirror?”

Spike had clearly not expected that response from Buffy.  Actually, neither had Buffy.  Why was she doing the conspiratorial girly thing?  He was still Spike in there, despite the new additions peaking out from under Anya’s borrowed t-shirt—figures Spike would choose something low-cut and really tight.  But she wasn’t treating him like Spike.  Did gender really make that much difference in how she interacted with others?

Weighty thoughts, and kind of disturbing—but then Spike was leaning forward, a wicked gleam in his eyes, a pose Buffy matched without once trying to remember where the nearest stake was, her usual response to that look.  “All in the practice, luv,” he whispered.  “Could probably teach you, if you wanted—and how to check it.  S’all fun and games ’till somebody’s laughin’ at you for having eyeliner run down your face.”

“That would be very useful, Spike,” Anya said, smiling warmly.  “Thank you.”

“Course, pet.”

Okay.  Maybe Spike and Anya discussing clothes wasn’t the cause of the wiggy feeling.  Maybe it was the way Spike leaned into the curve of Anya’s body, expression open and kinda relaxed and. . . friendly.  No, more than friendly.  They were grinning at each other in a way that looked almost like they were about to kiss.

Spike.  Kissing Anya?

“I’ve got it!”  Never happier for a distraction, Buffy turned towards Giles, who was skipping back and forth between the page held by his forefinger and the page held by his thumb.  “Yes, yes, it’s all right here.  How could I have missed it?”

“You found it?  But I wanted to find it!”  Willow started when everyone looked at her, avoiding Buffy’s gaze in particular.  “Um, I mean, yay?”

“Maybe you should tell us what ‘it’ is?” Xander asked, closing his book—which destroyed Buffy’s Playboy theory, because the pages settled together cleanly.  “And what’s involved with ‘it’?  There’s no blood, right?  Because watching Spike drink blood every meal is starting to do things to me.”

“Keep telling you, pet, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” Spike retorted.  Which was probably the lamest retort Buffy had heard out of the vampire, but after the almost-kissing Buffy wasn’t going to react to it.  “So, don’t leave us in suspense, Watcher.”

“And come between the insults flying about?”  Withering glare given to all three culprits, Giles lifted the book triumphantly.  “Larisha mentioned the moon, and I couldn’t understand since there is no mention of the moon whatsoever in the Dorishant Codex.  Because it’s in the Rishali text, not the Dorishant, how could I have missed something like that?”

Everyone seemed to be herding around the counter, so Buffy went too.  Working in the Magic Box was a lot nicer than constantly invading Giles’ apartment, but it was still new and a little awkward positioning themselves.  Buffy missed the ‘this is how you kill the monsters, Buffy’ table in Sunnydale High’s library.  That was a good table.  She’d been able to jump on it and everything!  But it was lost among rubble, now, and besides—she had a Giles to tease.  Leaning onto the counter, she made herself look as impish as possible.  “We’re very upset with you, Giles.  How could you have missed something like that?”

The glare he gave her glare wasn’t so withering, she noted smugly.  Nyah-nyah.

“Loosely, the translation in the Dorishant Codex reads: Twain become one by the shadow’s light, by Hestia’s Reach.”

Tara sidled next to her girlfriend, not really touching but close.  “Hestia’s Reach?  That’s a general r-reversal spell,” she explained.  “A kind of, um, reset button.”

“And shadow’s light usually means dawn,” Willow finished.  She and Tara had become really good at tag-teaming explanations over the summer.  “So what’s that got to do with a moon?  And didn’t we try Hestia’s Ban?  Or something like that?”

“We tried a similar spell, yes, but not this specific one—Larisha was the one who explained what ‘morian’ meant.”  Giles was on a roll now, picking up a scroll with his other hand and gesturing the way professors did against their big blackboards.  “But if you check the Rishali scroll, it does talk about what happens when the Gemini goes awry.”

“You mean it’s happened before?”  Spike’s eyes bugged out like a squished frog’s, indignant and annoyed.  “And it took you three bloody days to find it?”  He snorted contemptuously, glaring.  “Right, then.  Undo it.  Now.”

“Will any of you let me finish what I’m trying to say?  Without Larisha’s information, Spike, I would not have made the correct correlation and we would still be looking.  The likelihood of me discovering the connection on my own is quite small, so perhaps you should be thanking Anya for the contacts she remembered, instead of haranguing me for only three days of research.  And I can’t undo it now.  Not for another seven days, when the moon is dark.  Now, then.  If you have any other demands, insults, or interruptions, feel free to shout them to the void.”

Boy.  It was a good thing Buffy knew Giles was teasing right back, or she’d have to do something to hurt Spike.  No vampire was allowed to give her Watcher a coronary.  That was Buffy’s job.

“Seven days?” Spike growled.  “I gotta stay like this for seven more days?”

“Oh, suck it up,” Xander immediately retorted.  “We have to live with you for seven more days.  Think how we feel.”

“Actually, Xander, we should feel—annoyed!  Very annoyed!”  Anya smiled brightly at everyone, leaning into the arm her boyfriend half-raised, looking like some kind of Barbie doll, shiny-fake and depthless.  “Because Spike is interrupting our time to—”

“Do you two ever talk about anything else?”  Frustrated, Spike looked at Buffy.  Was he—was he grinning underneath that scowl?  “You should hear ’em!  Goin’ at it all the bloody time, never mind that I’m right outside the door.  And don’t listen to him blather about the walls being thick enough.  I’m a sodding vampire, and I can—”

“Oh, please, Spike like you were objecting when we—”

“You know, I think all of us would be just a lot happier if you didn’t finish that.”  Riley smiled—disarming, charming, and so debonair—at Anya before glancing at Buffy’s twisted expression.  He knew how much she hated when Anya discussed her sex-life in public.  Couldn’t Xander teach her some tact?  “Besides, Dawn’s here, and she’s—well, too young hear about that.”

“I am not!”

“I’m too young, Dawn,” Buffy said, taking her boyfriend’s side, figuratively and literally.  “And if I am, you definitely are, so in the interest of saving young ears, Giles, are we done?”

“Hm?  Oh, yes.  There’s nothing to be done until the dark of the moon, Spike, so if you really dislike living with Xander and Anya, then you could return to your own crypt.  And if you do not, please do shut up about it.  I’m surrounded by children, I don’t need your whining as well.”

Buffy was really glad she wasn’t the only one saying, “Hey!”

Riley nuzzled her head.  “We have plans for the rest of the day?”

“Nope,” she replied, happy to be back in his arms.  “Well, I do owe a certain guy a little R and R after the workout I put him through, but. . .”

The little smile he got, something that was so mischievous and naughty and yet so wholesome sent little tingles down her belly.  “I think my manliness could stand a little pandering.”

“Well, consider yourself—” What had Anya just told Willow?  And she was really going to owe Riley huge, because she was pretty sure she’d heard Willow say: “Shopping?  You guys are going shopping?”

“Spike’s too small to wear most of my clothes,” Anya repeated.  “So we’re going to go shopping the rest of the afternoon.”

“Yes, and do buy that delightful red leather mini skirt you were talking about,” Giles muttered, cleaning his glasses.

Oops.  She was going to have to work on talking quietly in front of Giles.  But later.  “Spike, you’re going to let Anya shop for you?  Just the two of you?  Where, it’s sunny out.  And who exactly is paying for this?”

“Yes, of course he is, just us, the mall is enclosed and we can avoid windows and mirrors, and Xander and I are both chipping in.  Why?  Did you want to come?”

“Oh!  We can make it a girls day out!”  Willow bounced, then paused, “Um, Xander, you don’t mind, do you?  If we steal your girls away?”

Buffy turned back to Riley, vaguely noticing that Xander was bright red and stammering—and so, oddly enough, was Spike.  “Do you mind, Riley?  If I go too?”

“Is this really necessary?” Riley asked, voice soft enough that only she could hear him.  “I mean, it’s just for a week.  And it’s Spike.  Do we really want to be going all out for him?  Um, her?”

“Well, I mean, he can’t go running around in clothes that are too big for him,” Buffy pointed out logically.  “And it’s not like we’re going to buy him expensive clothes, just, you know, stuff to slay in without tripping and maybe something to Bronze in.  Plus some jeans and stuff and—”

The look Riley was giving her wasn’t complimentary.  “You want to go to the Bronze with Spike?”

Tugging on Riley’s shirt, she backed them into the corner and tried to believe that vampire hearing wouldn’t be able to make out every word, Verizon clear.  “It’s—it’s kinda hard to explain.  I know he’s Spike—evil, annoying, blood-sucking vampire that hates us all and wants nothing more than to make our lives miserable—but. . .  But he was saving Xander, when this happened.”

“Spike?  Saving someone?”  Riley shook his head.  “Come on, Buffy, you and I both know that Spike doesn’t save anyone.  He probably just tripped.”

Three days ago, she would’ve said the same thing.  But Buffy had been the only one to see Spike’s expression the instant before he dived in front of Xander.  The split second of shock, horror, and then determination hadn’t screamed ‘die, white hat, die’.  “I know, and I don’t really understand why, either—”

“But you’re gonna do what you want to do,” Riley finished.  Grinning, oo, he was grinning!  That meant Buffy wasn’t in trouble.  “Although why that has to be playing dress up with the evil undead. . . ”

“Oi!”  A loud, annoying voice interrupted them.  “Just cause I’m evil doesn’t mean I can’t be pretty.”

“Which skirt do you want, Spike?” she called over Riley’s shoulder.  “The red or the pink?”  That got him to shut up long enough for Buffy to properly reward her boyfriend for being so understanding.  They were getting much better at ignoring Dawn’s ‘ewwww’s.  “I’ll stop by Victoria’s Secret,” she promised.  “Pick you up something special.”

“Oh, be still my heart,” Riley teased, pulling her into a hug.  It was warm and safe in Riley’s arms, something she still marveled at, even after so long into the relationship.  The slow thud of his heart under her ear was a sound she never tired of.

The rest of the shop seemed to catch her mood.  Willow and Tara were holding hands, smiling as they helped Dawn finish up her homework.  Anya was back in Xander’s arms, leaning against him the same way Buffy was pressed up against Riley—only back to front, not front to front—and even Spike. . .

Buffy blinked, raising her head sharply.  No way.  No way had Xander’s arm been around Spike’s waist.  And Spike had definitely not tilted his head up to Xander, the same way Buffy did when she was asking for a kiss.

Nu-uh.  Not.  Possible.

Part Five

Xander? Had a problem. He liked to think of it as a large problem. A very large, very complicated problem. That he was going to never, ever recover from.

“There has to be some kind of reason,” Riley was saying in a voice that was as hoarse as the suave, confident man ever really came to. And thoughts like that were not helping Xander’s problem, dammit! “Some kind of ritual. You know, most birds have amazing—”

“Riley,” Xander interrupted. His voice had gone past ‘hoarse’ to reside firmly in the ‘croaking’ stage. “Not helping.”

“Well, no, if you think about this logically, it makes sense,” Riley persisted. “The bright colors, the, ahem, complicated movements, almost every species has some kind of ritual to follow for this kind of thing, so if you just look at it that way, it all fits.”

Xander winced at the last word, definitely not thinking about things fitting. That way led to badness. Or at least not ever getting up from this table. He took a hasty gulp of his beer, wishing he could get truly drunk and knowing why that really wasn’t a good idea. “Wait, isn’t it supposed to be boy-birds that do the colorful plumage thing?”

“Um? Oh. Right. That’s right.”

Dressed in their dark slacks and one cream and one navy-blue colored shirt, they stared straight ahead for a while.

“It was a good theory,” Xander offered when his ‘problem’ got too painful. “I mean, a completely wrong one. But I was thinking about proving you wrong for a minute, and not. . .”

Not staring at the dance floor. Where brightly colored and prettily made up women were playing and laughing and generally having a fabulous time. Dancing. Together.

All of them.

The driving beat of the music had offered a distraction when they first came in, as well as the multitude of other people milling around. The girls had made short work of that, though, by hopping onto the dance floor and completely dominating it for the last half hour and more. They were doing it on purpose, of course. Riley and Xander were fully aware of how expertly they were being teased.

So, of course, it had to go up a notch.

With a coy glance at the table, Buffy insinuated herself between Willow and Tara and whispered something. Well, she didn’t actually whisper, but they were too far away to hear what she was shouting and Buffy’s head was turned just enough that they couldn’t see her lips. Willow and Tara exchanged looks after Buffy had finished, and then they started. . . moving. As a threesome.

“Oh, god,” the men said in unison.

Desperate for some kind of distraction—Willow and Tara were a couple and Xander was so over the Buffy-lust!—Xander wrenched his gaze off the grinding threesome and landed on duo part of the threesome that he was really, really, really not thinking about at that very moment.

Anya looked stunning. Her outfit was new, but Xander had no idea what it was other than ‘pretty’, and that the black leather skirt was identical to Spike’s red leather skirt. He knew that because they were pressed up against each other as the two of them ground their bodies together and Xander was turning into a pile of very painfully hard goo. Not just because they were hotter than any sex on toast he’d ever consumed.

Because they were happy.

Oh, they were teasing him, too. Payment was definitely imminent for the two girls, oh yes, indeedy. Xander was plotting out just how he was going to make them pay with the part of his mind that wasn’t thinking about threesomes and dear god, he could have a threesome. Actually, he could have many since they’d just had one this morning and there had been no complaints at all by either of his ladies. But that was just normal horny male talking, and spending most of your free time with girls taught you how to ignore that part.

Spike and Anya were so happy they were glowing. Big, huge smiles that had shone from their eyes from the moment they’d come back home, whispering and giggling and not letting him see a single article they’d purchased. It was only when they arrived at the Bronze, shrugging off their coats with the practiced ease of two women who knew they were gorgeous, that Xander had seen the outfits he couldn’t recall even when staring at them. They moved with a liquid, fluid grace that mesmerized him, dancing entwined with each other, keeping contact with light touches and lingering glances, even when they were separated. They tossed provocative leers him when they remembered, but it was the secretive, conspiratorial looks they shared that really turned Xander on. For once in his life, Xander wasn’t stuck defending one girl from another. Now he was stuck between them, and knew with absolute certainty what a damned good place that was to be.

“It’s disturbing that Spike makes such a pretty girl,” Riley said distantly. “He’s Spike.”

“You didn’t think he made a pretty boy, too?”

Strange, how silence could be deafening in one corner of a very loud, crowded night club.

Riley coughed and gulped his beer. “I’ve seen some strange things. Demons that could kill a man by looking at them. My team getting munched on by people we trusted. Buffy with her hair all in curlers and goop on her face. But none of that comes close to the sight of Spike dancing with my girlfriend. And not only am I not feeling jealous, I’m—” Breaking off with a shy flush, Riley ducked his head.

Anya had slid behind Tara, herself and Willow bracketing the taller girl, while Buffy was twisting around Spike like a blond-and-silk-green cat. ‘Hot’ didn’t even begin to describe the picture. “You know she’s going home with you,” Xander said seconds before both girls threw their respective men promises with their eyes. “Urk. And oh, god help me, I am not man enough.”

Riley didn’t snicker, which was a plus, and actually seemed to get what Xander was saying. Except wait, there was that long-missed panic fighting through the lust, because did that mean that Riley knew Xander was sleeping with Spike, too? And why did ‘sleeping with Spike’ sound so very good?

“Do you want to send Spike to Giles’ tonight?” Riley asked, right on the clueless cue. “Because I’m seeing howling in our future.”

“In the non-werewolfy sense, right?” tripped out before Xander got a grip. “And nah, no problem. Anya and I we—um—like to—” Implying that you and your honey played with gags was not any less humiliating than telling the truth. What little blood not busy making him so hard he ached made a valiant effort at turning his face red.

Riley looked vaguely surprised and was about to say something probably equally as mortifying, when an offended shout interrupted them. “Don’t touch us again,” Anya said, voice easily carrying over music and conversation. “Please go and dance with someone who wishes to dance with you.”

Xander missed the response, too busy fighting his way through the crowd, hardon be damned. Arriving in time to see Anya gear up for an extremely pissed off retort, Xander slid an arm around her waist, pulling her against his side while Spike melted in front of him, back to Xander’s chest and—thank god—covering Xander’s erection with his ass. “Hey, baby,” Xander told his girlfriend.

Barry White Xander could never hope to be, but the almost fawning expression Anya’s face seemed to mean he’d done the trick right.

The guy—a twenty something college kid built like a mac truck—looked from Anya, to Spike, to Xander. “No way,” he said, all-American features twisted in disbelief.

“Pillock here decided he wanted in on the action,” Spike explained, the almost-snarl in his voice meant that Spike was the one who’d been groped or pinched or something’ed. That distracted Xander out of his indignation and into real anger—Spike couldn’t defend himself! “Oughta rip his balls off for it,” Spike continued. “Nah, wait, too complicated on a dance floor and you really need the proper tools for that one. Could always gut him, in the meantime. Anya, love, think we should rip his intestines out?”

“I want his eyeballs,” Anya said calmly. “I think he’ll scream very nicely when those are removed. And hey, I’ve got something in my purse that—” She paused, smiling brightly as the circle around them widened noticeably. The jerk had taken off as soon as she’d mentioned ‘eyeballs’, bleached white and trembling. “Kidding,” she said cheerily.

“I wouldn’t be,” Buffy muttered, but she allowed Riley to pull her into his arms.

“Are you okay?” Riley asked, already swaying to the beat but still obviously concerned.

“We’re fine,” Spike answered. Catching sight of Riley’s expression, Spike settled more firmly against Xander, swishing his hips and looking bored. “Go, twirl your chit around a bit. Get her to leave me be for a little.”

“Oh, like you weren’t loving it, Spike. And don’t call me a ‘chit’. Bint.” Smugly proud that she’d got the terminology right, Buffy waved and drew Riley to different corner of the dance floor.

Xander, meanwhile, was trying to breathe. Because Spike was still moving his hips, which were pressed against Xander’s. That was great, when trying to hide an erection that might frighten young children and scar the older ones, it wasn’t great when watching your girlfriend and your whatever-the-hell-Spike-was defend themselves was an incredible turn-on. And every single shimmy rubbed Spike’s ass against Xander’s cock.

“We should go home,” Xander croaked. “Now. Please.”

Suddenly he had a double armful of girl, their breasts rubbing against his chest while two pairs of beguiling eyes blinked up at him. “But Xander,” Spike purred. “You haven’t danced with us, yet.”

Xander counted to three. “Spike? Think like a guy.”

Huge blue eyes, totally guileless and clear, blinked up into his. “That bad, is it?” Spike commiserated, voice satin and sex and sliding all over Xander’s skin. “Poor boy, sitting over there watching two girls as pretty as us dance together. Sun and moon, we are, Anya so golden and me so pale. Did you like it when I dipped her, Xander? Could see all the way up her shirt, then, planned it out just special for you. That put you in a big of a, hm, bind, did it?”

Xander closed his eyes and forced his body not to sway to the music the way Anya’s and Spike’s were. “I hate you both,” he whimpered.

“No, you don’t,” Anya said, the absolute certainty in her voice—so different from Spike’s easy seduction—doing nothing to lessen his discomfort. “You love us very much. And now you’re going to take us home and give us both many orgasms.”

Xander nodded mutely, letting them guide him back to the table. Willow and Tara were already there, sipping their drinks and not even bothering to muffle their giggles as Anya helped Spike into his coat, Spike returning the favor before both of them helped Xander into his. “Um, Spike?” Willow asked. “Do you maybe wanna, um, come back to our place tonight?” There was a light kick under the table. “Oh! Um, I mean, Mrs. Summers wouldn’t mind it if you stayed with her, I think.”

“Not bloody likely!”

“Buffy won’t know,” Tara said, “we promise.”

Xander had no idea what happened on the girl-Scooby shopping spree, but seeing that expression on Tara’s face directed at Spike was the scariest thing Xander had ever seen, ever. Ever! Tara wasn’t ever supposed to look so—so—sexy! At Spike!

“Why would we want Spike to go away tonight?” Anya asked. “We need him to—”

“Watch tv!” Xander blurted. “And—and—” And four pairs of eyes were looking at him like he was insane. “And never mind. I’m going home now. Bye.”

Xander took three steps before he felt one cool arm and one warm thread their way through his, quiet giggles doing nothing to distract him from his mission. He had to leave the Bronze. He had to get into his car, turn it on, and make sure he put it in reverse before he put it into drive. Then he had to drive home, leave the car, and unlock the door.

And he had to do all of that before he came in his pants.

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