Pillow Talk
by The Mad Poetess
Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight

Part One: Chocolate Laces


Darkness in the Harris basement, and the sound of a vampire whining. 
How familiar. Xander Harris rolled over and peered at the bleached-
blonde wonder tied to the red recliner a few feet away from his bed.

"What?"

"Don't see why I have to be tied up," Spike muttered sulkily.

Xander rolled his dark eyes. "It's just while I'm sleepin'." He 
turned his back to the vampire again, exposing his oh-so-fashionable 
Scooby-Doo boxer shorts.

Spike snorted. "Like I'd bite you anyway."

Xander rolled over again to stare him in the eye. "Oh, you would." 
Softer. "If you could. Which you can, a little, maybe, which is 
probably something we should..."

"Here now, none of that. No improv, love. You're no bloody Tony 
Slattery. Your line is 'Oh, comma, you would. Period," Spike chided 
with mock-strictness.

"Damn straight I'm no Tony Slattery. He can never figure out what the 
party guests are. Give me Ryan Stiles any day."

Spike snarled. "Ryan Stiles. I'll give you Ryan Stiles. In fact, keep 
it up, the only person you'll get is Ryan Stiles." He ducked his head 
and went back to chewing diligently on his bonds. He was halfway 
through the ones binding his chest and arms to the chair.

"I dunno. Might not be so bad. He's got a pretty nice ass in those 
jeans," Xander teased. Spike looked up.

"Nicer than mine?" he queried nonchalantly. Well, pseudo-nonchalantly.

Neatly avoiding that snare, Xander replied "Ah, but we digress.
Umm. 
line?" 

"Like I'd bite you anyway," Spike sighed heroically.

"Oh, you would," replied the boy in the bed, with supreme confidence.

"Not." .gnaw, gnaw, gnaw. "bloody likely."

Smugly: "I happen to be very bitable, pal." Pause. "I'm moist, *and* 
delicious."

Without looking up from his work, Spike replied. "Well, yeah, 
wouldn't argue with you there. More delicious than this flippin' 
chocolate licorice, anyway. Think it's gone stale."

"Now who's improvisin'? Anyway, it was your idea." 

"*Which* you protested *so* strongly. I believe the phrase was 'Works 
for me.' dopplering away as you disappeared off to the candy
aisle at 
a quick trot." Silence. More silence. Spike glanced up. "Oh, right. 
You're moist and delicious, to which I say. Alright. Yeah. Fine. 
You're a *nummy* treat." There was a certain lack of sincerity in 
the sarcasm that was supposed to go along with that line, though. 
Wasn't really Oscar-level acting. Somebody might question his 
motivation.

"And don't you forget it." Almost triumphantly. Followed by Xander 
turning over and snuggling down into the pillows, not looking at the 
still-gnawing vampire. Which gave said vampire plenty of time to stop 
chomping and study the still form appreciatively.

Possibly a *little* too distracted. After a minute, Xander craned
his 
head around.

"Umm, Spike, shouldn't you be out of that by now?" 

Spike ducked his head again, and let his little frustrations build 
into one big one, his eyes flaring gold and his face doing the 
vampire furrow-dance. Now here were some teeth he could use.
"Working 
on it." he muttered shortly.

Xander propped his chin on his hands. "*I* think you're not trying 
hard enough. You just like being tied up, don't you?" 

"Under the right circumstances," Spike replied honestly, biting 
through the last lace that bound his upper body to the chair. 

"Sick, masochistic bastard."

"Damn straight. Though you're a one to talk. Course, *I'm* sadistic 
as well. Either/or. Always have been a switch." He shook vamp-face 
away, and began plucking at the laces that bound his legs,
one.by.one.

"Like I hadn't noticed. And you wonder why I wouldn't buy you the 
trick handcuffs at WalMart. Which only *you* could figure out the 
trick to. I can just see me handcuffed naked to the water heater, and 
you scampering off into the night to go kick ass, snickering all the 
way. And here's me: 'Oh, hi, Mom, well, it was like this.' "

The blonde grinned. "And there's you contributing to the delinquency 
of a long-past-minor. Since you wouldn't buy 'em for me, I had to 
nick 'em. They're in the drawer. And I don't scamper. Cartoon animals 
scamper. The word you're looking for is 'scarper.' " Snap. Snap. One 
bleedin' lace at a time.

"Yeah, you say biscuit, I say cookie, you say lift, I say how
high.
So, does this mean you actually *liked* being tied up in Giles' 
bathtub?" Smarmy little git.

"No, it does *not*. Bein' hand-fed pig's blood by the Slayer while 
the damn cold from that porcelain seeps through my trousers and 
freezes my arse off. Among other important bits. No thanks, mate. By 
the time he shipped me off to you it was 'no, no, not the comfy 
chair.' "

"By the time he shipped you off to me, you were sleeping on the 
couch, whiny-boy. So. does that mean you actually liked being
tied up 
*here* ?" Smug bastard.

Positively *evil* grin, which he was glad Xander couldn't 
see. "Maybe." Well, yeah, sure. Not quite as much as he would have 
liked being where he was about to be, but the 'prisoner in the chair' 
bit had its perks as well. 'Course, they'd worn a bit thin by two
in 
the morning when he couldn't move, or touch, or do anything but watch 
Oblivious-Boy sleep. Ah, but that was then.as he snapped the
last 
lace, he sprang up and literally dived onto the bed, with a 
loud "Grrr."

Xander rolled over and eyed the extremely naked vampire, whose face 
was lit with manic glee. "Oh.vampires. Nasty. Someone save me."

"Too late. In the black hole that is Xander's basement, no one can 
hear you scream. 'Cept me, and I don't mind at all." He leaned down 
and covered his victim's mouth with his, and lo, there was no 
screaming. After a few long kisses, or maybe just one reeeally long 
one: " So.chocolate sauce or chocolate flavored oil?" He fiddled 
with the bottles lined up on the top of the sofa-back.

"The obvious answer would be, depends on what you're planning to do 
with them," Xander retorted. Spike smacked him hard on the seat of 
his boxers, thankfully without having to clutch his own head in pain 
afterwards. His lover wriggled happily. Ah, good intentions. Why 
hadn't he known they were so bloody helpful years ago?

"Incorrect. Please try again."

"Er.both? And ouch, for the record."

"Very good. You took the punishment, you get the prize."

"Which is?" 

Spike's turn to roll his eyes, and gesture down the length of his 
pale body. "The glory that you see before you."

Xander burst into laughter. "You really are fulla yourself, aren't 
you?" Not that he seemed to be complaining, as he reached out a hand 
to trace a line down Spike's hairless chest.

"Well," Spike said thoughtfully, opening the bottle of chocolate 
flavored oil, "the other option would be me being full o' you. Or 
vice versa."

"Hmmm. decisions, decisions.what's behind Door Number Three?"
his 
lover asked teasingly, squirming around as he tugged his boxers off.

"My boot up your arse, wanker."

"Ooh, Spike, you say the sweetest things. Well, in that case."

"Too late. Choice made. You forfeit," Spike spat out, pulling the 
other man on top of him and running an oil-covered hand over Xander's 
chest and stomach, eventually making it down to the warm cock that 
was already jutting out at him. 

Xander smiled. "I'll try not to be too disappointed."

***

And a few long minutes later, as the dark-haired human was slowly 
entering the vampire, and Spike was grinning up at him like a drunken 
ferret, the real torture began.

"So, you still think Ryan Stiles has a nicer arse than mine?" Said 
arse being fondled appreciatively by two busy hands, and raised off 
the bed by virtue of Spike's ankles wrapped snakelike around the 
younger man's shoulders.

Groan. "You.always talk.this much?" Xander ground out,
throwing 
Spike's own words back in his face, and reaching for the vampire's 
penis with one hand, only partially in an attempt to make him 
incoherent. 

As the (very fast-learning) young man began to pump Spike's (only too 
happy to be a visual-aid) shaft, in time with his own accelerated 
pistoning in and out, Spike tried to decide between "Just call me 
William Rosenberg" and "You didn't answer the bloody question, did 
you?" The need for a decision was removed when he realized that about 
the only sounds capable of escaping from his mouth were decidedly non-
English vocalizations.

***

More than a few long minutes later, Spike was slowly licking the last 
traces of chocolate sauce off Xander's right nipple, and seriously 
considering slipping out of bed to retrieve some of those broken 
chocolate laces, for bow-tying purposes. But Xander was looking a 
bit knackered, so maybe now would be the time to lie low, relax, lick 
his lips, lean his head on his lover's flat stomach, and.

"So, Ryan Stiles. Geeky Yank with a big nose and no sense of comedic 
timing. Nicer arse than mine?"

Xander thumped him on the head. 

"Oi!" he protested, and warm hands began to gently rub the spot where 
he'd been hit.

"No. Not nicer than yours. Now shut up. Hush. If we're playing this 
game right, there's no dialogue left. "

"Well, not quite. There's 'Xander.don't you care about me?' "

"Possibly. Shut up."

"We never talk."

"You talk all the time. Shut up."

"Xan---der." Spike sang, suppressing a giggle.

"That's it." Xander put a chocolate-smeared hand firmly over Spike's 
mouth. "Shut up. Geez, where's a bunch of voice-stealing fairytale 
undertakers when you need 'em?"

Spike smiled as he snaked out his tongue to lick the palm of Xander's 
hand. Then frowned. Didn't that lot steal hearts, too? He was
sure. 
but by the rules of the game, he wasn't allowed to ask. So instead he 
reached round behind him and concentrated on tying a one-handed knot 
with the single chocolate lace he'd managed to sneak out of the pile 
of supplies on the sofa-back. He could get used to this.


****************

Part Two: Monsters Under the Bed

Xander woke in his own bed, in what was definitely the middle of the 
night...or maybe the early hours of the morning. Alone, a bit cold, 
trapped, and extremely annoyed. Well, when you fall asleep under the 
covers with a purring vampire snuggled up to your back--- and wake 
up naked, un-blanketed, and staring at where the ceiling would be if 
you could see in the dark, hands stretched over your head and cuffed 
to something solid that you can't even identify...

"Spike!" he hissed. No answer from the pitch-black room. He wriggled 
his wrists against the cold metal handcuffs. So not funny. At least 
his hands were warm, stuffed under the upholstery at the back of the 
sofa-bed, so that the cuffs could be fastened, he guessed, to some 
bit of metal in the sofa frame itself. 
[Oh Spi-ike.... c'mere you psychotic little bastard, and we can have 
a talk about why Xander doesn't like to wake up naked and chained to 
things, when he didn't go to sleep that way. And how his life has 
progressed to the point where he actually needs to add that last 
clause...]

"Spike, not funny. Not even remotely funny. Not even high school 
talent show funny. Which was actually pretty terrifying. Where are 
you?" No answer. Great. [Well, you're the one who gave him the idea, 
Harris. At least it wasn't the water heater. If I have to be naked 
and handcuffed to something so my mom can walk in at an inopportune 
moment... or...ulp, Willow---no, don't go there. Nope. Buffy. Nope. 
Bad, evil thoughts. Go away now. Anyway, at least I get to be in my 
own bed. But...]

"Spike, dammit. I'm *cold* !"

A long-suffering sigh rose from directly beneath him, echoing through 
the mattress and chasing its way along his bones until it bounced 
around for a few blissful seconds in his skull.

"You're no fun anymore, you know that"? Spike sounded half-amused and 
half-disgusted. "I mean... play on my sympathies, why don't you?" His 
low voice was muffled by the fact that there was a rather broken down 
sofa-bed between him and his still-pissed-off lover.

"Why are you under the bed, Spike?" Xander asked a bit more patiently 
than he thought he was capable of.

"Wanted to see if I could bend that damn support beam back into 
place, so I don't keep wakin' up with a crick in my back every 
bleedin' day."

Okay, that was a fair and reasonable answer, except...

"And you chose to do this in the middle of the night because?"

"Couldn't sleep, could I. Supposed to be out killin' things, but 
nooooo, somebody 'as to work all day, and then whine at me about 
takin' off without 'im.... And that thing kept pokin' me in the back. 
Not in a good way." Spike's voice was laced with irritation.

"Okay, fine. Makes sense. And the fact that I'm freezing my ass off, 
chained naked to the bed, and you took all the covers with you?

Spike chuckled. "Well, I *was* about to wake you up and have a little 
fun...but then the soddin' bedframe attacked me again. Decided six 
months in a wheelchair once in my unlifetime was enough, thanks. 
Figured you'd keep nicely up there. And...well, it's chilly down 
here." He pushed upwards on the metal bar that ran across the top 
third of the bed, and Xander curled unconsciously into the contact.

"Well, with the AC cranked up to middle-aged hot-flash heaven level, 
it ain't exactly Club Med up here, either. I'm *cold*."

"And you're a brat, 'cos you know that's my weak point, and you're 
playin' it for all it's worth. Sucker for a sob story, I am. Dru once 
melted my only copy of 'Sid Sings' on CD, because it was 'pretty' an' 
she thought it'd make rainbow colors if she burned it. 'Bout to wring 
her sweet little neck, and all she had to do was bat 'er eyelashes 
at me an' look all frail, and whimper "But I'm cooooold, Spike," an' 
there I was jumpin' like Walter bloody Raleigh to put m'coat 
around 'er."

"That was truly touching, Spike. Or maybe you're just truly touched." 
Xander stretched his arms, trying to shake a little life back into 
his prickling wrists. "For the record, I *don't* like waking up 
alone."

Silence from beneath the bed. Finally, "No, me neither. Didn't 
actually expect you to wake up; out like a light, you were. Well, I 
know why *I* don't. Why you?"

Xander sighed. The things he ended up telling Spike, just because the 
vampire *asked*... "When I was little, I used to get scared."

Another chuckle from beneath him. "Used to?"

"Yeah, okay, point, but that was before I found out there were real 
creepy-crawlies out there to be scared of. Back then, it was monsters 
under the bed."

"Grrrrrr...." Spike growled obligingly from under the bed.

"Even pointier point. Anyway... My mom... she used to try a little 
harder, back then. If Dad wasn't home, and I was scared, she'd come 
into my room and lay down with me, and I didn't think they could get 
me, with her there. I was always begging her to stay, so when I woke 
up, I'd know she'd been there all night, and none of 'em did anything 
nasty to me while I was sleepin'. She'd stay 'til I feel asleep, but 
she was always gone in the morning. I mean, who wants to spend the 
night in a twin bed with a six year old, right?"

*******

Spike was quiet, for a moment, then laughed. Just a bit. {What a 
bloody world. Oedipal schmoedipal, right? Anybody else, I'd laugh my 
arse off.}

"Fine. See if I share my innermost childhood remembrances with the 
dead guy again," Xander muttered peevishly.

"No, I was just thinkin' we could have a lovely competition to see 
which of us'd give Freud the biggest hard-on. Hang about up there-- 
I'll be finished in a minute, and I'll bring the blankets back, 
promise." Spike pushed up on one of the bent sections of the support 
bar, and the metal gave a little groan.

"Like I'm going anywhere." Xander said slowly. "Hey Spike..."

"Yeh?"

"You really want me?" A really small voice, like the boy was still 
about six years old.

"Like, right now? You mean, am I down here thinkin' about you all 
trapped up there, layin' ready and open for me to come and lick you 
from head to toe, and put my mouth around your cock and suck every 
bit o' life out of you, and you can't do a damn thing about it 'cept 
lie there and take it like a good boy?" Spike asked, his throat 
suddenly feeling rougher, like he'd just smoked a pack and a half of 
menthols in five minutes.

"Okay, not so cold anymore. but no, I actually meant that in 
a....relationship way, like 'Spike, why am I having these strange 
feelings, Spike, do you think we should get a cat? ' What's really 
going on?"

The cold air was a little heavier than it should've been, maybe. That 
was why the quiet echoed so loudly. {Why the hell does he have to 
think of these things? Why does he have to ruin a perfectly good 
little pre-shag conversation that was about to turn kinky in a minute 
if I had my way, by askin' me stuff that comes way too close to me 
tellin' him I love him?}

"So, more like, am I down here thinkin' that the minute this chip 
comes out of my head, you're first on the dinner menu, followed by 
all your little friends? Or maybe save you so's you can watch when I 
drain the witches, and stake Rupert through the eyes with the 
earpieces from his bloody glasses, an' decorate the trees on 
Summerherst with the Slayer's intestines?'

"And suddenly I could use a sweater. Yeah, something like that."

"No. I'm not down here thinkin' that. You really can't leave things 
go, can you." Spike had the feeling he was colder under the stolen 
blankets than Xander was up there without them.

"Oh yeah. Been the master of that for nineteen years, give or take. 
Letting things sit without touching 'em. Well, without touching 'em 
in public, anyway."

Spike pushed up suddenly on the mattress itself, not the beam, so 
that his hands were pressing against Xander's shoulders, with only a 
mattress and death and a demon between them.

"I *told* you I wouldn't hurt you. I didn't just mean 'at the 
moment'." {Ever, alright? Don't make me say it. Don't make me say it 
includes your sniveling, world-saving little friends because 
rippin' 'em to pieces sorta qualifies as hurting you, in the most 
academic sense of the word...}

"I don't know what that means," Xander replied, sounding... vaguely 
comforted, all the same.

"Well, that makes two of us. But for what it's worth, it's true."

Xander laughed, just a little. "Yeah, well you *told* me my friends 
wanted me to join the Army, too."

Spike punched the mattress, but not hard. "So I lie a bit. S'pose if 
you're really worried you could have Red do her kicky little truth 
spell on me, if you wanna risk me bein' turned into a stink beetle. 
But then there'd be the little matter of tellin' her we've been 
shagging..."

"Is that what we've been doing." It wasn't really a question, merely 
a verification. 

{Yes. I've been cuddling with you and pulling you onto my lap and 
kissing you at every available opportunity and watching you while 
you sleep like you'll fade away if I close my eyes, and it's all for 
the sake of a good hard fuck. God, I'm in love with an idiot. Which, 
for once, is actually safer for me than otherwise, so I suppose I'd 
best not look a gift horse in the arse.}

"Among other things," he answered simply. "Things we could be doin' 
in about three minutes if you'd shut up and let me fix this castoff 
from the Brady Bunch set." He gave the second bend, the one that had 
been poking upward instead of dipping down, a hearty pull. It creaked 
alarmingly, and then slowly settled into a position vaguely 
resembling straight.

"There. Got it." He slid out from under the bed, pulling the wooly 
blankets with him. "Still cold? " he asked, tossing a blanket over 
Xander's feet as the boy blinked at him.

"Hungry."

"You're *always* hungry! Where the hell do you put it all?" Spike 
stared at him in amazement. He'd eaten two bloody plates of garlic-
free spaghetti, a huge pile of chocolate chip cookies, and half a bag 
of cheese puffs during the hour before he collapsed exhausted into 
the bed and started giving Spike cocker-spaniel-eyes about not going 
hunting tonight. Now it was three in the morning, and Xander wanted 
food?

"You're always dead. What's your point? Gonna let me go so I can get 
some munchies, or what?"

Spike grinned. Not quite wickedly. Just...slightly naughtily. "Think 
not, somehow. Not when you're lookin' so lovely an'...defenseless, 
there."

He strolled over to the fridge, having no trouble navigating the 
piles of laundry and other basement fun that lay on the floor like a 
minefield for those with non-vampiric sight. Now... what had they 
actually brought home on Wednesday night from that bizarre shopping 
trip to the suburban mecca known as Super-Wal-Mart? Oh, yeah.... that 
would do it. Grabbing his prize and retrieving a spoon from the 
silverware cup {Ah, Martha Stewart's White-Trash Living...}, he 
returned to the bed, sitting beside Xander.

"Open up, then."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Well, if you won't open your mouth, I'll obviously have to spread 
chocolate pudding all over your body and lick it all off, instead. 
Which would be fun for me, but wouldn't solve your little hunger 
problem."

"Open mouth, get pudding. Close mouth, get licked. Open mouth, get 
pudding. Close mouth, get licked. Open mouth..." Xander chanted 
sadly, as if supremely torn.

Spike smiled far more gently than he ever knew he was capable of, and 
gave in. "Open your mouth, idiot. I brought two containers." 

"Hmm... lick first, eat later?"

"I can do that." And Spike dipped a finger into the first container 
of pudding, and began slowly painting a completely accurate 
regulation dart board on Xander's chest.

"That tickles," his lover laughed semi-grumpily as he finished the 
high-scoring ring.

"Best wash it off, then, hadn't I." And he began to lick, slowly. 
Tasting. Tasting everything. 

"So," Xander said a little waveringly. Spike was unsure whether it 
was all emotional or had anything to do with the fact that Spike was 
dragging his tongue awfully close to the patch of coarse curls 
between Xander's legs. "Does that mean that you don't actually
want 
to eat me?"

Spike pressed his laughter against warm skin, tasting creamy 
chocolate and salt sweat, and smelling the rushing blood, so close 
beneath that skin.

"Didn't say that. just that I wouldn't *hurt* you. Well, not in a 
*bad* way...." He dipped his finger in the almost-empty pudding-cup, 
and crawled up Xander's body to offer it to the motionless boy, who 
licked that finger as if it were the last pudding-covered vampire 
finger in the western hemisphere.

"There is *more*, y'know." And Spike opened the second container, 
dipped the spoon in, and began to slowly feed Xander, teasing him.
holding the spoon just above where he could reach with his mouth, 
then darting in and letting Xander suck the cool, creamy pudding with 
disturbingly single-minded precision.

"I like you better in the bed than under it," Xander offered with a 
smile, after he'd once again released the spoon from between his lips.

"Grrr." Spike answered, and held another spoonful above the
boy's 
head. And held it there.... "Oh, c'mon. Say please and get it over 
with!"

Xander shook his head, and reached for the spoon with a lightning-
quick movement of his right hand. Vampiric reflexes were faster, and 
Spike caught the hand in mid-grab.

"No, we don't, now. And how long ago did we figure out how to get out 
of the handcuffs?" Spike questioned sternly.

"Oh, somewhere around 'open mouth, get pudding...' " Xander replied 
innocently.

"Well, put those hands away again, or I won't feed you any more."

"Sir, yes sir. Putting hands away, sir."


*********************

Part Three: Positive
"Well, you wanted to talk about it," Spike said crankily, putting a 
cigarette between his lips, perfectly well aware of the laser-beam 
glare Xander was shooting at him from the recliner, and ignoring it 
resolutely. Blonde guy in another man's bed, naked and smoking, or at 
least looking like he was smoking. Yeah, that wasn't a missing scene 
from Drugstore Cowboy...

"Don't light that, unless you wanna join the ashes, nicotine-man," 
Xander snarled at him, scrunching back into the chair and folding one 
arm over his bare chest, as he nibbled distractedly at the Ho-Ho he 
held in his other hand.

"Wasn't gonna. Wouldn't like to pollute your delicate human lungs or 
anything. Just want somethin' in my mouth, and since you're over 
there, an' I'm over here..."

"And that's where I'm staying, thank you very much! Until you tell me 
what the heck you thought you were up to..." Xander frowned at him 
prettily, and Spike shrugged, unable to look too irritable when the 
mere expression on the face across from him was making him want to do 
all sorts of non-irritating things.

Xander hopped up from the chair and began to pace the room, quite a 
sight in jeans and white athletic socks and nothing else, back 
muscles tensed and rippling as he stalked back and forth. Spike 
rolled the unlit fag over his lips, wishing he were either pacing as 
well, or throwing that body down on the bed in a more enjoyable 
conversation-postponer.

"I was *trying* to," Spike replied, "and you started going on 
about 'eew' and 'could we not have this conversation,'. and other 
such mature reactions. Do you or don't you want to talk about it?" 
The subject had to come up sooner or later. Since he'd discovered he 
*could*, sort of... cause a limited amount of pain, if it were meant 
to give pleasure... He'd pushed it off at least once, not even sure 
how *he* felt about it, much less whether he wanted to discuss it 
with his unpredictably squeamish human lover. "Hey, let me know when 
it's my turn to pace, yeah? 'Cos this room isn't big enough for both 
of us to blow off steam." 

Xander turned and glared at him again, then the human's expression 
softened. "Well... look...you could hurt me... more than I was 
expecting, I mean. Even accidentally. It's not something I just want 
to be surprised by..."

"Right, 'cos you've categorically proven that you're not into pain 
and kinky stuff..." Spike rolled his eyes and gave a frustrated 
laugh. "Anyway, what's that got to do with *talking* about it? First 
you want to, then you don't... you're worse than the Slayer with a 
bad case of PMS."

"I meant, let's talk about the actual possibility of you biting me, 
and what the hell that means, not let's listen to Spike, the undead 
Frugal Gourmet, give a diatribe on the merits of AB negative versus O 
positive. Cooking With Blood, get the entire set from Time-Life 
Books..." Xander gestured towards the silent telly, as if he'd just 
seen the advert on Channel Sixty-Two.

Right. Let's both try to be funny, then. Diffuse a little 
tension? "Look, you went on about eighteen hundred sorts of pizza 
toppings for hours on end, and I shut up and let you. I've only got 
eight soddin' flavors to go through, you'd think you could take an 
interest for that long..."

Xander squished his face into a grown-up parody of a 
kindergartner's. "Well... it's icky, dammit! I mean, yeah, a little 
pig's blood kiss doesn't taste all that bad, mixed with chocolate, 
especially if I close my eyes and pretend it's... I'm *not* having 
this conversation."

Spike removed the cigarette from his mouth and studied his 
lover. "You saying what I think you're saying? You're closing your 
eyes and pretending it's come?" He snickered. "You've a really 
perverse sense of what to be squeamish about. Then again, not all 
that different a taste...maybe I could do it the other way round..." 
His eyes narrowed as he considered the possibilities... "Nah. Like 
both too much to sacrifice one for the other. But.neat. Have I 
mentioned I like you? You're even perverting *me*!"

"Glad to oblige. But... human blood... I mean, you *do* understand 
why the whole subject makes me nervous?" Xander slowly walked back 
and sat on the edge of the chair.

"Everything makes you nervous. Bus stations make you nervous. 
Hairless cats make you nervous. You're shagging a vampire, though, so 
you've obviously got a pair and a half hidden somewhere. Alright, 
I'll bite. So to speak. Makes you nervous 'cos what if I killed you, 
accidentally?"

"It's a thought."

"Never happen. Gimme some credit, here."

"What if you killed me on purpose? It wouldn't have to hurt, I'm not 
that stupid."

Spike.shut his eyes. {Do I have long enough with you to convince
you 
I don't want to hurt you? At all? Because at this point, I'm thinking 
you'll be in the Sunnydale Home for the Aged before you grok that the 
only reason I'd kill you is to turn you. And when did I start 
thinking thoughts like that? Xander the vampire. Viciously attacking 
defenseless jelly donuts...}

"Hello, distracted vampire guy... talking here? About your favorite 
subject other than yourself?"

"Right, blood. As in, do I plan to suck all of yours out while makin' 
it so much fun for you that you lie there an' let me. Don't think I 
could, and don't particularly want to. What makes you think I want to 
spend eternity with you?" {Except the fact that I've dreamed about it 
three nights straight, and woke up with a hard-on every time.}

Xander gaped at him. "I.meant.I didn't mean that."

Spike got up and walked over to him, tossing the mangled cigarette on 
the bedside table. "I know you didn't. But I answered the other 
question once, and I only repeat myself when it's something good 
about *me*. " He stood over the boy, staring straight into those 
burnt-caramel eyes. "Xander, I don't intend to kill you. You're 
bloody safe, chip or no chip." Yup. He'd lost another little chance 
at ever looking like a real vamp again. 

"Happy now, angst-boy? Do you have any clue what it cost me to say 
that?" He bent and kissed Xander's chocolate-smeared lips.

"Yeah. Maybe I do." Xander pulled him down.to sit on *his* lap?
Well 
this was a change. Not an unpleasant one, by any means.

"Anyway, I thought you had 'nads of steel, or somethin'? I mean, if 
you can tongue-kiss game-face."

***

Xander took a good look at Spike. 'Bout time to reel him in, wasn't 
it. "Thought so too. Then you decided to suck on my neck like it 
was," he shook the second half of his snack cake in Spike's 
face, "the last Ho-Ho in the box and you wanted to make it last all 
night...Made me a bit jumpy."

"Where's the cream filling?" Spike supplied with a tired smile. "You 
didn't mind before. Why now?"

"Because now you *can*. I think."

"Only if you wanted me to."

Xander gave him a -half-embarrassed smile. Spike's own smile slowly 
got... a bit less tired. A little... smarmy, even. "You do! That's 
what all this crap is about. You do want me to, and you're back in 
that shower again, sittin' on the floor an' cursing yourself out for 
wantin' what you think you shouldn't. Only this time it's not about 
me bein' a bloke, it's about me bein' what you've been killing for 
the last four years."

Xander curled his lips up.almost wickedly. At least he hoped he
was 
managing to learn... wicked, because it always came in handy with 
Spike around. "Nope."

"Nope?" Spike mocked. "What then?"

"Open up."

"Thought I just did."

"Smartass vampires don't get Ho-Ho's."

Spike opened his mouth, and Xander shoved the cream-filled chocolate 
cake into his mouth.very messily. While Spike diligently tried to 
unroll the thing with his tongue, which was the way of Ho-Ho addicts 
everywhere, Xander played with the collar of Spike's shirt, picking 
at the thread where the top button was coming loose.

"Okay. I might have actually said those things. not that I'd
admit to 
this under oath.just to get you to say the part about 'chip or no 
chip.' " Xander grinned at him and peeked up through downturned 
lashes. He was either about to get his ass kicked, or. well, he
was 
about to find out, as Spike abruptly swallowed what was in his mouth 
and grabbed him roughly by the chin, forcing his eyes up to meet 
Spike's blazing blue ones.

"Don't ever pull that shit with me again. You want to know something, 
ask." Spike gave him a dark stare, then a smile spread across his 
face, slowly. Painfully slowly. Sounding almost proud. and still 
annoyed as hell, he added, "Very good. Manipulation worthy of the 
master. I'm impressed." 

[Way to pile on the guilt, Spike. I just wanted to know...something. 
About how you feel about me. And now I'm apprenticed to the guy who 
gives meddling soap opera witches a bad name.] Xander shook his 
head. "Sorry."

"Yeah, you are, but it suits me, these days," Spike replied matter-of-
factly. "That said... that was a very bad thing to do, and somebody," 
the vampire added sternly, his voice dropping to sub-basement 
level, "really needs to be punished."

And why did that statement, uttered in that voice, give Xander nasty 
little tingly feelings? Of the kind that his Anya-adventures were 
only... poor echoes of? Not because Spike was remotely right about 
him being just a bit twisted on the kink issue himself. Even if it 
had taken what was allegedly one of his worst enemies to get him to 
admit it. 

"Not that somebody would necessarily mind that, but. maybe you
could 
try the biting me thing tonight, instead?"

Spike gaped at him. [Look-- I surprised Jaded-Man, fanged hero to 
sardonic vampires everywhere.]

"Really? You mean it? You sure?" God, Spike sounded like.he
sounded 
like Xander had, when Spike had said he could have the last Ho-Ho, as 
a matter of fact.

"Yeah. Positive." Xander pulled Spike's face to his own, and there 
was long-term kissing. Spike finally broke off when he'd obviously 
started to worry about respiration, and other little human needs 
Xander might have.

Xander grinned again. "Learned how to breathe through my nose and 
kiss at the same time. You like?"

"You're a complete kook. And just who were you practicing on?" Spike 
punctuated that one with a little gravelly rumble in his throat.

"Um. the first five Ho-Ho's?"

"We'll get back to the subject of me smacking you silly one of these 
days. Count on it." But Spike didn't seem terribly interested in 
pursuing the topic right now, as he lifted both eyebrows in what was 
possibly the most seductive facial expression since. well, Spike 
lifting one eyebrow. 

Xander nodded at him. 

Then...the blonde suddenly shook his head. "No. This's too easy. Why? 
You tell me why you want this. Death-wish? Auto-erotic shit?"

"Auto-what?"

"Gettin' a hard-on from coming close to killin' yourself. Usually by 
strangulation, though I s'pose blood loss could be a close second."

***

Faith falling on Xander, throwing him back on her bed, the birthright 
strength of the Slayer employed not to protect him, but to force him 
down, helpless. Faith's hands around his throat, tightening, making 
black spots appear in the corners of his vision, Faith's lips on his 
at the same time as she choked the life out of him...pain and fear 
and the utter certainty that he was going to piss himself any minute, 
and Faith still squeezing... Kinks or vanilla.... and he'd wanted to 
say "chocolate...let's go get a sundae...let me go...let me up," but 
there was no air, and she was smiling with those dark red lips, and 
it just got darker and darker until all he could hear was the rushing 
of his own blood... 

***


"No..." he said slowly, in the present, Spike's presence heavy and 
comforting on his lap. "Not...into the choking thing."

"Yeah, well. Good. We can just leave *that* one on that list of 
things you 'aven't tried. I'm not indulgin' your 'I'm so useless, 
might as well court death' fantasies. Already got one broody bastard 
too many in my unlife. Don't need one in my bed."

"My bed," Xander corrected him. Crammed the memory of the dark Slayer 
back into one of those little mental pockets he wasn't really 
supposed to be looking in, ever. Blood. Spike wanted to know about 
blood. About biting. About why he wanted Spike to do it. "Do I have 
to tell you?"

Spike tilted his head to one side, puzzled. "Do you have to... Yeah, 
if you want me to do it. Hell, listen to me makin' the human 
convince me as to why I should bite 'im. This conversation's as 
insane as... any other we've had. Yes, you have to."

It was...stupid. Embarrassing to say, to Spike, because it was 
flowery and girly and...pretty much exactly how he was feeling at the 
moment, and the last thing in the world he wanted the vampire to do 
right now was laugh at him. Why wasn't he scared of this? Really? He 
didn't have a clue. Why had he been terrified shitless a few days ago 
of something that could, at worst, leave him with a sore ass in the 
morning? (Had, in fact, and he smiled at the memory. It was a *good* 
kind of sore.) Why, at the prospect of something that could actually 
*kill* him, did he just feel this strange steady desire to...

"I guess I owe you, for that crap with 'chip or no chip...'" Xander 
began hesitantly.

"Damn straight."

"Okay. Don't laugh at me, please. My ego can only get so small before 
it starts talking to amoebas... " Spike snorted at him. "I mean it. 
This is gonna sound stupid, and I don't wanna hear a single little 
Spike titter outta you, or I'm...staying at Giles' for the rest of 
the week!"

"Listening. Not laughing."

"Okay...dumb stuff now." Long pause, deep ragged breath, as if 
Faith's hands were still around his throat. "I want... to be...part 
of you. Part of what you are. Not the death part. The life part. The 
part where I keep you alive. The part where you need me. I want to 
know what that's like."

A rough sound from Spike, like breathing in, if he'd really been 
breathing, was hurting him. "You...sure you don't want me to just 
throw you over the back of this chair and shag you 
blind? 'Cos...don't *say* shit like that, Xander, if you want me to 
have the tiniest bit o' self-control around you!" He laughed, more 
easily now, and then... gave Xander that same questioning, seductive 
stare. This time Xander just leaned back, and stared straight back at 
him. [Yes. I want you. Want you to need me. Want you not to figure 
out how much I think I need you.]

Spike growled, low in his chest, and shook his head as he morphed 
into.the face that Xander wasn't terribly afraid of, for reasons
that 
it might hurt Spike's pride to know. Xander dared him. Dared the 
animal to come and bite him. Like he was standing outside the hyena 
cage, looking the pack in the eyes, and slowly letting drops of his 
own blood fall through the bars. Dared the man he was coming to 
recognize as his lover to make that calculated, snake-strike move. 
The insane thought passed through his mind that it just might be 
scarier for Spike, after six months of...abstinence, than it was for 
himself after nineteen years.

Spike's lips were on his throat, but not fast...it took a hundred 
years for the vampire to lower his head to Xander's neck, a hundred 
more for skin to finally touch skin. And what was that about vampires 
being cold-blooded? Not when they were about to feed, apparently. 
[Okay, time to panic now.] But. [Um.. panic? Hello, where are
you?] 
But it. all it was doing was making him hot, hardening him in his 
jeans as Spike's tongue brushed over his pulsing neck vein. With 
Spike's weight on his lap, he wanted to grind up against the bare ass 
that was pressing down on his suddenly aching cock...But he was 
frozen still-- no, not frozen-- immobile, but on fire. Once, twice, 
Spike's tongue was rasping against his skin, as those shark-sharp 
teeth scraped tantalizingly, but didn't break the surface. Didn't.
didn't.didn't...

Somewhere down inside him, the insanity was going out of control, 
apparently, as Spike's teeth on his neck sent hot flashes up and down 
every nerve in his body...and all he could think of was that he 
needed to say...
Needed to say...something that would make Spike understand it was 
alright... something...

"Don't...don't be afraid, Spike. It's okay. Don't be scared." And he 
stroked the back of Spike's head, feeling the smoothness of that icy-
blonde hair--after how many thousands of applications of peroxide...?

Spike stiffened in his arms, and then that tantalizing mouth kissed 
him, very gently, on the throat. Just lips. Just Spike's soft lips on 
his skin... then...the pinprick of teeth. Just touching...and then a 
cold, steely pain that felt so...focused. Four tiny spots of cold and 
fire, as four fangs easily pierced his skin. Unbelievably delicate-- 
Spike could be delicate? 

And then it wasn't about pain, as Xander began to feel the warmth 
flow over him, spreading from his neck to his entire head, down his 
spine, sweet and hot and it was as if the life was flowing out of 
Spike and into him, instead of the other way around. At the same 
time, though, he could feel something of himself leaving, being given 
willingly. It was...like they were one creature, blood and heat 
flowing between them in an unending circuit, and it was slow and 
easy, and it was still torturing his poor cock, which now felt like 
it had been just on the edge of climax for hours, denied release.

Suddenly, no warning at all, Spike's fangs were out of his neck, and 
the rasping tongue was licking at the four little puncture wounds, as 
if to seal them, or lap up the last of the blood, or just to stake a 
claim on what was Spike's. That, too, was warm and good, but there 
was an emptiness, a loss, like the feeling of emptiness that would 
come between the removal of Spike's fingers from his ass and the 
replacing presence of Spike's cock. Just a temporary absence, soon to 
be filled. He breathed, and realized he wasn't sure if he'd been 
doing that, all this time. Wasn't sure how much time had passed.

When he thought he could speak, he whispered, "Is that what it's 
like? 'Cause it's a hell of a way to go."

Spike lifted his face, blood lightly smearing his already red lips. 
Staring at him with fiery amber eyes. "No." His voice was smooth, 
dark, like his gravelly throat had been soothed by the blood. "No, 
not for...dying. That's not what it's like."

"Then..."

"That was...a bit like it is between two of us...two vampires. Though 
it's usually a lot rougher than that." Spike shook his head, as if 
trying to calm down, leaned it on Xander's shoulder, and slowly 
regained his human face. "Mostly..." he whispered, "that's what it's 
like between you an' me. "

He suddenly shot his head up to kiss Xander, full on the lips. Human 
blood... Xander's own blood on Spike's lips. Metallic, a little 
bitter, a little salty... Xander gulped, and licked it from Spike's 
lips, brushing his tongue over the flattened human teeth. 
Not...pretending it was come, not *this* time.

"O Neg?" Spike grinned.

Xander shook his head.

"Sure? Tasted like O Neg to me."

"Positive." Spike groaned at him. [Bad pun. Bad. Too bad, vampire. 
You wanna discuss blood types, you haveta put up with Xander Harris' 
patented ready wit.]

"You okay?" Spike asked in a moment.

"Well..." and Xander shifted his hips, pressing the bulge in his 
jeans against Spike's ass, "if you don't do somethin' about *this*, I 
won't be." Spike laughed at him, then, but it wasn't a mean kind of 
laughter.

"Yeah, I think maybe we can oblige. I meant...dizzy, or anything? 
Didn't take as much as if you'd donated blood, but..."

"Does that mean I get cookies and orange juice?" Xander teased. No, 
he wasn't dizzy, except in the 'Wow, what the hell was that?' sense. 
And he was a little more concerned with finishing off what Spike had 
started than getting his Red Cross donor points.

"We don't have any orange juice, and you *ate* all the cookies last 
night. 'Fraid you're stuck with Pepsi an' Ho-Ho's."

Xander shifted his hips again, and Spike chuckled. 

Xander bopped him gently on the head. "*You* just ate the last Ho-Ho, 
dipstick. Now I'm gonna faint, and it's all your fault. So you'd 
better fuck me before I pass out. You owe me. "

Spike smirked knowingly. "There *might* be another package of Ho-
Ho's. Might. In the cupboard behind the spanner and the gaffer tape 
and the plunger and.."

"The sign that says beware of the leopard. Don't hide chocolate from 
me, mister. We'll discuss *that* later." [Not as good at that voice 
as he is...*He* sounds like he's gonna turn me over his knee and 
smack my ass 'til I beg him to fuck me into the wall, and *I* sound 
like... we're actually gonna discuss it later. Gotta work on 
that.] "Right now..."

"Yeah, right now." And Spike slid from his lap down to the floor, on 
his knees between Xander's legs, undoing the buckle on the thin belt 
with alarming speed... button, zipper, and...

"Er...care to tell me why you're picking up my fashion habits, luv?" 
Spike asked a bit confusedly as he pulled Xander's hardened cock from 
the faded jeans, without any cartoon character boxers in his way.

"Experiment?"

Spike laughed as he lowered his head to Xander's cock. "Not that I 
mind, but if you really wanna pull that look off, you'll want a 
tighter pair of trousers. It's not *supposed* to be a surprise. " 
Then that beautiful mouth was otherwise occupied, sliding over the 
already-weeping head, licking and sucking, while his hands were 
tugging Xander's jeans completely off...and Xander lifted up to help, 
then leaned back happily.

[Okay, blow-job, not what I was expecting, but not complaining.]

Spike suddenly lifted his head, letting Xander's dick slide out from 
between his lips. [He-ey...not fair...]

"Experiment my arse-- you're out of clean knickers again!"

"Okay, maybe. So I'm being punished for it? No sex for the guy with 
no underwear?"

Spike sneered at him, shaking his head. "That wasn't sex, moron. That 
was lube." In an instant, the vampire had shifted the recliner so 
that Xander was lying almost flat on his back, and Spike was climbing 
up on top of him and...lowering himself onto Xander's fully erect 
cock, with a satisfied hiss.

"O---kay, we...can do that..." Xander breathed, as Spike began to 
rock on top of him, tight and smooth and just heavy enough on his 
hips to send jolts of pleasure careening around his nervous system 
every time the vampire's ass hit his pelvis. Just laying there and 
letting Spike fuck himself on him... that would've been a distinct 
possibility as Xander started to slide away inside to a place full of 
dark and light and motion, where he didn't have to do anything but be 
pleasured...

But he opened his eyes to look at Spike's face, twisted up in a manic 
smile, and he smiled back, reaching for Spike's cock, grasping it 
tight in his fist, letting the vamp's rapid movements on top of him 
guide the rhythm of his own pumping, as the friction of his hand 
warmed the cool, rigid shaft beneath his fingers. When he was almost 
sure he was about to go completely out of his mind, from the 
tightness around him, the hardness in his hand, the smirky 
infuriating vampire bouncing up and down on him, and maybe just a 
*little* dizziness... Spike froze, shooting into his hand, down his 
arm, sticky and warm-cool, and just a bit more and Xander would be 
just as... Spike looked down at him, and nodded, grinding down 
suddenly against his hips, and Xander was gone. Eyes closed, hissing 
out Spike's name, black behind his eyelids, cool and comforting as he 
emptied himself into his...smartass...dangerous...but so damn 
good...lover.

Spike's body still on his lap, legs astride him, felt just too right, 
so when Spike pulled himself off with a slick little sound, and swung 
his leg over the side of the chair, Xander groaned without opening 
his eyes. 

"Where the hell do you think you're going?"

"Be right back..." Spike answered, disappearing entirely, and Xander 
gave a halfway-decent Spike-growl.

"Better be..." And Xander contented himself with slowly licking 
Spike's semen off his arm, comparing the taste. Spike was right. Sort 
of like peanut butter and chocolate. You'd never want to pretend one 
was the other...

And Spike was as good as his word, slipping back onto Xander's lap 
within a minute, and nudging his chest with something cold and 
metallic. Opening his eyes, Xander saw a familiar red-white-and-blue 
can in Spike's left hand, and a chocolate snack-cake in the other.

"Pepsi and a Ho-Ho, as promised. Wouldn't want to lose you or 
anything," Spike said earnestly.

*****

Spike watched contentedly as Xander sipped his way through the can of 
cola, and occasionally offered him a bite of chocolate. That had 
been... Not that he hadn't had human blood since the chip, but not 
directly out of a human. Certainly not Xander's blood, which 
was...different by the very virtue of it having been freely given. No 
fear, no threat of death, no sudden dawning realization that there 
was a monster at his throat. Just a gift, genuinely offered, shared 
between the two of them. Just life. When did a vampire ever get that? 
How many vampires ever wanted that? Just life.

He'd made another mistake, probably. He'd done something to further 
tie himself to this mortal who was going to, sooner or later, wake up 
and smell the ashes... But it was far too late to worry about that. 
If Xander hadn't been a part of him for a week... for months, 
maybe... he sure as hell was now. Spike was inextricably bound to the 
sable-haired boy with the bruised eyes and the self-mocking smile. 
Xander, running through his veins, long after the paltry amount of 
blood he'd taken would fade away.

They were going to go out. Really. That was the intention. Lie around 
for a while, then get dressed and go wreak havoc on evil. Try to 
avoid Slayer Patrol this time. Really, they were. But... it was just 
so damn comfortable, curled up in the chair, Xander's arms having 
slipped around him, his head on the mortal's warm chest, the steady 
heartbeat lulling him to sleep.

Before it overtook him completely, he managed to murmur, in what he 
hoped was a convincing voice, "I wasn't afraid."

Xander stroked his hair with one hand. Soft. Too damn soft. {He's 
taking care of me. I...don't need to be taken care of... *he* does.}

"No. Of course not."


Part Four: Just Desserts

Seven o'clock on a Monday night, and they had at least an hour before 
the twilight would be dark enough for Spike to venture outside, 
Xander once again in tow. This time for the usual demon hunting (and 
hopefully they'd actually *find* some this time?), but also a little 
training for Xander in how to use a helm-axe without chopping off his 
own foot. That, and a quick trip to the Food Mart, since they were 
out of cookies, and if there was one thing besides sex that made this 
dank, depressing basement actually livable, it was double chocolate 
chunk.

But with an hour to kill... Spike was sitting, fully clothed except 
for his boots and coat, legs outstretched, in the center of the still 
folded-out bed, leaning back against the upholstery. Xander, on the 
other hand, was wearing about half that amount of clothing, since his 
jeans and boxers were around his ankles, and he was draped face down 
over Spike's lap. Just the sort of scene you'd want your mother to 
walk in on. 

Wherein you try to decide whether you should first introduce her to 
the guy who's been living in her basement off and on since December, 
or inform her that he's a vampire, which are, by the way, real, or 
try to explain why he's doing kinky things to her son...or just 
convince her that she should go have another cocktail and forget 
she'd ever come down the stairs. [Um, he's English, Mom. It's a 
cultural exchange program.] Which was why the door was firmly locked 
and bolted from the inside.

Spike, however, wasn't actually doing much in the way of kinky things 
to Mrs. Harris' boy, at the moment, aside from the obvious intent of 
the tableaux in the first place. He was tapping his slim fingers 
distractedly on Xander's bare back, just beneath the shirttail that 
he'd shoved up and out of his way a few minutes ago.

"So...what exactly is my motivation here, s'wat I want to know," 
Spike asked, in a blatant attempt to annoy the living shit out of 
Xander.

"Moti-va-tion?' Xander parodied. "Who the hell're you, Marlon Brando? 
This ain't method acting. It's just...fun. Matter of fact, once 
again, it was *your* idea."

Spike gave him a brief smack on the ass for that one. "Brando? Not 
in 'The Godfather,' I'm not. Maybe in 'On the Waterfront.' Anyway, I 
don't think I hallucinated somebody saying, 'About that thing you 
wanted to do, before you decided to snack on me last night...' " 
Spike's American accent was *not* improving.

"Yeah, *I'm* the pervert, Mister 'Somebody Needs To Be Punished..' So 
what's this crap about motivation?"

Spike leaned forward, resting his elbow on Xander's back. "Can I 
guess that while your ex may have a large and varied bag of tricks at 
her disposal, she's not all that bloody creative when it comes to the 
individual acts? The idea's to set the scene, Daft One. The question 
of the hour is, *why* do you need to be punished?"

Oh. "Well...I thought this was about getting you to admit you 
wouldn't kill me, chip or no chip?" Xander offered, dredging up the 
actual conversation from a memory overlaid with the feeling of his 
own blood flowing into Spike's mouth... Spike impaling himself on 
Xander's cock...[What was the question, again?]

"Oh yeah." A half-hearted spank on his left ass-cheek, then Spike 
stopped and just rested his hand there.

"Nah...would've said it anyway, sooner or later. You're such an 
insecure little rentboy, gotta keep you from drownin' in your own 
lack of ego."

"Gee, thanks, Dr. Freud."

"Met him, once. Swore I had some sorta issues with my mother. 
Couldn't convince him it was all about the big poncy twit of a father 
figure who took off an' left me to take care of me invalid sister. 
Lover. Mum. Whatever." Spike made little motions on Xander's ass, 
like he was writing something. Probably a treatise on how to make 
your lover bang his head against the mattress until his brains fall 
out, all from delayed gratification.

"You...are *so* fulla shit, Spike. You never met Freud, and you're 
stalling just to piss me off."

"Yeah, maybe. But the question is, what nasty little things have you 
done in your goody-goody white-hatted life, to deserve getting your 
arse beat?" Spike punctuated this with an eye-watering goose to the 
opposite cheek.

"And ow, and... fine. Let's see... I... served Buffy cursed beer and 
turned her into Cro-Magnon Slayer. That was just before you blew back 
into town from L.A. I think."

Spike snorted, and appeared to be choking on his own tongue. "The 
Slayer wandering around town in a fur bikini, lookin' for a mate? I'm 
seeing her meeting up with Fred Flintstone, somehow, and nine months 
later... Oh, that's priceless. You don't get punished for that one, 
you get chocolate. Later. "

"Well... she *was* underage. And so was I..." 

Spike laughed again. "Still are, jailbait. Yeah. You and your 
Woodpecker. Who turned you on to that stuff, anyway? Thought hard 
cider was a purely English vice. Not that I'm complainin'." 

"No, you wouldn't, since you drank it, you...bad houseguest. 
Giles...let me have a sip of his, once, and I was hooked. So, no 
punishment for fake ID and turning a drunk, devolved Slayer loose on 
the world?"

"Nope. Try again." Spike had evil in his voice, and it was all Xander 
could do not to twist around and kick the vampire. Not that he 
could've untangled his feet from his jeans, anyway.

"Um...told Buffy that Willow said to kick Angel's ass, when what she 
really said was that she was gonna try to do the soul-restoring spell 
again?"

"Ooh, that was petty and jealous. Nice one. But you actually did me a 
favor there. She was too busy kickin' his arse to worry about whether 
she really should've let me an' Dru take off. Plus it got rid of Soul-
Free Psycho Boy, as you called 'im, which at least made *me* happy. 
Sorry again. No can do."

"Spiiiiike..."

Five stinging slaps on his ass shut him up nicely, which was the 
point of it all. "Play nice, little boy. Or I'll take my talented 
hands an' go home."

"You *live* here, asshole. Grrrr... Okay, I've got one. I made out 
with Willow when I was still dating Cordy and she was still dating 
Oz. And they caught us."

"Ahh, teen lust," Spike purred. "Yeah, that might be worth a decent 
hiding, if I gave a damn about the Prom Princess or the wolf. Mostly, 
the thought of you and Red playin' tongue-scrummage just gets me a 
bit cold and bothered."

Xander was actually aware of that, since he could feel the pressure 
of Spike's sudden hardness against his stomach...

"Pervert. There was no... okay, very little, tongue. Anyway, it was 
all your fault. You left us alone in that damn warehouse while you 
were off drinking hot cocoa with Joyce... Me with a Courtesy-Of-Spike 
concussion and not in my right mind in the first place. Cordy almost 
died, you know. Fell on a piece of rebar. All your fault."

"Yeah, you're right. That's terrible," Spike answered in heartfelt 
tones of sudden remorse. Bastard was up to something... "It *was* all 
my fault. Gave my poor little Xander a big lump on the head an' 
everything. Guess I oughtta pay the penalty..."

Xander twisted his head around. "Oh no you don't, you....big cheater. 
I won, fair and square."

Spike sniffed. "Yeah, like Scrabble's any decent way to figure out 
who gets spanked. Anyway, I would've won if you hadn't screwed me on 
that last turn."

"I don't care if you *do* have a cousin married to one-- if 'Frolox' 
isn't in the Scrabble dictionary, it's not a word. Bite me."

"Don't tempt me," Spike growled, pinching Xander's butt 
again. "There's a nice big target right in front of me."

"I do *not* have a big ass, and the point is, it's *not* your turn, 
so..."

"So tell me something really dirty an' disgusting you did, so I can 
justify whaling on your not-big-arse."

Xander grumbled, and growled, and pulled stitches out of the blanket, 
while Spike waited, apparently ready to sit there all day, if 
necessary.

Oh... *there* was one. Not a subject he'd really meant to bring up 
under these circumstances, but it might just get Spike pissed off 
enough to let loose...

"Okay, here's a bedtime story for you--you owe me an interesting one 
for this. I made time with your girlfriend. How's that for a dirty 
little secret?" [Not *too* smug there, are we, spell-boy?]

Spike choked, and sounded like he wasn't sure if he should be 
laughing or crying. "You made time... what, with *Harmony*? As a 
*vamp* ? Where was I, and who's got the film rights? What the hell 
were you on?'

Xander shook his head. "Not Harmony. Drusilla."

Spike was quiet. Then... "Come again? I didn't think you ever even 
*met* Dru."

"You mean, aside from when she and her coffee klatsch were 
vandalizing the school library and killing a good friend of mine? Or 
when I pulled Giles out of your creepy old haunted mansion after 
Angel nearly tortured him to death?"

"Can't argue with you about Dru baggin' the other Slayer, but Rupes 
was nowhere near death. Made sure of that m'self, actually. 
Anyway..." and a positively *vicious* goose this time, "what about 
you and Dru?"

"Valentine's Day, nineteen ninety-eight."

Spike rested *both* elbows on Xander's back. 'I'm listenin'. Gave 
Dru a five thousand quid necklace, Angelus gives her a still-warm 
human heart, guess who got laid *that* night? Not the bloke in the 
wheelchair. Didn't know I was in competition with *you*, too."

Xander propped himself up on his elbows as well. "Not exactly 
competition. Gave Cordelia a necklace too, just in time for her to 
dump me 'cause I was too much of a geek-boy for her to keep her rep 
as Queen Bitch of Sunnydale High."

"My sympathies, but I'm not seein' where this has anything to do with 
Dru so far."

"Getting there. Got pissed, decided to get even. I roped Amy 
Madison --y'know, Amy-currently-Willow's-pet-rat?-- into doing a 
love spell for me. On the necklace, which I'd got back from Cordy."

"So at least *somebody* got a leg over that night, which is nice, but 
it still doesn't explain this thing about you an' Dru. You're 
beginnin' to frustrate me..." A warning growl.

[So, if I frustrate you, you'll what, smack me? Which I'm trying to 
get you to do anyway?]

"Nobody got a leg over, if that means what I think it does. Except 
Psycho-Boy, apparently. The spell backfired, and instead of Cordy 
being in love with me, it was every woman in Sunnydale. Buffy, 
Willow, Amy...ulp...Joyce...everybody *except* Cordelia. Which 
includes your girl. Angel yanks me out a window, and here comes 
Drusilla to my rescue, in all her loony glory, tellin' me my face is 
a poem, and asking how I feel about eternal life... She did beat the 
crap out of Angelus, though, which was fun to watch..."

Silence from Spike, as the weight of his elbows was lifted off, and 
his fingers drummed on Xander's back again. Then a little snicker. A 
bigger one. Spike laughing and snorting and just generally losing it. 
Which was always nice to hear, but who exactly was frustrating who, 
here?

"Oh... God, I can just see it. Our Dru, kickin' the bastard's arse, 
Girl Power an' all. For once, instead of swannin' around as if 'is 
very farts smelled like Obsession for Vampires."

That image had even Xander trying to inhale his own 
esophagus. "That's...very...descriptive..." Giggle.

"Yeah, well, can't fault her for taste. On either count, I s'pose. If 
he hadn't been such a shit-for-brains bastard when he showed back up, 
that is. And if you hadn't been *real* jailbait at the time. Naughty 
Dru."

"Oh, fine. Go spank Dru, then." [Grumpy, grumpy, Spike's just trying 
to piss you off...don't give him the satisfaction...]

All right. Fine. It was time for the last-ditch effort. He'd had a 
clue this would happen, anyway, so on his way home from work, he'd 
stopped at the Spencer Gifts in the mall. For a little insurance. 
Either it would count as something naughty enough to get Spike going, 
or he'd at least get even with the vampire for being such an annoying 
little shit.

"Look, if you're gonna cock-tease all night, could you at least give 
me that Hershey bar on the table? Might as well have *somethin'* to 
do while you decide whether you can work up the motivation to come 
through on your side of the deal."

"Yeah, s'pose..." Spike's hands disappeared from Xander's back, as 
the vampire leaned over to the bedside table and retrieved the paper-
and-foil-wrapped bar from where it leaned against the lamp-base. "No, 
on second thought, who says you deserve chocolate? You can't even 
come up with a single piece of decent naughtiness. You lack 
creativity. I think *I* get the chocolate."

"Jerk," Xander muttered, smiling into the blanket as Spike tore open 
the wrapper. Crinkled the foil. Sniffed. Smacked him loudly and 
painfully on the ass.

"Oi! Soap? You would've let me eat bloody *soap* thinkin' it was 
chocolate? Not to mention you thought I was stupid enough not to 
smell it first. What kind of sick, twisted bastard are you? "

Xander smirked like Spike on speed. "A bad one. Really bad. 
Especially since I had to eat the real Hershey bar and re-wrap the 
soap so you wouldn't get suspicious... I'd say naughty, even. I 
obviously need to be taught a lesson."

Spike laughed delightedly as he brought his hand down again. "See, 
now. You're learning. One of us'll corrupt the other, yet." 

Xander, chewing on the blanket, half laughing, half concentrating on 
the delicious feel of a cool hand crisply smacking his ass to a nice 
toasty warmth, was rather hoping to remain the corruptee. 


Part Five: What For

"A mirror in your sleeping place, made from a black metal. A dark 
mirror...That was always the intention...But the gulf between concept 
and execution is wide, and many things can happen on the way."

--Morpheus (The Sandman, created by Neil Gaiman)

*******

{Some games just don't get old. Not with this one around...}Spike 
thought, a bit dazedly, a bit happily. Scrabble, two nights in a 
row, that would get old, but *this* game, for instance...Spike was 
quite willing to play the debauched old lecher leading the fresh-
faced youngling down the path of no return. Again. Not that Spike 
wasn't literally pretty fresh-faced himself, but still. Nor was this 
exactly high-end, as debaucheries went. For somebody as goody-two-
shoes as Xander, however, it would certainly do, no matter how many 
times he'd played it with Anya. He'd never done it with a man before 
last night, and never with Spike, and that had been quite enough to 
give Spike the tastefully twisted thrill of sharing one of his 
favorite kinks with a wide-eyed innocent. 

Was still quite enough, with the challenge in the back of his mind 
that he was supposed to be acting as if *this* were the first time. 
No witty badinage. No Sunnydale history lessons. Just an agreement 
that this time they didn't have to argue about what somebody was 
being punished *for*. Just bloody get on with it. A bit more real and 
hot, traded for a bit less deliciously embarrassing. All sounded good 
to him. Might've sounded better from down there instead of up here, 
but he was being a *good* evil demon, and playing fair... as fair as 
he could bring himself to, anyway...

***

Shake...rattle...roll... Flip, and watch the bloody sands of time 
tick away the fact that Xander had been playing this game since first 
grade and Spike was drawing a blank on any four letter words besides 
the obvious ones.

"Dafe is *not* a word, Spike," Xander said finally, as the last 
grains of what was probably actually salt trickled through the timer, 
and the human leaned over to grin at Spike's scratched-up scorecard.

"I know it's not a blinkin'... oh. Thought that was a 'T'." He 
crunched away resentfully on a handful of chocolate-dipped pretzels, 
less than happy about being caught out in an allegedly intellectual 
game by the only non-collegiate Scooby Gang member.

"Uh-huh. Do vampires *get* nearsighted? Time for a pair of those 
reading glasses with the little chain around the back so you don't 
forget they're on your head? Old Man?" Xander sneered at him, 
flashing his winning wordlist under Spike's nose.

"Don't push your luck, boy..." Spike growled menacingly, but Xander 
only laughed.

"Is there a game you don't cheat at? Poker? Chess?"

"Don't need to cheat at poker, don't play chess, *wasn't* cheating 
now, and I would've wiped the floor with your arse at Trivial 
Pursuit," Spike replied grumpily.

"That would be why we didn't *play* Trivial Pursuit, O Lint-Trap for 
Useless Information..." Xander grinned back.

"Wasn't so useless when I told you which bit of a Mathgarau to chop 
off with your little axe, now, was it?"

"And whose bloodless ass did I pull out of the fire by doin' that, 
huh? Not mine own..."

"....Rrrrrr.....Xander, your family doesn't even *speak* to each 
other unless they're rowing. Why the hell do you have a stack of 
board games up to the ceiling?" When about to be shown up as an 
idiot, change the subject. Spike's Laws of Survival, Number Three.

"Stupid but well-meaning relatives. Every Christmas since... probably 
before I was born. I mean... there's an unopened Mystery Date box on 
the bottom of the stack, for god's sake. You blew best two out of 
three at Boggle-- wanna go for a *really* challenging game?"

Spike sighed. "No, you'd get the trust-fund guy and I'd end up with 
the geek with the pocket protector an' the plaid pants, and don't you 
*dare* ask how I know what's inside that game box."

" Don't think I won't be filing *that* away for future use, but not 
what I meant. I won. Again. The challenge part would be, you manage 
to play like last night never happened."

Spike blinked at him. "Thought we were a bit past *that* game, pet."

Xander tossed a pretzel at his head. "Not permanently, cheesedick. 
Just for tonight. Like it was the *first* time, with none of that 
shit about *me* havin' to come up with a reason for it. Just you 
yankin' me down on the bed and pulling my jeans off and walloping the 
hell out of me until I yell stop or your damn hand falls off. You 
wanna give me what for along with it, go for it, but you get to 
exercise your much-vaunted creativity. All I have to do is lay there 
and take it. You *game* ?"

Took Spike a minute to swallow the suddenly dry pretzel crumbs in his 
mouth. "Yeah, think I might be up for that." He was technically 
supposed to still be sulking, however, so he had to give it one last 
shot..

"Would've won...' he mumbled not quite under his breath.

"But..." Xander filled-in like a good little less-than-straight man.

"Gave me a right-handed pencil, didn't you?" That earned him a 
barrage of pretzels.

***

It assisted Spike's much-vaunted creativity immensely that the arse 
smiling up at him from his lap was so nicely shaped, and rippled so 
prettily when his hand smacked into it. There was also a bit of an 
oddity, a personal little hmmm... that Spike hadn't come across 
before last night-- the fact that it was turning a nice shade of 
light pink, under the naturally tan skin. A good sort of tingly 
strangeness, as if Xander really was corrupting him as well. A well-
fed vamp might bleed a bit if you cut him, but blushing, in regard to 
either set of cheeks, was right out. Fun times with humans, chapter 
seventeen. The sight was putting him in a pleasant, warm place, so he 
thought he'd best return the favor.

"And while we're on the subject..." he continued the mock tirade he'd 
begun a few moments ago, "what the hell did you think you were doin', 
ironing my shirt? I *like* it wrinkled!" Smack. Smack. 

Xander breathed in sharply, and let it out in a confused, "Huh?" 
before grabbing the blankets tightly.

"My shirt, whelp. The one you nicked off the chair Sunday night? 
Lookin' like Martha bloody Stewart's been over it with a steam iron 
and a lint-brush now? Ruins my image, dunnit." SMACK!

"Didn't. Just... washed it." Xander gasped.

"Eh? Oh. Shit. Guess you didn't. The witches were gonna fix you up 
with a spell for that, if you brought 'em extra treats on Tuesday. 
Must've put it on the whole place. Fine. " Smack, smack, 
smack. "*That* was for makin' me look like a right idiot."

Which made no more sense than anything else he'd said, but this 
wasn't really supposed to make much sense beyond the disciplinarian 
tones and the reactions of the suitably chastened body wriggling on 
his lap. Getting into the rhythm of it a bit, moving toward the 
requested 'walloping' as opposed to last night's gentle teasing, he 
found that he didn't really need to *say* much of anything. Xander 
was doing most of the work for him, squirming enticingly against him, 
making it exceedingly obvious by the contact between their bodies 
that they were both more than a little aroused by the whole affair. 
That the boy really was enjoying it. Little squeaking noises, every 
so often, just like...

Like Dru, though without her throaty laughter, and he found himself 
unwillingly comparing them again, for the hundredth time, and coming 
up with far too many similarities. Lovely and dark, far too young-- 
no matter their ages in years--shattered and put back together like 
crazy-paving. Both too attracted to things that would hurt 'em, 
sooner or later. Both loving pain, of one sort or another. {He's 
*not* Dru.} And one of the nastier voices in his head muttered {But 
he'll leave you just like she did, won't he. And be better off for 
it, too.}

Maybe. Probably. But while he had the chance, Spike wouldn't *let* 
anybody do to Xander what had been done to Dru. Not the driving mad, 
not the buggering off, not the patronizing use and abuse when he 
returned. {Obviously Oedipal enough for you, Siggy? } Always bloody 
came back to him, didn't it? As if *he* had any interest in Xander 
Harris. Unless he knew Spike did, and then he'd find a way to muck it 
up somehow, even in his goody-good souled form. And he would, sooner 
or later, figure it out. Because he could read Spike like a bloody 
dimestore novel, when he wasn't too distracted by something else 
blonde, with bigger tits.

But it wasn't really Angel whom Spike feared. There were a million 
creative ways to break somebody into jagged shards, and a million 
bastards out there waiting to do it. And there was somebody he had to 
protect, now. Wouldn't deny it made him feel a bit more like a man 
and less like a blinkin' eunuch. There'd been his little girl, 
sister, mother, wife...who didn't want him anymore. Now there was 
this man-child. The wise-arsed fragile little hedgehog that he was 
beginning to think of as his boy, despite the jeering from his own 
mental cheap seats. And Spike feared. Repetition. Making somebody 
else's mistakes. {The past around every bloody corner, and who's 
brooding when he's supposed to be having fun *now* ?}

Somewhere in the middle of Spike's trip to the past, Xander had 
kicked off his shorts and trousers, as the smacking got a little more 
intense. The bare legs that shifted and occasionally scissored on the 
bed were strong. Scattered with dark hairs. Certainly no Drusilla 
similarities there. {So one's got a cock and one has fangs. One's mad 
and one's...maybe just a little bent, maybe as twisted up as I am. 
Tell me the difference again? One's here. No. Not fair. One's Dru, 
one's Xander. One's lost, one's...}

He put his right hand flat on Xander's back, as he continued to smack 
with his left, and realized he'd definitely reached the walloping 
stage. The globes that had been just a bit pink before were turning a 
nice cherry red. But there wasn't much of a change in the way Xander 
was writhing atop his lap. There wasn't any blinding pain in his 
head. Still, probably not a lot more, now. When he eased off a bit, 
though, Xander actually pushed up against his hand, as if 
complaining. Spike chuckled under his breath. If that was the way of 
it... 

So he got back into the swing of things. Peppered both cheeks with 
firm swats, drifting down to the tops of the muscular thighs every so 
often. Steady. Hard, but not actually harsh. Well, not *too* harsh. 
He wasn't *actually* punishing Xander for anything, after all. This 
was about... fun, he was going to say to himself, but {love...} 
slipped in there before he could finish the thought. {Love, and 
giving him what he wants.} Yeah, probably, but if you said it, there 
went half the depravity, didn't it. Or maybe it was even more 
depraved.

Maybe it was him moving his hand again, the one on Xander's back. 
Unconsciously rubbing a tiny circle, over and over, as if giving pain 
and comfort at the same time. The left hand giveth... Maybe it was a 
change in the pressure on Xander's skin, a change in the central air 
that filtered down from upstairs as the currents shifted and the 
basement suddenly got a whole lot warmer. A change in the moon 
outside the cheaply-curtained windows. Maybe it was Spike stepping up 
the rhythm with his left hand. Maybe it was Spike, never pausing, 
looking down to be sure, and asking softly, just to check he hadn't 
gone too far, maybe to get a little feedback for his own vanity---
"How're you feelin'?"


*****

And Xander had been... in a good place. Good...kinda edgy...Thinking 
every so often that *this* was the one that would make him cry uncle, 
but no... 'Cause that one was just right, just the right place, just 
the right feeling, something to fight against, something to take, 
just making him hot all over. Being held down, in a safe place, and 
Spike's two arms, one holding him there, one dishing it out. Able to 
kick and growl and fight all he wanted, as long as he didn't say 
stop, and he wasn't, really wasn't about to say stop, stop was the 
farthest thing from his mind anymore. 

Wasn't a hell of a lot that made sense going on in his mind at all, 
but whatever was happening, it was like ache and fire and somebody 
putting them together to make his body a damn fine place to be stuck 
right now... He was *so* glad he'd thought of asking again and so 
damn glad he'd won and Spike had lost if Spike really thought he'd 
lost, 'cause Spike seemed to be getting a kick out of it too, not 
that Xander was really able to concentrate on anything outside 
himself at the moment.

And it got warmer and things shifted and it started to build to 
something... reaching for it, almost stretching,
And Spike rubbing his back, just a little distraction, just something 
that was making him think.. don't comfort me, stupid, I don't need... 
and Spike leaning down a bit, closer, and he had to go and whisper... 
whisper... "How're you feelin'?" and dammit... don't ask me that...

And he was somewhere else, and it wasn't safe, and he wasn't being 
held, he was... it was hot and [how're you feelin'...] he was scared 
shitless, that was how, and he didn't even know this girl who left 
him...stuck outside... waiting, alone with, not alone but, they 
shouldn't be here, just him. Alone in his head with the 
damn ...seeing it, twisted, monsters, everything he knew, twisted up. 
Hearing the damn music...hated this song, had always hated the damn 
pulsing heat inside under the lights when it played like the song and 
the half-dark and the backhiss through the amps were all just made to 
send him into the night screaming [don't dream at all], never close 
his eyes again. 

Hated this thing in his hand, hated the song, hated being here and 
when they got in and after out, how could he ever walk in this place 
again... And they were in and music or not...still in his head 
[inside my bones]
Bodies moving like they could get somewhere, in his way, only came 
for one damn thing, already too late [really wish...] but he had to 
be here. His place, his... his... let go. He'd let go, and... been 
ripped away, and another girl, there'd been one with...fuckin' evil 
little smile, and sure she was here somewhere, but that wasn't... 
hot, it was too... [cold day ] hot and there. 

There. Here. Same.. same...face...just not the same. Just... his 
fault. His fuckin' fault. Not Will , not any new hot blonde... not 
anybody but him, letting go then and this thing in his hand now and 
this thing in front of him daring him to do it. [Wished I could have] 
And it was too damn hot or not hot enough and he 
hated...everything...mostly Xander, mostly him. Pussy who couldn't do 
it. Hated this place, hated the body that pushed the body that looked 
like somebody that fell on this damn thing in his damn hand [come to 
kill what's left] that was holding *nothing*-- shit-all nothing. 
Because everything was gone, and he was alone here. Just him. Just 
the one he hated most of all. [from myself...] In the hot-cold dark. 
Somewhere out there was...somebody... but hell if Xander could think 
how to get from here to there.


*****


Something changed, anyway, because where there was an enthusiastic 
body twisting down on Spike's lap, in an instant there was a still 
one. Not still with the bonelessness of sleep or relaxation, or even 
the sacrificial victim position that had represented the boy's fear 
of being taken, that first time.

A frozen sort of stillness, jumping with anticipation without 
twitching a muscle. As if concentrating on moving and receiving 
sensation at the same time was just too hard of a job. Spike stopped, 
his hand in mid-air.

"Hey," he said softly, again. "You okay down there?"

After a second, a low snarl. "Don't talk."

"It's just that you're turnin' sort of Willow-colored, which might be 
a good sign for..."

Lower still... "Don't. Be quiet."

Spike laughed. Well, tried to. "And that, my friend, is what's known 
as topping from the bottom. Sir, yes sir."

"Shut up."

There was no laughter in that voice. Nothing of the repartee that had 
gone on before this all got quite so heated. Just... a forlorn 
request. Not really an order. Spike resumed his smacking, a little 
harder. Not at all happy with the direction he sensed this was going. 
Feeling Xander's skin grow hot beneath his hand. A faint tremor in 
the back muscles. A touch of labor in the breathing. He slowed again.

"About time..."

"Does your head hurt?" Xander hissed.

"Er...no..." 

"Did I say stop?"

"No."

"Then get on with it."

Spike shook his head, even though he knew Xander had no way of 
seeing. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Don't..." And there was loss in that, and fear, in the sound, in 
the scent, the need to be forgiven for something, or not to be 
forgiven. This was more of an order, but a desperate one, and it was 
ripping at Spike, because he knew this place. He'd been there, where 
Xander was, or someplace like it, and he'd been here, where he was 
now, with Dru screaming at him to take all her badness away. It was 
black, and it was red, and it was full of the things that live under 
the beds of even the monsters that live under beds, and it was never 
anything so innocently soft-core as the scene in this room right now. 
If it hadn't been so damned...He was wrong. Nothing soft here.

"Xander..." but he quickened his pace, the memory within his body 
reacting to the need in that voice, in that body. "This isn't about 
chocolate flavored soap, now. What am I punishing you *for*, eh?"

"Shut up." A low litany, repeated like Dru had done the real ones, 
sometimes, lying in bed in the middle of the night, as if whispering 
the empty holy words over and over could carry her back to the 
novitiate, before the blood and stars and roses. "Shut up, shut up, 
shut up..."

"No. What the hell did you ever do? What could *you* 'ave possibly 
done?" Nothing. Nothing that ever came *out* of this boy could have 
been dark enough for this sudden hole of wanting, of desire for ... 
what, pain, punishment... humiliation? No, the boy got enough of that 
last on his own. The blackness he could see in those eyes, when he 
looked, at times... that came from something else. It had 
been...imposed.

The body rigid, twitching, the head sunk to the mattress, the fingers 
grasping the blankets as if they were about to tear holes three feet 
long... A desolate voice, lost somewhere, but filled with its own 
strange sense of power: "I don't have to tell you." It wasn't a 
question.

Spike was pretty close to shaking himself, but this wasn't the time. 
{My turn. Mine to take care of *him.*}

"No. You don't have to."

And he did his best. Smacked away until Xander's breathing was beyond 
labored, until the skin under his hand had turned a dusky rose, until 
Spike was just...this close. This bloody close...

"That's enough." he said suddenly, trying to be firm. Trying to 
control at least himself, if not the aching child in his lap.

Xander tossed his head. Kicked once at the bedclothes. "No. It's not 
enough... I need...to get there. Here. This..."

{Oh, hell. Don't do this to me. Don't be another Dru already. Don't 
bloody make me too late. Don't make me hurt you, really hurt you, 
just to pull you back from wherever you've gone. Don't be *that* much 
like her. Don't think I can do it again.} It wasn't about the chip. 
Not about fearing his *own* artificial pain. Just Xander. Just not 
wanting to break him, just not wanting to find out that he was 
already permanently broken.

"I know." And he finished what he could, in a few seconds, as much 
as he could. Gave what he was able to. Then he stopped. That simple. 
No more. 

"Spike.. I need..." 

"Yeah, I know. But that's enough. You don't know when to stop." 
Rubbing his own patterns on Xander's back, with both hands, trying to 
brand his fingerprints in this boy, his boy, just by touching, 
softly. Not going near the angry skin that lay below. Xander wriggled 
away, sliding off Spike's lap.
Curled up at the farthest edge of the bed, facing away, on his side. 
Spike shook his head again. 

No. He wasn't going to lose this one. Not like this. Not to some 
invisible demons he couldn't even fight with fangs or an axe. He slid 
over to Xander's side, and placed his arm over Xander's.

"Don't touch me." 

{Oh, an old friend. We recognize *that* voice, don't we. Self-disgust 
in the shower, rearing its ugly mug. Well me an' the voices in *my* 
head can take you any day, tosser. I think.}

"Right..." he said uncertainly, pulling his arm back. Just lying 
there on his own side, staring at Xander's back. Every day. Every 
other day. There had to be something new, to tear each other up 
with. Another reason to drive the other one away. Fall down in his 
head with a monster above, or watch Xander go somewhere away inside 
where he couldn't reach. Because neither of them deserved to have 
somebody who loved them, obviously. Well, that might be true in 
Spike's case, but in Xander's...Fuck that. 

"Y'know...don't think I can do that, actually," he said matter-of-
factly.

"Then don't let me go," Xander whispered, and rolled over into 
Spike's arms, face to face. He was back, from wherever it was he'd 
gone, but he looked like he could disappear again at any minute.

"I can do that." And he wrapped his arms tight around his boy. 
Making damn sure Xander knew he wasn't going anywhere. Just stared 
into those shuttered eyes as if he could find the answer Xander 
wouldn't give him. Waited, until those eyelids drooped, the breathing 
slowed, and Xander was sleeping in his arms. Extricated himself as 
softly as he could, and stalked sock-footed over to the bathroom, to 
get that damned bottle of moisturizer from the medicine chest. Just a 
few seconds gone, hoping against hope that Xander wouldn't wake up 
alone before he could slip back into bed.

He was safe. Xander still almost-snored as Spike climbed gingerly 
over him and put his arms back where they belonged.

***

So much for demon hunting this time. Unless they wanted to head out 
at three a.m., and Spike wasn't really in the mood. Sad sort of vamp 
he was, really. .Xander, yawning and blinking, and wincing when he 
unconsciously rolled over onto his back, wasn't really in any 
condition, either.

Spike just watched him as he made his way back from sleep, and was 
finally met with a sheepish grin.

"Okay, that was... not one of my finer moments. And I've got a lot of 
not finer moments to not be fine with." Xander rolled over on his 
stomach. Not an exceptionally heartening sight, Spike decided, 
studying the still tortured-looking skin on the otherwise delicious 
arse, somewhat less than dispassionately. Still... Xander wasn't 
lost. He'd come back. This time.

"You gonna do that every time?" Spike asked, reaching for the bottle 
of skin cream.

Xander laughed. A bit shakily. "Um... I'll go with no on that one. I 
just kinda... went off somewhere."

Filling his palm with cool lotion, Spike began to softly rub it onto 
Xander's skin, watching the boy jump at the unexpected change in 
temperature.

"Yeah. Noticed. You gonna tell me where?"

Xander shook his head. "No. You mind?"

Spike thought about it. Hard. About the truth, and how much of it was 
safe to actually say. "Wish you would, but it's your head." 

"I...no. Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay. So..."

"So...no. Won't happen again. If this ever...well, I guess you 
wouldn't want to, after that."

"That's *not* what I was askin', and don't make promises you can't 
keep, and I can still wipe the streets with you at Trivial Pursuit, 
so don't you bet on it. " Spike tried not to touch too hard, wincing 
with each twitch of Xander's back and legs when he did.

"Oh...kay. I guess. So?" Xander lay his head on his forearms, 
crossed on the pillow.

"So... you wanted a bloody bedtime story..."

Xander curled deeper into the mattress. "Maybe tomorrow? Y'know, when 
I can actually look you in the face again?"

Spike took a minute to stroke the boy's hair. Felt Xander relax under 
his touch.

"You can look me in the face now, idiot."

"I, ah...meant literally, actually," Xander replied with a soft huff 
of laughter. "Y'know, instead of lookin' at the mattress."

"Oh... I kinda like you when you're lookin' at the mattress..." Spike 
purred, suddenly squirting a cold line of lotion down Xander's back.

"Jerk..." 

"Idiot."

"Vampire."

"Stockboy."

"Soccer fan..."

"Football, dammit."

"Can I say that mentioning Willow in connection with the color of my 
ass was not a particularly bright idea?"

"Heard that, did you? Human."

"Ooh... you wound me with your devastating English wit. If you really 
want to make me happy..."

"Yeah. What, luv?" Spike rubbed the lotion into Xander's back, 
feeling the muscles tense and relax, just...glad there was somebody 
there.

"Get me a cookie. Double-chocolate chunk."

"Oh, *you're* back. Fine, then. But no crumbs on the pillow. Sick of 
washin' 'em out of my hair."



Part Six: Fish Story

Xander stomped his way down the basement stairs huffily, Spike 
following with a half-amused shake of his white-blonde head. Enjoying 
the view, what he could see of it over the unwieldy bag of weapons in 
his arms. Xander Harris: dark hair, loose curls, growing a little 
long on the back of the currently dusty neck...well-built form 
encased in a gray sweatshirt, and... {Well, nothing's ever *quite* 
perfect, is it?}

"Nothin'." Thump. "Nothin'." Thump, thump. "Nothin'." Down to 
the concrete floor. "This is the freakin' Hellmouth. Plan a 
Tupperware party, get a rain of toads. Maybe an arm in a box. Take a 
nice peaceful walk, get jumped by every demon and vamp in a five-mile 
radius. But go looking for 'em? Nooooooo. Nada. Squat. Where are they-
- all staying home to watch Survivor?" 

"Maybe they were all just too afraid of those trousers to come near. 
*I'd* vote you off the island for 'em..." Spike commented, glancing 
down at Xander's neon-green sweats. They were bright enough to warn 
off a pack of blind cave-demons at five hundred meters.

Xander grimaced. "Yeah, well. Loosest thing I own." He belly-flopped 
crossways on the unmade bed, kicked off his tennis shoes, and 
scavenged around for something beneath one of the pillows. 

Er... yeah. There was that. Xander would hardly be in the mood for 
tight jeans after last night's...interesting...excursion into the 
Twilight Zone of the human's darker spanking fantasies. Or whatever 
it was that had been going on in that pretty, muddled head of his.

"Right. Understood. So... you wouldn't actually be upset if I burned 
them for entertainment value tomorrow while you're at work?" Spike 
gave up trying to find a place to unpack the assorted implements of 
mayhem, and let the thick canvas bag fall to the floor with a 
resounding clang.

"This thing you have about my clothes... have you considered seeing 
someone?" Xander asked, twisting around to glare at Spike. 

"Thought I was seeing *you*. What, you wanna see other demons now?" 
The vampire stretched, trying to unkink muscles he'd forgotten he 
owned. At least their foe-less foray tonight had landed them this 
sweet little treasure trove of blunt instruments and sharp objects, 
found in the abandoned nest of a Dagonish demon. 

Packrats and opportunists, the lot of 'em. The little froglike 
cthuloids weren't big enough to use most of these lovelies, but 
they'd fence 'em, for a tidy profit. Somebody'd got to the Dagonish 
elsewhere, before it had the chance to come home and shift this 
little windfall, but its loss was Spike's gain. Spike and Xander's 
gain. Heavy, awkward gain, though, and after a half-mile of carrying 
them through the darkened streets, his back was killing him. He 
pulled off his duster and tossed it on the chair.

"I wanted to see some other demons *tonight*, but the Hellmouth 
pisses on Xander's head again..." the boy answered, flipping through 
the magazine he'd dug out from between the sofa-back and the edge of 
the mattress.

"When'd you start caring whether we actually met up with any demons 
or not? I thought you were just keeping me company?" Spike reached 
into the bag of sharp stuff and extracted a neat little fourteenth 
century dagger, with a nicely-decorated silver hilt: demonically-
twisted skulls and bones, with briar roses threaded in and out of the 
eyesockets. Non-human work. Good balance. Worth a bit more money as 
an artsy antique than as a weapon, but who was he gonna try to sell 
it to: Joyce Summers? {Bloodbaths on the Hellmouth, an artistic 
legacy, now showing at the Fourteenth Street Gallery.}

Maybe there was something in the stash that was more appropriate for 
Xander to use than that ridiculous "little" helm-axe that was almost 
too big for him to swing. Not the dagger--Xander tended to trip over 
his own feet if he was concentrating on hand-to-hand dexterity. 
Unless the military bloke in Xander's subconscious decided to put in 
an appearance; then he really was a treat to watch. Fighting their 
way back out of the Initiative, after everything went bollocks-up, 
he'd sneaked a few glances at Xander battling demons and other 
nasties alongside the Slayer. 

Spike wondered if the boy even realized how well he'd been doing. 
Wondered if the military atmosphere, which Spike otherwise detested, 
had triggered the confident, competent mind that knew how to use that 
well-put-together body to best advantage, or if it had always been 
there. Even before a cursed Halloween costume had turned Xander into 
soldier-for-a-day, over two years ago, and left the lingering 
memories as a sometimes useful gift.

"Mmmm?" Xander said, looking up from the magazine. Apparently as 
distracted as Spike had been, obviously for different reasons. What 
*was* he reading? "Oh, why do I care about finding some 
demons? 'Cause the weapons are cool, and I kinda wanted to try that 
bastard sword."

"*Not* your poison," Spike assured him. "Not without a bit more 
practice than *you've* had. Stick with the sweatpants and your mouth 
until we find you somethin' better."

"I *am* a great kisser, but I'm not playing tonsil hockey with demons 
and vamps. Besides you."

{Yeah, you *are* a great kisser, but *not* the point.} Spike had 
meant that gormless, annoying, and occasionally blinding humor that 
managed to babble its way out of Xander's mouth. Nonetheless, it gave 
Spike an excruciatingly obnoxious thrill of pleasure to hear Xander 
say, even as a laugh, that he wasn't going to be using his mouth's 
*other* talents on anybody else. Well, kissing, at least. There were 
other things Xander could do with his mouth... that Spike wasn't too 
keen on him sharing with the rest of the demon population of 
Sunnydale either.

Xander. Fighting. Nice. Not that Spike wasn't getting a rush out of 
looking at Xander doing *anything* these days. It had been great 
though, in the middle of the underground bunker, to see that body 
doing what Spike knew it was capable of, if Xander's own insecurities 
weren't getting in the boy's way. Not that Spike was supposed to have 
been looking, at the time... but he had been, just the same. Almost 
got his head bashed in by a big old unidentifiable nasty, actually, 
while he was watching Xander take on a Wendigo with a borrowed 
bayonet and a cocky grin. 

It was something he was hoping to coax out of his now-lover. Just 
every so often. He didn't want to lose the wise-arse, or even the 
infuriating puppy-child, just to find the fighter.... but Xander'd 
looked *good* in fatigues. Unlike a certain bleached-blonde vampire 
Spike knew and loved, who , on the two occasions when he'd had to put 
on the military drag, most likely *had* resembled an 'evil olive', to 
quote Willow.

Right, weapon. He set down the dagger. Something heavy enough to hack 
and slash with, light enough not to knock the boy on his arse, and 
long enough to keep him out of range of the nasties while Spike did 
most of the actual work. Because the concept wasn't to put Xander in 
danger. It was to have some *fun*. Together. Fun. Right.

Yet again Spike marveled at the concept that Xander was still 
clueless as to how completely.lost. Spike was over him. Fun?
With 
Xander Harris? William the Bloody, and Alexander Harris, *hanging 
out*? Trolling for adventure on a Sunnydale night? Came pretty close 
to an actual *date*, Hellmouth-style, if there'd been the chance that 
anyone would see them together. Spike, having non-horizontal *fun* 
with Xander. Bothered and bewildered, utterly and without a doubt. 
{Yeah, kid, it's all about the sex.} 

Sex. Mouth. Kissing. {Boy's here, Spike. You can wax philosophical on 
his finer points when you *don't* have the opportunity to 
sample 'em.} 

"I meant, you'll just have to use your alleged rapier wit, as clown 
prince of stand-up." Spike crawled onto the bed beside Xander, 
stretching out to his full length, feeling muscles twitch and begin 
to really ache. They'd heal by morning (or, rather, by the time he 
woke in the early evening, if he could get himself back on a decent 
sleeping schedule), but for right now, he was just this side of 
knackered.

"Hey, get your boots off. I just changed these sheets this morning. 
Don't want Dagonish droppings on 'em."

"Nag, nag, nag." But Spike sat back up, unlaced his Docs, and kicked 
them across the room, before turning back to lie next to Xander. 
Peeking over his shoulder at the magazine the human was perusing 
intently.

"Truth-- you buy it for the fascinating Voyager schematics, or the 
two-page spread of Seven-of-Nine in the silver bikini?"

Xander looked over at him, their faces inches away from each other. 
Grinned. "Bought it for the articles. Possibly also to test whether 
Seven-of-Nine in a silver bikini still does it for me."

Spike grinned right back. "Does she?"

"Yeah. Just not as much as you do. Which pretty much says everything 
there is to say about my mental status at this point." Xander rolled 
onto his left side, facing Spike. "And *you*.owe me a bedtime
story. "

Spike groaned. "Once upon a time there was an annoying American git 
who got a fanwank magazine shoved up his arse. I, for once, am 
tired. "

"You?"

"Those things were heavy, and *you* spent the whole walk back 
singing "I Know A Song That'll Get On Your Nerves." and swinging
your 
damned helm-axe until you caught it in that telephone pole. Where it 
can bloody well stay, for all I care. Too big for you anyway. I'm 
tired, my back hurts, I don't fancy coming up with a tale from the 
Brothers Grimmer for you tonight."

"Poor vampire. Tough shit. I told you the sordid tale of my brief but 
passionate affair with Dru. It's your turn. I was a good boy, I went 
to work, I paid the rent, I bought you Nestle's Quik 'cause you said 
you'd never had it before. I. Want. My. Story." 

He punctuated each of the last four words with a poke at Spike's t-
shirt-covered chest, and Spike looked at him like he'd gone utterly 
barmy. Until the vampire remembered that Xander *was* utterly barmy, 
and that's why he was lying stretched out three inches away from 
Spike, and there was a decent chance Spike might get lucky tonight. 
Luckier.


*****

Xander waited. Grinned. Spike owed him a smutty story about the 
vampire's past, and he was damn well gonna get it. It was a night 
overdue, actually, though he wasn't exactly in the mood for it last 
night. Or rather, in the wee hours of this morning, after he'd woken 
up from his exhausted sleep and a bit of rationality had begun to 
creep over his mind. A bit of rationality, and a hell of a lot of [ 
Oh, God, what did I just do, and if Spike didn't think I was nuts 
before, he's gotta be ready to run screaming away now...] 

Because surely even an admittedly insane vampire would be freaked by 
Xander Harris flipping out on him in the middle of what was supposed 
to be a bit of kinky fun, and demanding...something else. He'd been 
about to bury his head in the pillow when he woke up, just wait 
there 'til Spike wised up and took off, but somehow he hadn't. He'd 
faced up to his own whatever-he'd-done, to an extent, and waited for 
Spike to freak. 

Thing was, Spike never did. Not during. Not after, not while Spike 
was holding Xander close to him, just looking into his eyes, as 
Xander tried to make his way back from the dark place he'd fallen 
into, and had at last drifted into a dreamless sleep. Not after he'd 
woken up, and Spike just calmly asked if that was going to happen 
every time. Meaning... that Spike wasn't taking off. That there 
might even *be* a next time.

So Xander hadn't ruined everything. Whatever *everything* was. Spike 
hadn't laughed it off like it never happened, and in a way, Xander 
was grateful for that. It forced him to accept it himself, and... 
just go on. Like there was another option? Spike had been... kind, 
which was almost too much to take, but other than that, *he'd* just 
gone on. Like it didn't matter. Like it happened to him every day, 
and it didn't change a damn thing. Like it wouldn't bother him if it 
happened again, he just wanted a little advance warning. 

[If *Spike* can shake it off, I damn well can. Have to. Might never 
be able to look at Willow's hair again without blushing, but.]
But 
Spike owed him a story, and if Xander could tease it out of him, he'd 
obviously returned to the same old dopey geek he'd always been. He 
wasn't sure if he was trying to convince himself or Spike, 
but...either way, it seemed to be working. He could smile again, 
anyway.

Spike was still just looking at him, like he couldn't believe anybody 
had the balls to poke the Big Bad in the chest and live to tell about 
it. And *that* had Xander grinning even wider. [Who's afraid of the 
Big Bad Spike? Not me! If he hasn't killed me yet, God knows what it 
would take. Besides, I know he gets cold if he's alone in bed and he 
looks completely goofy walking around naked with only his socks on, 
and his shins are ticklish. That's gotta be worth some sorta hush 
money.]

"Well? Story. Story story story story..." He did his best
impression 
of Spike trying to annoy *him", and got a raised eyebrow for his 
trouble.

"What's in it for me?"

"Rent-free luxury accommodations?" Xander offered sarcastically, 
waving a hand at their surroundings.

"Yeah, about the rent." Spike gave him The Look. Or at least he 
thought it was The Look.

"Not moving, can't afford it, cope and deal," Xander replied, 
glancing down at the Jeri Ryan pseudo-centerfold so he didn't have to 
look at Spike. [Come on. Lay off the basement. Yeah, it sucks, but 
I'm just not. I dunno. Ready to leave those two alone up there on
a 
permanent basis.]

"No, I just meant if I can sell some of that lot we brought home 
tonight, I might have some green to chip in," Spike explained. 

Oh. It wasn't The Look. It was the "Spike's Embarrassed Because He's 
Gonna Say Something Squishy and Human" look. So easy to confuse.

"No biggie. You need it for blood money. I'm not worried about the 
rent, Spike." He looked back up at the vampire, who was grimacing at 
him.

"Yeah, maybe. But I hate being such a."

"Rentboy?" Xander teased. Spike had called him one not that long ago. 
Just meaning he had that damn fragile look, the one that made 
everybody's mom but his own want to feed him hot chocolate and 
cookies. Something which disturbed him and annoyed him and gave him a 
little happy at times, depending on how good the cookies were. Spike 
had it too, though, if you looked at him right.

"Yeah. I actually do *have* money, you know. I just can't get to it 
right now." Spike still had that half-embarrassed twist to his mouth.

"Ooh. story... story.."

"No. Don't wanna talk about it."

"Oh. Okay, what happened to your car?"

"You never learn, do you?" Spike reached out a finger and poked him 
in the side, making him curl up in helpless laughter, with one touch. 
Never let an evil demon know where you're ticklish. At least that one 
was mutual. Xander had figured out *two* of Spike's weak spots.. 
The 
vampire finally withdrew his torturing hand. "I *said* I don't wanna 
talk about it."

"Fine!" Xander mock-pouted at him. "But you owe me a story, and I'm 
getting a story if I have to bug you until tomorrow morning, so give 
it up already!"

"Grrrr.. "


******

TITLE: Fish Story
(Chocolatey Goodness Part 8F --Part 8 being called, 
collectively, "Pillow Talking")

AUTHOR: The Mad Poetess (abbyty@usa.com)
PAIRING: X/S (With a Spike/Dru/other bedtime story...)
RATING: NC-17 
SETTING: Summer after Season 4 , then AU, undoubtedly. 
Wednesday, June 28th, 2000. 
SPOILERS: Through "Restless". And, oddly, the Buffy YA book "Deep 
Water"
PUNCTUATION: {}=Spikethink [ ] =Xanderthink
DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere. Please let me know, before or after. 
Retroactive for previous parts.
MY ARCHIVE: http://forged.tripod.com/chocogood.html
FEEDBACK: Would make me happy, because it means part 8-E didn't 
scare you away....
DISCLAIMER: Spike, Xander, et al are the property of Joss & Co. I am 
the property of three cats, and own 
nothing myself except half a mortgage and a bottle of red Feria. 
Hopefully this is incentive enough for the Jossgods not to instigate 
legal action against me! 

NOTES: Just some bizarro fluffiness, and a bit of mental fallout 
from last night, but in a good way. The boys quietly admiring each 
other, and a strange little Spike/Dru story.

SUMMARY: Seven nights (mostly) of pillow talk. 
Night Six: Spike owes Xander a bedtime story... 

***************************************************************

Xander gave his best innocent look. Willow, age six, caught with her 
hand in her mother's cookie jar (which turned out to be filled 
with "Daily Affirmations for a More Positive Psyche."). "I'll
make 
you Nestle's Quik."

"It's chocolate milk, Xander. I've *had* chocolate milk." Spike 
rolled his eyes ceilingward. Well. pipe-and-ducting-ward, 
anyway. "It's fine, it's chocolate, but not exactly a gourmet taste 
sensation. If there were *ice cream.*"

"No ice cream. I had to stop too many places on the way back from 
work; it would've melted. But Quik *is* a gourmet taste sensation the 
way *I* make it," Xander assured him. Spike rolled his shoulders 
forward and back, and winced.

"And a backrub." he bargained. "Throw in a backrub and I'll try
to 
come up with a story."

Xander considered. He did a pretty decent backrub, if Willow was any 
judge. Not that they'd tried *that* recently, in the post-clothes-
fluke days. Should, really. Pretty safe *now*, wasn't it. Seeing
as 
they were both engaged in other activities... but that wasn't 
knowledge he was quite ready to share with Wills. Maybe when he 
was...oh...ninety.... 

But the thought of his hands all over Spike's cool, pink-white 
back.... That thought had definite possibilities. Digging his fingers 
into Spike's spine, kneading the muscles until they went 'spung!' 
under his hands, feeling the Big Bad relax beneath *him*... But there 
was a little problem...

"I would. but to give you a backrub, I'd kinda have to. sit.
Which 
I'm thinking. maybe tomorrow?"

Spike laughed. Not meanly. Just. Spikily. "Don't be an idiot.
You 
just crawl up on top of me, and work from there. I promise you won't 
squish me, or anything."

Xander considered some more. Decided that was a pretty good idea. A 
*very* good idea.

"Okay. Shirt off, I make Quik." Xander shimmied off the bed and 
headed for the fridge, watching Spike over his shoulder all the way. 
Because Spike was good to look at. [Good. Ha! Evil... well, maybe, 
but 'good' is definitely an understatement on the looks and charm 
scale.] What the hell was *Spike* doing with *him*? This ball of 
muscle and energy and deceptive stillness with the accent that could 
make his cock twitch just by reading the instructions on a bottle of 
shampoo out loud...with the dark eyebrows and the blazing blonde hair 
and the mouth... 

Yeah. The mouth. And the lip. The bottom one. The one that stuck out 
when Spike was pretending to pout, or thinking really hard about 
something... and the damn scar on his eyebrow, just to prove he 
wasn't perfect. Which really didn't help at all, because it made him 
look dangerous and damaged and...and the sound of Spike laughing, 
when he was legitimately amused... It wasn't that Xander didn't 
*believe* Spike when the vampire said he wanted Xander Harris. Wanted 
to have sex with him, anyway. Even wanted to hang around after. He 
just didn't understand *why*. Still hadn't quite got that part 
figured out.

"Was that English?" Spike asked, yawning and peeling his black shirt 
off over his head. "Don't answer that. Jeans too?"

Xander took a break from dumping about ten heaping tablespoons of 
chocolate powder into the bottom of Giles' (Well, face it, it was 
Spike's, by now, because would Giles want it back?) 'Kiss the 
Librarian' mug. Contemplated Spike's question. Imagined the results 
of an affirmative answer. Imagined them with great...imagination. 
Imagined them with whipped cream and sprinkles.

"Er... you were supposed to answer that one, pet."

Xander blinked. Oh. Yeah. Speech. Worked when you made air come out 
of your mouth and moved your lips to kind of... shape it into 
something other people could understand.

"You take your jeans off, I don't know if the backrub'll last very 
long..." Xander finally replied, pouring in some milk, and grabbing a 
spoon. Stirring like crazy. Because that would obviously banish the 
image of him crawling on top of a naked Spike...licking the vampire's 
prominent shoulderblades... fingerpainting a line of cold chocolate 
Quik down Spike's spine, and kissing it off hotly from neck to ass 
without pausing for breath or conversation or... The backs of Spike's 
legs, right behind the knees, where he was also ticklish... to plant 
kisses there and watch Spike squirm because he didn't dare kick 
Xander in the head... [And I accused *him* of having an oral 
fixation...] Stir...stir...stir...

"How about I take the belt off, unzip the jeans, and you decide when 
you get that far?" Spike suggested with a dripping summer heat in his 
voice, like the AC had suddenly broken down and the only thing cool 
in the room was this porcelain mug of cold milk and chocolate that 
Xander just kept stirring and stirring...

Spike rolled over on his back, unbuckled that wide leather belt, and 
slid it sloooooowly from its loops. Let it fall with a slither and a 
thud and a thwap, to the floor, where Xander could only stare at it 
for a minute, imagining the things he might be able to persuade Spike 
to do with that belt if he ever got his tongue working. Maybe when he 
was actually old enough to go out and buy the several gallons of 
whiskey it would take to lubricate his mouth enough to get the 
request out, if Spike was still hanging around by then... And this 
time it wasn't about being dark and lost, it was just an innocently 
perverted hard-on for a *feeling*, that leather...maybe just to have 
it wrapped around his wrists... or maybe more. [Not that it would 
take much persuasion to get Spike around to the idea, and Spike might 
come up with it all on his own, a lot sooner, especially if I don't 
stop staring at it...] Stir. Stir. Stir. Gulp.

And Spike was undoing the button at the waistband of his jeans, the 
faded blue ones, not the black ones, and he was coaxing down the 
zipper and Xander was trying very, very hard not to break the handle 
off the mug, because for some reason Spike had really taken a liking 
to it. And Spike saved what little sanity Xander had left, finally, 
by grinning at him, and rolling back over on his stomach, the denim 
of his jeans now loose around his waist, the line of his spine 
disappearing into the shadows of the soft fabric. Urk. Right. Backrub.

He carried the mug back over to the bed, leaning over Spike, who was 
studying the under-dressed Borg in the fanmag with an appreciative 
eye. 

"Here. Don't spill it. I draw the line at sleeping on chocolate Quik. 
*In* it, maybe, if we could find a bathtub big enough, but on the 
pillows... no thanks." He handed the mug to Spike, who eyed it warily.

"Is there actually milk in this? I'm seeing sludge here. Chocolate 
sludge, so not a problem, but..." Xander just laughed at him. A 
little raggedly.

"That's the best way, the way you do it when your parents let you 
make it yourself. And I graduated to that a few lifetimes ago, so 
I've had some time to perfect it. Drink, then tell. Story, story, 
story." And Xander crawled back on the bed, straddling his lover's 
hips, leaning forward, and putting his hands on those shoulders. 
Which were cool, and tensed, and really needed to be rubbed until 
they felt as warm as oncoming July under his hands. So as Spike 
sipped, and stirred (because you *had* to stir, and keep stirring, to 
chase those little globs of chocolate and powder around the cup until 
they disappeared under the milk, or dip them out and let them spread 
all over your tongue...), Xander began to move his hands on Spike, 
and finally, Spike started to talk.

*****

Spike's Fish Story

"Right. Story for the brat. Long, long ago, in a galaxy... Oi! Don't 
stop, I'll be good. Once upon a time, somewhere around nineteen 
sixteen, Dru and I were walking on the beach...

Dover, where else. Middle of the night, dead calm after a big arse-
kicking storm. Nothing going on but the waves and the stars and that 
poncy hotel up on the hill where Matthew Arnold used to spend 'is 
time being all broody and Sire-like... Down on the beach, we were 
kicking around at shells and rocks. Not hungry, fed on a couple of 
local girls, waitresses, walking back from the hotel, thinkin' there 
was safety in numbers or some such. Dru was bored. You think I'm 
dangerous when I'm bored? Annoying? You've never spent time with 
somebody who thinks the fishes sing to 'er, and wants to go diving to 
see if they'll come and play. Never mind she can't swim, just sinks 
like a bloody great stone, and I have to go in and fish her out every 
time she takes it into her head. Had to. Had. Anyway.

She was hearing something singing to her again, that night. "Spike... 
s'like angels, like the Holy Mother herself. All high and sweet and 
smooth... like it must be not to be lost." She was leaning on me, 
the way she did when she got like this, like she couldn't quite 
manage to stand on her own, though she could. She wasn't always like 
she was when we got to Sunnydale. Always fragile, yeah, but not your 
consumptive heroine-type, like she was after Prague. She could walk 
about on her own sweet legs. But when she got one of her real mad-
ons, then she was spinnin' or dancing, or collapsed on the ground, or 
leaning on me. Which worked just fine for me. 

Oh, yeah, luv. Just there. Just...right there. You're good at this, 
you are. Yeah.

Angel song. Right. Thing was, I was 'alf sure I'd lost it 
myself, 'cos I thought I could hear something too. Sort of like 
music, yeah, dunno about it bein' like angels, but not bad. Just 
down the beach, round a bit of rock that edged out into the water. 
Sharp stuff, nasty place to wash up a boat. You could walk over it, 
if you were careful, but it was slick, and it was a good way to take 
a rotten tumble. This I know because? Because Dru had to take off 
like a dark little gypsy doing the tease-Spike tarantella, running 
towards it, turning round, coming back, pulling at me.

"Come on, Spike! It's calling to us! It's such a lovely song, I know 
it has to be something wonderful."

Never was very good at saying no to Drusilla. You might've gathered 
that. So we clamber up over these rocks, me in halfway decent clothes 
for it, Dru in one of her fancy stolen upperclass frocks, dripping 
with lace and fringe and just waiting for a chance to trip her up and 
send her down to the bottom of the rocks with a poor little smashed 
head. Which wouldn't kill 'er, of course, but Dru was hard enough to 
take care of as it was. Dru with a *real* hurt to go crazy over? 
Been there, done that, wanted to try to avoid it as often as possible.

We made it over the top of the rocks, Dru slippin' in her little 
boots, nearly pulled me over and sent *me* down for a smash on the 
noggin a few times. The music's getting louder, and it does sound 
like singing, but nothing quite human. Which ain't all that 
surprising. Weird shit shows up everywhere, not just the Hellmouth. 
Slipped and slid and even took a few actual steps down to the little 
sort of beach or inlet or sandbar or whatever it was, cove, I guess. 
Completely surrounded by rocks, so you couldn't see it at all except 
from the water.

That's where we found her. What was making the music. A girl, I 
s'pose, if you can call her that. Greeny-gray skin, long seaweedy 
hair. Big black eyes like a shark's, all pupil. This mouth, full of 
the longest, sharpest teeth you can think of. Hell of a lot sharper 
than mine. Open in a big round circle, crooning this strange little 
tune. Completely starkers, of course, and not looking bad at all with 
it. Bloody toothsome, in a skin-crawly way.

What? Yeah. Merrow. Damn, you met up with everything on the 
Hellmouth? Or just the really creepy shit? Cos' she was. Creepy. Even 
to me. Looked at me like she was eleventy-hundred thousand years 
older than the oldest vamp I'd ever met. If you lot diced it up with 
some merrows, you only saw the fellas. They don't let the girls leave 
the deep-water breed-and-hatch places. You ever seen one, you'd know 
why. Lads wanted to keep these birds for themselves. Sparkly. Makes 
you want to run your fingers over that skin, see if the sparkles 
would come off on your hand. Cold. No worries there, for a vamp, but 
sorta salty... wet cold. Deadish-but-not. Things that live 
underwater, like another kind of life altogether. Those Dagonish... 
they're a bit like that. Lovecraft knew what he was babbling about. 
And that song... Like a Siren, 'cept those're real too. Probably 
related. Close-up, a few feet away, it was like... draw you in, eat 
you up. 

Which I gather's how they hunt, underwater, at least the girls. The 
blokes're warriors, but the girls just lie about, putting out this 
cold-sweet music, Dru's angel song, and wait for something big and 
warm and stupid to come swimming by. This one... must've washed 
ashore in the storm. Must've been a big damn storm, out to sea, for 
her to get blown all the way in from the deep. 

Dru's in ecstasy, of course. Having kittens over the poor pretty 
sparkly thing on the sand. Dru being Dru, the first thing she did was 
try to nibble on her, even though we'd already fed. I'm trying to 
hold Dru back, 'cos I know these things are dangerous, like to eat 
human flesh and we're not all that far off human, just the dead 
version. Heard they like live meat, but how picky would a desperate 
and hungry one be?

Dru pulls away and rushes over, and I'm thinking, 'Great. One dead 
girl with big teeth, one fish girl with bigger ones, I've lost her 
for sure this time.' But they just sort of sniff each other. Dru's 
gone demony, and leans in to take a nibble from the girl's shoulder, 
same time the Merrow girlie snaps that head around like a Great 
White, and plants those teeth in Dru's arm. Still humming that damned 
song.

Growling and spitting and hissing like you wouldn't believe. Dru 
backed off and screamed and whimpered, and the spitting was actually 
onto the sand, not at the other one. Guess fish-girl's green blood 
wasn't exactly a tasty treat. Dunno... I let Dru be my guide on that 
one, and didn't try it. Merrow had the same idea, spitting and still 
humming at the same time. Didn't like the taste of Dru either. Dunno 
why. *I* sure as hell did.

"She bit me, Spike. That wasn't nice at all. But..." and Dru was back 
on her own little demented path, walking round the green girl, 
looking down at her like... she was thinking about it. Whatever was 
talking to her said she was supposed to like this one even if it 
*had* decided to take a taste for itself. "She's pretty. Sparkles. 
Let's take her home. She'll make the place shine, then we don't have 
to light the fire."

"Can't take her home, love. She'd die if she had to stay outside of 
the water, and she can't live on blood. They eat live meat. Which I'm 
not willin' to share, not with the pickings around here being as slim 
as they are."

Dru stamped her foot at me. Works like a charm most of the time, but 
there really wasn't any way to indulge her even if I wanted to. 
Couldn't carry that slippery green girl back over the rocks if she'd 
let me. Out to sea was the only way she was getting off this little 
piece of sand.

Now, I speak a little Mer, which is close to what that lot speak, 
sort of cousiny. What? Don't know how many languages I speak, you 
just pick 'em up. Ask me when you're not doing that thing to my 
spine, and I might be able to count a little better. You want a 
story, or not? Right. No, I didn't mean *stop* doing the spine thing. 
I just meant shut up.

Mer. I figured she knew a bit of it. Not what the Mer-folks speak 
among themselves, but sort of a trade-language. They have some magic-
users underwater, which means your traditional Mermaid-types... well, 
Mermen, mostly, do come into contact with other creepy night-folk 
like us, every so often. Merrows, the nasty cousin-sorts, are pretty 
insular, but I figured she'd at least have some clue as to what I was 
going on about if I kept it simple.

So I asked her name. or maybe I asked her for the air-speed
velocity 
of an unladen swallow, but I *think* I asked her name. She said 
something liquidy and bubbly that I don't even have the equipment to 
repeat. So helpful. I think it translated to "Princess Contessa 
Vanessa Bananafana the Third," or suchlike. They're all bloody 
aristocracy when they're introducing themselves to the rabble, aren't 
they.

"Right. Spike. Drusilla. Vampires. You're a Merrow, right?" Or 
something I hoped worked out to that, and not an invitation to snack 
on my girlfriend, tasty or otherwise.

Yeah, head nod, supposed that meant the same thing for them as us. We 
worked out that yeah, she'd washed ashore, yeah, she'd like a bit of 
help getting back out there, and yeah, Dru tasted nasty and she 
wasn't about to eat us. Conversational monster, how to find a loo and 
a bus station in the netherworld. 

And then Dru got her brilliant idea. Not that I'm ever really against 
that sort of thing, mind you, but it was cold, and wet, and here was 
this thing with the big long teeth that were sharper than ours, and 
she wanted to shag it? 'Cos it was *sparkly* ? And how was I 
supposed to get *that* one across?

Apparently I didn't need to, 'cos the next thing I knew, Dru was down 
on the sand, snogging the Merrow girl like. well, you know from 
experience *we* don't have to breathe, and the fishwife had *gills*, 
so. Nobody was coming up for air anytime soon. And yeah, it
turned me 
on. I mean, Dru and almost anybody turned me on, long as I got to 
play, or watch, or hear about it afterwards. Long as it was.
voluntary, on my part. That's the way it was, for both of us. For a 
long damn time.

In for a penny, in for a pound, I guess, so I figured why not join 
in. Still a little nervous of those teeth, you get me, 'cos when I 
say long, and sharp.yeah, you've seen them on the blokes, right.
So.. 
you want details, like how when I pulled Dru's frock off, the cold 
and the wet made her nipples stand out like little dark currants? How 
she looked when she bent over that green girlie, all hungry and mad 
and sweet, and brushed the ends of her hair over the girl's 
forehead? Growled at me, 'til I stripped off and lay down in the 
surf with 'em, rolling and licking and petting everything I could lay 
my hands or mouth on that wasn't sand or me? 'Cos there were enough 
hands and mouths and legs and fins on me to take care of that just 
fine, without any help from me.

So Dru's howlin' at the moon, 'cos she's got her fancy being 
attended to by that croony round mouth, and I'm thinking. better
you 
than me, love, and if that thing bites anything off my Dru that 
can't be replaced. and Dru's doing that same little favor for me
an' 
all, but what about the little fish-girl? Aside from a lot of petting 
and tickling and kissing and that sorta thing, nobody's been seein' 
to her needs. Dru brought me off nice, the way she always could, and 
I thought.fair's fair. and started to pay a bit more
attention to the 
green chit.

But. there's always a snag, ain't there. This is where the funny
part 
comes in. Y'now, where you're *allowed* to laugh, wanker. But don't 
stop that, and aren't you happy I undid the jeans, then? *I* sure as 
hell am. Xander? Hello? I said *don't* stop tha.. Oh. Yeah, you
can 
do that. Keep doing that. I *like* your hands. 

Ahem. Snag. Female Merrows. when I said fins, I didn't just mean
the 
flipper hand thingies the boys have. I meant. fins. Like your 
traditional Mermaid. Green all over, different eyes, big teeth, 
whatever, but this girl was pretty much built like your basic Hans 
Christian Andersen wet dream. All grown up. and no place to go.
Yeah, 
Spike, Big Bad master of the horizontal, vertical, and everything in 
between, can't figure out where to put it. Where to put. anything.

Stop it. You don't have to laugh *that* hard! Let me up and I'll.
oh. 
Okay, if you keep doing that, I won't beat you silly. Sillier. 
Anyway. All three of us, sitting in the sand and the water, 
completely bollocks-naked, though of course the Merrow'd started out 
that way. Dru's sort of tittering behind her hands, and I'm trying to 
find.well, something. I mean, nipples are erogenous zones, yeah,
but 
I doubt I could bring her off just by licking and sucking. Oh,
you 
think I could've? Oh. You think I could do that with *you*. Let's 
save that for a long, rainy afternoon, shall we?

Finally I just sat there, and I'm sure I looked like a complete 
gobsmacked idiot, just tilting my head to one side and thinking. 
Right. Basic demonic anatomy. Wished I paid more attention when 
Angelus was trying to shove my face in one or another of his books of 
bloody 'dark lore.' And the chit starts nattering at me, and I'm only 
catching half of it, but I've pretty much got the picture. How I'm 
either an utter moron, or I don't have the common courtesy to do a 
turnabout is fair play, or maybe I'm the sort who'd be happier with 
her *brother* than her.

And maybe I was, 'cos I sure wasn't overly attracted to *her* at the 
moment, since she'd started to sound like a *real* fishwife. Bitchin' 
up a storm, flipping her tail in the water and waving her hands about 
like a pissed-off lorry-driver. Not that there were a lot of those 
about at the time, but you know what I mean. I couldn't pick up half 
of what she was saying or signing or singing, but I was pretty sure 
most of it had to do with me and my mother and my probable preference 
for her brother instead of her.

And I got sick of it. A real bellyful. Not my fault she had to go and 
be an egg-layer! Not my fault I didn't speak the language well enough 
to ask her what exactly I had to do to send her to the moon and back. 
Not terribly overjoyed with Dru giggling to herself in a puddle of 
water, either, making little splashy fishy noises and flipping her 
fingers like fins. So I stood up, cold and wet and naked, and just a 
bit utterly humiliated, and picked up the bloody little bint---the 
Merrow, not Dru! --- and carried her out into the waves. Said ta 
muchly, with as bad an accent as I could muster, and tossed her as 
far as I could out to sea.

Yeah, hilarious, but not quite the end of the story. Dru's still 
laughing, I'm standing in the water, waves up to my cock, fish-girl's 
flipping her tail at us and diving into the breakers, and there in 
the shallows is this bloke. Merrow. Must've been that brother she 
was so sure I'd take a fancy to, and damn if she wasn't right. Built 
like. ever seen Harrison Ford take off his shirt in one of the
Indy 
Jones flicks? Like that. Yeah, greeny-blue hair, shark-eyes, all 
that, but. damn. Could've bounced rocks off his chest. He wasn't 
wearing anything much in the way of anything either, and. well,
damn 
about covers it. Gave me this. *look*, like. yeah, I'd like
to see 
what you're all about, but I've gotta get this one back to the 
spawning grounds, so. have a nice unlife, mate.

He dived into the waves after her, and there I was, wet and pissed 
and naked and still a bit horny, and trying to get Dru dressed enough 
to stumble back over those rocks and get back to the lair where I 
could start a nice fire. Never saw the bugger again. Don't know how 
long they live, don't particularly care, wasn't exactly a blind date 
love connection, but. you should've bloody seen the one that got 
away, kid."


*****

And Spike waited for Xander to laugh, but all he heard were the 
sounds of gentle breathing on his neck. The massage had died away as 
he'd started to describe the Merrow bloke, but he'd just thought it 
was. well, an exciting part of the story. No. He couldn't be that 
bloody lucky. Somewhere in the middle of the best part, Xander had 
fallen asleep on him. Literally. 

Well, his back didn't hurt anymore, and the warm presence of Xander's 
body atop his own wasn't exactly unpleasant, though he'd been hoping 
to get a bit more. action out of tonight's version of
full-contact 
sports. Maybe he could fish that magazine out, and. nah. He'd
have to 
shake Xander off him to do anything useful with Seven-of-Nine in a 
silver bikini. And anyway. Nah. He stirred what was left of the 
chocolatey goop in the bottom of his mug, and drained it, licking his 
lips. Not bad. A bit of a whitebread, afterschool special sort of 
taste, but Xander was right. It had a nice kick. Speaking of
kicks.

Xander. Weapons. He'd been thinking about weapons. And fish. And.
As 
he drifted off, his body more relaxed than he'd realized, he noticed 
that he *had* knocked the mug over on the pillow, and Xander was 
going to tease him about it in the morning. Not as if the boy really 
cared about the bedclothes, with the things they'd been doing in 
them. Weapons. Fish. Harrison Ford. He wondered idly if there
was a 
bullwhip anywhere in that bag of tricks on the floor. Xander in a 
leather jacket, dark brown fedora, cracking the whip at a pack of 
nasties, with Spike smiling, or maybe drooling, nearby. It was a 
pretty good image to fall asleep on.


Part Seven: Half-Baked

Spike was getting awfully bloody tired of missing Passions. Which was 
a bit sad, in its own way, since he'd started watching the thing to 
while away the boredom of being trapped in the Watcher's flat instead 
of out spreading mayhem. These days he kept sleeping through it, or 
shagging through it, and though the shagging was a much nicer 
entertainment, it still irked him that he was losing track of who was 
doing what to whom. 

He'd tried to catch up today, and really made a concerted effort to 
pay attention, but his eyes had slowly unfocused, lids falling shut 
as he tried to blink away sleep, to no avail. Behind those eyelids, 
east coast met west, and Harmony and Sunnydale merged into one 
bizarre amalgam.

Ethan Crane was trying to choose between taking Buffy or Giles to the 
Prom, the fact that Giles still looked like a Fyarl demon apparently 
having no effect on the young man's dilemma. Spike was rooting for 
Giles, himself. Bugger needed a hobby, and the clean-cut Yank, 
village-idiot though he was, might just distract Rupert from his mid-
life ain't-got-a-job moaning.

Charity, the little goody-witch, was afraid of some vision she'd had 
that the Hellmouth was going to open up again. Spike, suddenly in the 
action and dressed in a completely unfashionable copper's uniform, 
was trying to comfort her. He kept having to kick Timmy away, though, 
as the annoying little golem insisted on trying to bite him on the 
ankles. With a frustrated growl, he finally went game-face on the 
brat, who then faded into the woodwork with a cheshire-cat's grin.

The blonde bint ran off into the night, and when Spike followed, the 
sun rose on him. Didn't burn. Just stayed up there being all bright 
and cheery and...well, sunny. Glancing around the downtown streets, 
he noticed someone standing in front of the ruins of the bombed-out 
high school. Somebody in a leather duster, with bleached blonde hair, 
his thumbs curled over the buckle of his belt, a shit-eatin' grin on 
his smarmy-arse face. Damned fine-lookin' vampire. Spike shouted 
over to him: "Oi, then! Seen a girl, so high? Dark hair, answers to 
Faith? Or... No, Hope, I think?" His double flipped him the two-
fingered salute, and lit up a fag, leaning on the dented bus-stop 
sign in front of the school.

"Here, you, just 'cos you've got my face doesn't mean you can slag me 
off..." Spike called out angrily at Spike, and crossed the street in 
a few quick strides. He narrowly escaped being hit by a beat-up white 
Citroen lurching along at breakneck speed, with Willow's little 
girlfriend in the passenger seat, and nobody driving. When he 
reached the front of the school, the other Spike offered him a puff 
on his cig, which uniformed Spike declined. "Second-hand smoke. Don't 
want to give the boy lung cancer..." 

His double snorted at him. "So you've started fancying boys now, have 
you?" the other Spike sneered.

"Not boys.. *A boy*..." replied Spike defensively, thinking he'd had 
this conversation before, somewhere.

"Yes, that makes it alright, then. Still, it's all rather sick and 
disgusting, innit? *You* worrying about giving somebody lung cancer? 
Rip 'em out and clean 'em, if you're that concerned."

"Can't. Rip out his lungs, he'll know I love him, " Spike sighed.

"You're right, there. Might stake you or somethin'. Sure sucks to be 
you." The other Spike made his last comment in Buffy's whingey little 
voice, and winked. Blew a perfect smoke ring at Spike, which spread 
out and billowed into his face until he was coughing up a storm. By 
the time Spike's vision and his suddenly working lungs had cleared, 
his twin was wearing a hat. A beat-up fedora. But it wasn't the other 
Spike anymore, standing next to him. This bloke's leather coat was a 
jacket, not a duster, and he had the most amazing blue eyes. Which 
Spike was bloody well aware *he* possessed too, but these were 
attached to a rugged face and a chin you could chisel out of Mount 
effin' Rushmore with a shitload of dynamite and a cheerful heart.

"You'd get things done a lot easier if you'd stop listening to him so 
much," Indy commented, waving away a bit of residual smoke. "He's a 
complete moron."

Spike nodded, wondering if you really could bounce rocks off 
Professor Jones' chest. Sure as hell looked like it. "Yeah, but he's 
got a point. Sucks to be a vampire these days, if you've shacked up 
with a human. Even rent-free, there's still laundry to do."

"That would explain it, I guess," Indy commented, pointing down at 
Spike's clothes. Bleedin' short trousers and green Hawaiian shirt, 
and no duster to be seen. Which meant no cigs, just in case he 
changed his mind. 

"Nah, these're his. Thought I burned 'em, but I guess he did the 
soddin' soul-restoration spell on 'em. Which would be fine, if they 
didn't keep goin' mad and murdering gypsies every time I wear 'em to 
bed." Spike plucked disgustedly at the nasty Banana Republic shirt.

Indy gave him a grin. "You make things so damn hard on yourself, 
don't you, Will... Head thicker than my Dad's. Isn't that your buddy 
over there?" He pointed to the magic shop across the street, where 
Giles, no longer a demon, was arguing heatedly on the pavement with 
Willy the Snitch and Julian Crane over whether it was going to be 
Valentine, Paul Revere, or Epitaph in the third race.

Spike shook his head. "S'my bloody father-in-law, innit. Not that 
*he* thinks I'm good enough for the boy." He turned back to Indy only 
to find that while the hat and the jacket and the coiled bullwhip 
were still right next to him, the toasted-honey eyes beneath the brim 
of that battered fedora belonged to Xander Harris. And the boy was 
smiling like only a great bloody idiot would, right at Spike.

"He won't mind, as long as you treat me right and don't hog the 
covers. He doesn't have any room to talk anyway." Xander reached out 
a leatherclad arm to touch Spike's chin with soft fingers. "Well? 
Aren't you gonna kiss me? That's the way these things usually start."

Spike moved closer to him, studying the shadows that the hat made on 
his face. Realizing that on this pavement, for some reason they were 
the same height. He leaned in to brush his lips against Xander's, 
putting his arms around his lover's waist, pressing up against 
leather and cotton and the warm smell of a human male. A specific 
human male. Only Xander smelled like this.

"I would court you with more grace, if I knew how," Spike murmured 
earnestly against the faintly stubbled jaw, before pressing his lips 
once more to Xander's still-blinding smile.

*****

"C...court me?" Xander stuttered as he gently shook his lover awake, 
stroking Spike's back, feeling the smooth, cool skin twitch under his 
fingers as Spike began to return from wherever he'd been. [Court me? 
He's courting me? Help. What the hell does that mean?] "When did you 
start courting me? Shouldn't there have been a summons or something?"

Spike rolled over, blinked blearily at him, and stretched his arms 
out to either side. Xander took the opportunity to pin Spike's left 
arm beneath him, and put his own on Spike's shoulder, so they lay 
facing each other, sort of hugging, sort of not. 

"You're not s'posed to be here. You're at work. You have to be at 
work, 'cos the sun's up. You're a dream." Spike sounded very, very 
serious about this.

Xander looked at the sleepy vampire in his arms, and smiled. "Thanks, 
you're not so bad yourself. But no, real as real can be. If you prick 
me, do I not bleed? If you pinch me, do I not kick your helpless ass 
from here to Santa Barbara? Wake up, Spike." 

[He's so...human, when he's still half-asleep. He still dreams. He's 
just a...demon. A demon in blue jeans with no shirt, in my bed. Who 
looks like a man. Who.makes me want to hold him, sometimes, when
he's 
not holding me. Who wants to court me with more grace. ] 

Spike shook his head a few times, rubbed his eyes as best he could 
with the hand that wasn't pinned under Xander, and focused in on him. 

"Right, I'm not dreaming, or we wouldn't be in this hellhole. Plaza 
Ritz, or at least a decent strip club. What're you doing home before 
six? You said six." Spike brushed stray dark hairs out of Xander's 
eyes, and an odd, kind of sympathetic look came over his sharply 
angled face. "You didn't get the sack, did you?"

Xander was less than happy with the widely-accepted fact that he 
couldn't hold a job for longer than a week without getting fired. 
He'd stayed at this one for at least three, and... well, it sucked, 
like all the others, but at least it had a reasonably low suckiness 
quotient compared to the dog-bathing place and the fish cannery. 

"No, I didn't get *fired.* Didn't quit, either. Just took the 
afternoon off, so I could come home and annoy you." He moved his 
face in close and kissed Spike hard Grinding his lips against the 
vampire's with a pissed-off intensity that softened, somewhere in the 
middle of the kiss, to a low heat.

"It working?" he asked when they broke apart.

"I'll let you know," Spike assured him with a grin.

"What's this 'Court me with more grace' stuff? You going poetic on me 
is way into the red zone on the freaky-o-meter."

Spike groaned. "Said that out loud, did I? Don't worry, it's somebody 
else's poetry. Just slithered its way into my dream. Much like you."

Spike was dreaming about him? Xander laid his head down on the 
pillow, still staring at the somewhat-more-awake man in his bed. 
Shirtless, cool, extremely touchable man in his bed. He was finding 
it suddenly difficult to keep his hands to himself and have a plain 
old normal conversation about Spike's freaky dreams. His brilliant 
idea of wrapping his arms around Spike wasn't lending itself to the 
concept of not doing anything further with the fingers at the *end* 
of those arms.

"You were dreaming about *me?* Um...bad dream? Anything I need to 
stake?" Xander had forgotten, he was sure, all sorts of things he'd 
said when he was zonked out of his mind on too much chocolate or not 
enough sleep. For some reason, though, he hadn't blanked out his 
whacko promise to stake Spike's nightmares if Spike would bite his. 
Didn't want to forget it, sappy as it might have been. Maybe it was 
working. He hadn't had any nightmares, not yet, since Spike had been 
sharing his bed.

"No..." Spike yawned. "Just weird. Missed the last half of Passions, 
too, dammit. Mixed into my dream somehow. Think I was Luis there, for 
a minute."

Xander had watched several episodes of Spike's bizarre soap opera 
addiction with him, laughing his ass off at the psycho witch and her 
creepy little sidekick. He sort of knew which character Spike was 
talking about. The Hispanic cop with the sister. Spike, as a cop? 
Spike *dreaming* he was a cop? Snarf.

"Really? In uniform? That must've been..."

"Itchy, as I recall. And khaki does *nothing* for my complexion."

"Yeah?" Xander raked his best lascivious glance---which was getting 
better, since he'd been taking notes from Spike---over Spike's still-
drowsy face. "What was *I* wearing?"

Spike's eyes sort of unfocused, and he actually had a bit of a dopey 
grin going on there. Dopey. Spike. Non-game-face-Spike. [I really 
have to wake him up in the middle of his sleep-cycle more often. He's 
a riot...]

"Er...look, how would you feel about a bull-whip?"

Blink. Blink blink blink. Um... [Okay, I come home to try something 
new on *him* and he wants to know about... um...] Why could Bleachy-
head always do this to him? Always, that is, on the scale of the 
brief time they'd been... whatever they were. Spike had this ability 
to throw him off his mental track with a well-placed look, or a 
question out of nowhere that he damn well knew he had to answer, 
because... Well, because it was Spike, and he'd aggravate it out of 
Xander sooner or later anyway, so why not answer now? Xander kept 
hoping something he'd do or say would surprise the been-there-done-
that vampire. That was *today's* half-baked plan, anyway. If he 
could manage to concentrate on putting it into effect. If Spike 
didn't keep saying things about.bull-whips.

"I think... maybe if you turned me and I lived to be as old as Angel, 
I'd be ready to *think* about doing something with a bullwhip..." he 
managed to reply. "I was hoping we could kinda work our way up 
*slowly* on the ladder o' kink? Like... smaller pieces of leather 
than *that*?"

Spike stared at him, black pupils in the center of those too-blue 
eyes sort of spinning around in circles while not really moving at 
all, before finally clutching his forehead and bursting into genuine 
laughter.

"Not to hit you with, gimboid! As a *weapon*. There's one in that 
bag of fun we scored from the Dagonish's place." Vampiric 
snork... "Honestly, as if *that* wouldn't set the chip off. Nice to 
know your mind works that way, but... honestly!" Spike continued to 
chuckle, and Xander sighed patiently.

"Fine. Laugh at me. See if you get any."

"Any what?"

"That'd be telling, wouldn't it. Surprises."

Something glittered in Spike's eyes, and he purred. That silky, 
dangerous Spike's-voice purr, not the rumbling catlike one he 
sometimes came out with when he was totally relaxed. "*Like* 
surprises, I do."

"And if you're a *good* vampire, you might actually get some. So I 
had a bullwhip in your dream? Is that what you're saying?"

Spike nodded. "Jacket, fedora, whip, the whole bloody ensemble. 
Alexander Harris and the Basement of Doom. Looked good on you." 

Spike was getting easy with the compliments. Which would make a more 
suspicious person believe that he wanted something from Xander, since 
what the hell would *Spike* be doing saying nice things about Xander 
Harris? And why the hell would Spike, the blue-jeaned devil at the 
door in a half-remembered country song, think Xander Harris, boy-
geek, looked...good? Xander kept wondering if today would be the day 
they'd drag him off to the funny farm, where life is beautiful all 
the time, and he'd be happy to see those nice young men in their fine 
white coats..... 

"Xan? This is the bit where you say 'Thank you, Spike...'" the 
pouting British voice pointed out, accompanied by... yes, there it 
was, the soft pink lower lip, and Xander was *not* going to suck on 
it. Not.

What was the question again? Oh. Thank you. For the alleged 
compliment. "Okay. Thank you, Spike's subconscious, for picturing me 
as Harrison Ford. Even though he's thirty years older than me."

"You're welcome. See, I can be polite, if the mood takes me. So---
whatcha think?"

Xander resisted the urge to *show* Spike what he was thinking, which 
involved stripping those jeans off him and running his fingers over 
every inch of Spike's body...very, very slowly. And then a bit 
faster... What was the question?

"About a bullwhip? I think you'd have to find somebody who knows how 
to use one, to teach me. And honestly... can you picture it? In 
Sunnydale? 'Hey, Mister Vampire, 'scuse me while I whip this out...' 
I'd be dead in thirty seconds."

Spike pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Yeah. S'pose you're right. 
Still... wouldn't say no to seein' you in the fancy-dress."

"You want me to dress up as *Indy*?" He thought about it for a few 
seconds. Battered leather jacket. Extremely cool hat. Not as if he 
hadn't wanted to be Indiana Jones since he was in kindergarten, 
scaring Willow with fake rubber snakes. Big freakin' sacrifice to put 
one of his own little fantasies into effect for Spike.. "I could 
maybe do that. " He tweaked his lip up, just a little. Since Spike 
was in the mood to talk about fantasies. "How d'you feel about 
tweed?" 

"Tweed????" Spike responded with a disgusted snort. "As in Henry 
Jones Senior? M' not your father, kid!"

This time it was Xander's turn to purse his lips. "Nooo. Not that 
kind of tweed. Gilesy tweed. "

Spike's dark eyebrows shot up. "You want me to dress up as *Rupert*? 
And I thought *I* was kinky."

Um.. No. It wasn't like that. There'd just been that dream. On the 
swings. *That* dream. The thought of Spike in Giles' clothes... It 
was just about seeing whether Spike looked as strangely sexy in real 
life in that Watchery suit as he had in Xander's dream. Maybe 
swinging on the swings in the park in the middle of the *night.* Or 
maybe not the swings at all. Maybe the merry-go-round? The little 
bouncy horses that would probably make great objects to bend somebody 
over. or be bent over. and he had a sick, sick mind. 

The tweed thoughts...they didn't have *anything* to do with the fact 
that Giles was maybe just a little bit cute, in a no-don't-go-there 
kind of way, or that Spike seemed to be *taking care* of Xander these 
days. Which was awfully Gilesy. All of which had to be the most 
bizarre set of circumstances he'd been in since... well, his *last* 
relationship. He didn't exactly have a stunning track record.

"N... no. So not that. So very much not that..." he finally choked 
out, trying to mean it. "I just kinda had a dream about you, too. A 
while ago. Before this whole whatever it is. Giles was teaching you 
how to be a Watcher. "

"Erk..." Spike replied helpfully.

"Yeah, my thoughts exactly. I thought it was all about the gang 
passing me by, at the time... or maybe just the primordial Slayer 
spirit stopping by to kick my ass for good luck, before going after 
Buffy. Sort of the Xander-Lucky-Ass-Buddha. But...have to admit, I 
have this bizarro kick to see you in Watcherwear." He stroked the 
pillowcase absently, feeling the nubbly softness of the old, cool, 
cotton.

"You're a sick, nasty little boy," Spike admonished. "And if you 
drugged me and hauled me to the tailor's by one toe, you *might* be 
able to shove me into a tweed suit before I ripped your arms off, 
headache or no headache!"

"Noted. No tweed, unless I can get you completely blasted." 

"Damn straight. Well, maybe a bit bent..." Spike grinned, snaking his 
free arm around Xander's neck and trying to draw him in for a kiss. 

No. There would be no kissing yet, and no distractions, [No *more* 
distractions!] and no... what was the fucking question again? Shit! 

An idea, slightly evil, popped fully-grown into his head. [Treat it 
kindly, it's in a strange place... Thanks, Cordy...] If he could 
totally discombobulate *Spike*-- then he might be able to get on with 
his own plans for the afternoon.

"No. Not now," he managed to say sternly, and rolled on top of Spike, 
trapping the vampire beneath him. Spike looked... what, a bit 
surprised? Good.

"No? Why not?" his lover whined up at him, attractive even when 
acting like a five-year-old. Or maybe *more* attractive *because* he 
was acting like a five year old. And he damn well knew it. 

"No. Because you and I are going to have a *talk*."

Spike's eyes lit up. "The sort of talk where I don't have to beat you 
at bloody *Candyland*...?" He left the rest open to the imagination, 
and Xander's imagination had been getting a workout for the past 
several days anyway, so it wasn't a difficult path to follow.

"No, not that kind of talk. The kind where I ask you a question. If 
you give me a straight answer, and I like it, or even understand it, 
then, maybe, we play. " He could feel his own warm breath bouncing 
back at him from Spike's face, which had suddenly gone into mega-
panic-mode. Yahoo!


***************************************************************

{Talk? He wants to bloody *talk*? About non-shagging, non-Sunnydale 
issues? Shit. Bugger. Welcome to the undead Maury Povich Show. Where 
the vampire tries not to tell the human that he's arse over fucking 
tit in love with him, thus giving the human an unfair advantage in 
the ripping-your-heart-out contest.}

In other words, here it came. Xander figuring out that Spike was 
(duh?) evil. Bad for him. A lovely way to pass a week or two in bed, 
but when it came to long-term whatever... Well, a fortnight wasn't 
long enough, but it was longer than he' d figured, frankly. Longer 
than he'd thought on the bleedin' morning after, when he watched the 
water in the shower cascade down Xander's twisted-up face and 
thought... {Mine. Mine to bloody hold until he lets me go, and damn 
the Slayer, and damn Dru, and damn Angel, and damn me too, 'cos I'm 
already damned...} Or something like it. Something like what he was 
thinking now, but a bit more hopeful, and not as desperate.

"Right. That sort of talk." He stretched out his arms as far as he 
could. They were fairly free, considering that Xander, still fully 
clothed in tan chinos and cabana-boy shirt-of-the-day, was lying 
heavily atop his chest and torso. He was suddenly feeling as if the 
distance between them was far more than the hundred miles of space 
between their lips right now. Just to make sure he didn't try reach 
across it, he clasped his hands behind his head, staring up at the 
pipes-and-beams ceiling, avoiding Xander's eyes. "Well, I told you 
to bloody ask if you wanted to know something, so...ask, then."

"Don't tell me what to do. Not today," Xander said forcefully. Spike 
glanced back down at his face. The black brows were furrowed at him. 
Serious. What, puppy-child's decided to take control? Spike almost 
laughed. Except that he rather liked it, in a suicidal sort of way, 
so...

"Alright. Your show." 

Xander nodded at him. "Yeah, it is. Straight answer."

Spike couldn't hold back a snicker. Couldn't resist stealing a line 
from the moron who stuck that bit about courtship in his head, and 
therefore was somehow responsible for letting it slip out of his 
mouth. "No vampire, anywhere, ever gave anybody a straight answer. 
But I'll try."

"Is this more than fucking? Are we...friends?"


*****

No answer. Fuck this. Xander suddenly realized he *wanted* the 
answer. "Spike, dammit, look at me. How old are you? Five? Six? 
You're a hundred and whatever. You've got the biggest balls on the 
planet, so you're always saying. Look at me." 

Spike.finally lowered his eyes. And Xander wasn't prepared for
the 
look in them. He knew they changed shades of blue, depending on 
whether Spike was laughing, or pissed, or coming on to him, or any of 
a hundred other psycho mood swings Spike was capable of. He knew they 
turned yellow when Spike vamped out. But he'd had never seen them 
like this. Sort of embarrassed and relieved, or maybe Xander just 
didn't have a clue how to read Spike after all.

[Don't know what the hell it means. Just that he's the most beautiful 
thing I've ever seen in my whole God damned life, and I'm fucked if 
I'm gonna let him walk out of here 'cause he thinks he's some badass 
who can't admit he *likes* me. Because he *does.* I mean, you might 
give blowjobs to somebody you don't like, but do you play Scrabble 
with them?] Something was a bit off about that reasoning, but he 
wasn't ready to examine it too closely.

"Friends? Like 'do you want to go bowling' friends?" Spike let out a 
throttled laugh. 

"Yeah. Like that. Friends. Insert clappy theme song here." He 
whistled a few notes.

"Blecch."

"For the friends? Or the song?"

"The song."

"That was an indirect answer, and does *not* qualify as straight," 
Xander said sternly, suppressing a smile. "Fine, I'll be the idiot 
first, since it comes so easy to me. I *like* you, Spike. Believe it 
or not. You make me laugh, and you manage to piss Buffy off 
*without* getting bitch-slapped, most of the time, which is pretty 
impressive. Can't stand you sometimes, but that goes for all of my 
other friends, too. 'Course, none of them can make me scream like you 
do." [Or feel this way when I'm with them. Willow comes closest, but 
it's not the same. Like it's okay to just let go, because it's safe, 
it's the best place to be, it's...home.]

Spike was silent for a minute. A long minute. Then he bridged the 
space between them. Put his other hand on the back of Xander's head, 
and brought it gently down to him. Whispered into the crook of 
Xander's neck.

"Yeah. We're *friends*. I bloody like you too. Don't let it get 
around."

*****

He hadn't had to say it, after all. Xander hadn't asked it of him. 
Hadn't seemed to realize it was even a possibility. Hell. Reprieved 
by an even more pathetic, but less dangerous admission-- that 
he...*liked* Harris. Thought the boy was funny, in his own way. A 
laugh to be around. A warped little perspective on what it was like 
to be nineteen and alive in the deadest town in California. A set of 
sporadically-appearing knackers that beat bloody all. {You're 
*mates*, Spike. Snicker, snicker...} Snarky Voice Number Two. He 
recognized the little bastard, by this time. {Yeah. So what. We're 
mates. Sod off.}

"Look, am I gonna get a kiss outta this?" Spike asked, finally.

Xander answered him with silent lips, brushing them gently across 
Spike's, then nibbling softly on Spike's lower one, which he was only 
too happy to stick out for the full treatment. Warm and wet, Xander's 
mouth covered his, lips sliding in and out between his own, tongue 
finally darting into Spike's mouth and staking a claim. Warm and soft 
and slow, tasting of chocolate and cola, and getting hotter and 
harder and faster, until Xander suddenly pulled back and smiled. 

"What day is it, Spike?"

Spike stared at him suspiciously. "I *am* awake, y'know." Well, 
mostly awake. Kind of. Then his mind did one of those little flips, 
like where you realize suddenly that you're in * California* and 
really shouldn't be driving in the left lane. Not that such had ever 
happened to *Spike*. With anyone around to see it, anyway. He caught 
on to what the boy was talking about. "Christ. I have no fuckin' 
idea. It's a weekday, 'cos Passions was on, but..." He really didn't. 
Tuesday? Friday?

"Yeah. Me too. Didn't have a clue. I only figured out it was Thursday 
by lookin' at the schedule at work. We've been doing the cabin-fever 
thing, Spike. Fuck here, go out at night but only where nobody 
important can see us, I go to work, you go to sleep, come straight 
back and start the whole thing over. "

"Not all that terrible, was it?" Spike said, licking his lips...

"No.... guess I wouldn't trade it for shoe-shopping with Cordelia. 
Except for the damn Basement of Doom. But it really would be nice to 
see other people. In the non-dumpy sense of the phrase."

Spike ran his fingers over the too-long hair, growing shaggy, 
smelling of tropical fruit shampoo. Yanked gently on a lock of it. 

"You gonna let me up now?"

"Hmm...Poor Spike. Did I *embarrass* you?" 

"If I say yes, will you let me up?" Spike answered with a growl. 
{Yes, as a matter of fact. Human idiot.}

"Maybe."

"Well, then, maybe."

"Well, then, maybe we should take a nap and you can think about 
whether that's your final answer."

And they did. Spike was still tired, and Xander was obviously getting 
there, and sleep was definitely a good place to be when you had a 
friend in your arms.

*****

God knew how many hours later, Xander stretched and smiled and 
realized he was *still* on top of Spike. Frowned, and realized he'd 
gotten distracted *again*. He thumped the sleeping vampire not-too-
gently on the head. "Hey-- wake up. Time to play."

[Hallmark moment and post-mushiness naptime are *over*!] Time to 
*really* see if he could surprise Spike. He'd been working on it for 
two days, after all. If he'd spent this much time and effort on his 
homework back in high school, he might not be a minimum-wage kinda 
guy these days. Then again, this had seemed a bit more important, 
somehow, than fourth period Social Studies... and a hell of a lot 
more fun.

Spike opened his eyes, and there wasn't any sleep in them now. 
Sparkling with devilish intentions. Too bad. It was Xander's turn for 
your basic non-Hellmouthy dementia. *He* had plans.

"If I say yes, will you let me up *now* ? " Spike asked.

"Yeah."

"Then yeah. Just a bit. Berk."

Xander chuckled and rolled off him. When he started to get up, 
however, Xander pushed him back down.

"Uh-uh."

"What?" Spike asked, puzzled.

"You get up when I *say* you get up, rentboy." He'd been practicing 
this tone for a couple of days, on the rear-view mirror in the car as 
he drove to work. God knows what the other drivers thought when he 
stopped at red lights. Spike's eyes widened.

"Oh....kay, right." The vampire lay still, a small smile spreading 
across his face...

"So get up. *Now.*" Spike chortled softly at that, but stood up with 
a quickness that was pretty impressive in somebody who had just woken 
up from a long summer's nap.

"Get me that bag on the counter." Spike raised his scarred eyebrow, 
but complied, handing him the crinkly plastic bag, from which Xander 
pulled a water-treated canvas tarp. Now the other eyebrow shot up. 
Way up. Xander's turn to let Spike's best smirk steal over his face. 
[Nyah-nyah... got you doin' a Barney Fife on me, and don't I wish I 
had the Polaroid in my hands right now...]

He spread the tarp over the bed, while Spike leaned against the 
stairway with his arms folded over his chest, obviously interested, 
but unwilling to give in and ask. When every square inch of the bed 
was covered, with the pillows on top, he looked back at Spike. Who 
was now trying some kind of 'I have absolutely *no* interest in what 
you're up to' schtick, with no success whatsoever. He might as well 
have been staring at the ceiling and whistling.

Xander crossed his own arms. "Okay. Get your jeans off and lay down. 
*Face* down." Aha! Reward! Surprise on Spike's face. Worth every bit 
of aggravation Spike had ever thrown at him, just for that *look*. 
That dumbfounded look with the gorgeous mouth hanging slightly open.

Spike wasted no time in following his order, though, unbuttoning his 
beltless jeans, unzipping them and skinning them down to the floor. 
Almost too fast for Xander to enjoy the view. But not quite. Spike 
climbed back onto the bed, and it was an innocent pleasure to watch 
the muscles in his ass flex as he lay down again. Xander tore himself 
away reluctantly from the sight of Spike's pale backside, and the 
curve where it tucked in again, like the body of a guitar, before 
swelling into the strength of his lower back. Time enough for all 
that in a minute.

He went to the fridge, pulling from the tiny freezer compartment the 
prize that he'd brought home today, the one that he didn't have time 
to pick up yesterday afternoon, because it would've melted. Yesterday 
afternoon, he'd been... busy with other things. It wasn't *quite* 
true that he'd been coming straight home from work. He'd made a few 
detours yesterday and today. Sampled a few flavors, too, before 
deciding to go with the tried-and-true... along with the definitely 
new and different.

Frozen carton in hand, Xander grabbed a can from the refrigerated 
section below, and picked up his other bag of supplies from where 
he'd dropped it before crawling into bed with Spike. He plucked a 
large spoon from the cup-o-silverware, and almost as an afterthought, 
scooped up the brown paper bag he gotten at the pawn shop on College 
Avenue. He finally hauled the whole kit-and-kaboodle, to quote his 
grandmother [Oh, so not an image I need in my head right now, 
thanks...] over to the bed, where Spike was peeking around to see 
what he was doing.

"Did I *say* you could look, mister?" Xander asked forbiddingly.

Spike... giggled. Damn vampire.

"What?" Xander asked with a warning growl.

"It's just... you make such a *cute* little top..." Spike choked out.

"Oh yeah, very submissive. And I'm not *little.* I'm two inches 
taller than you. Unless you're implying..." Xander trailed off, with 
the threat implicit in his artificially lowered voice that if Spike 
*was* implying, revenge would be imminent...

"Oh, no." Chuckle. "No, not implying. Not complaining. Never 
complain..."

Xander guffawed at that one. "You never complain? It's tew cold, it 
is. C'mere and be me pillow. We're out of Weetabix. Yew fell asleep 
in the middle of me story. Y' don't *love* me anymore. The damn 
licorice is stale.... " He went on in a horrible exaggerated Cockney, 
purposely designed to piss Spike off, since the Londoner apparently 
had some sort of *thing* about not being from that part of the city. 
Psycho Limey Vampire. Like different parts of *Sunnydale* had 
different accents? [Oh, I'm not from Brentwood Hills, I'm from 
Forsythia Drive. How dare you!]

In his own voice, he added, "I could've made you try to chew through 
*real* ropes, y'know..."

He set his supplies on the bed, far enough away from Spike's head 
that the vampire couldn't twist around to see them without being 
obvious about it. Traced Spike's spine with the cold handle of the 
spoon, and was rewarded with a barely disguised jump-and-squeak-and-
I'm-a-big-bad-vampire-nothing-surprises-me cough.

"So...what didn't you do yesterday?" Xander prompted his lover. 
His...friend, and wasn't that a kick in the ass.

"Get my end away, 'cos you fell asleep in the middle of my bloody 
story?" Spike offered sulkily. Xander smacked him gently on the ass 
with the spoon.

"Be-have!"

"Right. Sorry. I don't know, sir, what didn't I do yesterday?" Spike 
was halfway between playing along and his usual sarcasm, which Xander 
guessed was really the best he was going to get.

"You didn't ask me what I did after work, and why the ice cream 
would've melted, because you were too busy griping about your poor 
bad back. Which I did a kick-ass job on, didn't I." 
Silence. "Spike..."

"Yes. " Sigh. "You did. What, then, O Master, did you do after
work?" 
The side of Spike's face was sort of smashed against the makeshift 
drop-cloth, so his words were a little slurred.

"Bought stuff. And surfed."

"Ergh... as in... sun and sand, stayed away from the vampire to go do 
the Beach Boys thing?" Spike let out a very non-bottomy growl, and 
Xander pinched him on the back of the thigh.

"No, not that kind of surfing. Almost smashed myself in the head with 
the board the one time I tried it." He took a look at his canvas, and 
liked what he saw. Shook up the cold can in his hand. " I *can* 
sidewalk surf," he added thoughtfully, " though I haven't done it in 
a long time."

"Sidewalk surf? Cruising for birds, y'mean?" Spike asked, confused.

"No, skateboarding. Master of the pavement. Well, maybe slave of the 
pavement, considering the number of times my face came in contact 
with it." Xander suddenly remembered that *he* was supposed to be in 
charge here. Damn distracting vampire. "Don't speak unless you're 
spoken to. I wouldn't want to have to forget all about this and beat 
your bratty undead ass instead."

"So... this is essentially a win-win situation for me, innit?" Spike 
laughed.

"Or I could just go bowling with Willow... I'm sure she and Tara 
could use some company..."

Silence. Good vampire. Xander popped the cap off the can of Rhedi-
Whip, and began to cover Spike's lower back and asscheeks with 
whipped cream. Schloosch.....

"Hey! That's bloody cold!"

"You ain't seen nothin' yet. Be a good boy and shut up." Xander 
dipped a finger in the whipped cream and brought it up to Spike's 
mouth. "Open up..." Spike's tongue darted out and licked his finger. 
Followed by lips that sucked greedily at it until he pulled it away 
with a *pop*.

Pulling the next item out of his grocery bag, he realized he'd 
forgotten a bit of preparation. Twisting the cap off the jar, he 
hopped up from where he knelt beside the bed, to put the glass jar in 
the microwave for a minute. Just long enough to get the contents 
gooey and warm, without being hot enough to actually burn Spike. When 
he brought it back, he again offered a fingerful to Spike. The rough 
tongue that licked the warm fudge sauce off his finger was decidedly 
more enthusiastic now that chocolate had entered the picture.

Setting the jar on the floor, he moved on to the main event, as it 
were. Opening the round carton of ice cream, he used the tablespoon 
to slowly scoop out the entire pint of frozen confection, placing 
large dollops atop the cold whipped cream on Spike's skin. [Ahh, ice 
cream. Food of the Gods, sent to Earth to torment us mere mortals 
into thinking about what kind of great shit they're obviously keeping 
to themselves up there.] Spike twitched when the first *very* cold 
scoop touched his left cheek, and Xander took pity on him.

"Ye-es?" he prompted.

"What...precisely... is that?" Spike asked curiously.

"Ben and Jerry's Half-Baked---which is chocolate fudge brownie and 
chocolate chip cookie dough mixed together in a fifty-fifty ratio. 
Precisely." Xander answered amicably, and then he reached for the 
banana.

Which he wasn't going to anything terribly nasty with, though he half 
wanted to show it to Spike beforehand, just to see the expression on 
that face...

*****

Spike was... cold, just a bit, and far more over the edge into 
pleasantly surprised than he'd been when he'd first found the 
unopened tube of lube in the now-infamous drawer-under-the-telly. 
More pleasantly surprised than he'd been the first time Xander'd 
smacked him on the arse, and about even with the moment not that long 
ago when he realized he *wasn't* going to have to tell Xander he 
loved the boy. This time. *This* bit of happy glow, though, was 
unmarred by angst and stupidity. It was just... {Xander's doing 
something *fun*! And I get to play too!}

"Chocolate fudge brownie... y'know, I haven't had that one."

"Heathen. And you call yourself a chocoholic." Xander laid something 
long and heavy against the crack of Spike's arse, and he was once 
again... well, not exactly pleasantly surprised, because he was 
reasonably sure the brat was still completely clothed. So...vaguely 
confused, but too comfy to bother asking. Then there was the warm 
stuff, drizzled over him, hitting his bare skin here and there, 
landing, he assumed, on the ice cream, mostly. Hot fudge. Well, warm 
fudge. He *liked* where this was going.

He heard Xander shake a jar of something that rattled...

"Nuts? Please, not nuts. Don't fancy trying to chase peanut pieces 
out of my arse-crack..." Spike requested, breaking the no-talking 
rule. Like Xander was going to stop now, anyway...

"Chocolate sprinkles. And that's not gonna be an issue. Trust me," 
Xander replied, waving his hands over Spike's back, obviously 
dropping chocolate sprinkles into the concoction that was already 
melting its way over his skin. He could see the need for the bloody 
tarp, anyway. This was a bit messier than gooey donuts on the sheets.

Finally, the sound of another vacuum-packed lid being undone, and 
Xander placed two... somethings, on each of Spike's cheeks. Then 
Xander's fingers re-appeared in front of his face with another treat, 
and Spike figured out what the somethings must've been. Bright red 
maraschino cherries. Spike stuck his tongue out to taste the vaguely 
cinnamony candied-fruit, then sucked on it happily while Xander still 
held the stem. At last he bit it off, and muttered around 
it, "Already had this, you know..."

"Yeah? Was mine better?" Xander teased him.

"Possibly."

Xander backed off, and Spike could hear the rustling of a paper bag. 
The odd sound of something plastic snapping open, sliding back... 
Time passing.Ice cream was melting all over him, and he couldn't 
figure out what the bloody hell Xander was doing. Then there was a 
telltale *schnick* and a flash of bright light.

"You little son of a bitch! You took a *picture* ? "

Schnick! Flash!

"Nope. Two. One for you, one for me."

"You're dead."

"No, you're dead. You're Spike. *I* have a pulse. I'm Xander. You 
really are still asleep, aren't you."

"No. Who the hell are you planning on getting to develop those?"

Xander laid a small square of paper, about four inches by four, on 
the back of the couch, right where Spike could keep an eye on it. A 
Polaroid snapshot, just developing *itself* out of the white mist. He 
reached for it, and Xander tapped the spoon on his arse again. 

"Uh-uh. Bad Spike. Don't touch. Remember, I have the other one, 
anyway."


*****

Xander looked at his creation, and found it good. Not that he was 
getting all sacrilegious about the unbelievably hot demonic guy in 
his bed, who gave a damn about Xander. Despite the fact that Spike 
allegedly didn't have a soul. What could be sacrilegious about 
comparing Spike to the world? He was just as annoying and crazy and 
scary and just occasionally wonderful.

The Slayerette, who was *so* far from thinking of himself as Buffy's 
sidekick at the moment, set his own copy of the picture on the table 
next to the bed, and began to peel his clothes off. This could, after 
all, get *very* messy, with any luck, and chocolate fudge was a bitch 
to get out of cotton/poly blends. Shirt, chinos, undershirt, 
boxers... and he was kneeling naked on the bed next to Spike, a spoon 
in his hand, sampling some of his evening snack.

"Oi... you gonna share any of that, or am I just a convenient way to 
not have to do dishes for another day?"

Xander loaded up the spoon with whipped cream, ice cream (with a nice 
big chunk of brownie in it) and one of the maraschino cherries, and 
delivered it upstate to Spike's mouth. The vampire sighed happily 
around the spoonful of pre-sugar-high.

"So... you done this before?" Xander asked as Spike finally licked 
ice cream off his lips.

"What... ate an ice cream sundae off my own arse? No, I think this 
qualifies as a first. Congratulations."

"It's not a just sundae," Xander corrected him, reaching back with 
the spoon for a piece of whipped-cream covered fruit. "It's a banana 
split."

Spike laughed, and that too was pretty damned good. "I was wondering. 
Very inventive. Full marks."

And they slowly ate their way through a hell of a lot of chocolate 
and whipped cream and ice cream and sprinkles and banana, and all the 
other interesting things that can be found in a carton of Ben and 
Jerry's. Finally Xander looked down at Spike and realized with a 
start that they'd consumed it all. Every last bite. Bleurgh. But a 
good kind of bleurgh. The kind of bleurgh you took Polaroids of, and 
then hid them in the drawer under the TV with all the other stuff 
your mother had better never find.

He compared the now-developed picture of Spike, covered with ice 
cream and toppings, twin cherries poking up from each of his 
asscheeks, to the vampire now lying sated (at least in terms of the 
munchies...) on the bed, melted ice cream dripping down his back, 
into the crack of his ass...

"You're a mess," he proclaimed.

"You're one to talk, you neurotic little git." Spike retorted, 
licking his ice-cream-coated fingers. Somehow there'd been a little 
fight over a spoon in there, and at some point there'd been the 
transferring of the second cherry from one mouth to the other, with 
no spoon involved at all.

"I meant, psychotic dead guy, that you're covered in gooey sloppy 
stuff."

"Shower?" Spike suggested hopefully.

"Well, yeah, but not yet."


*****

And Xander was... slowly licking ice cream and fudge sauce from 
Spike's back, swirling his tongue around in slick circles... moving 
down to Spike's arse, with long sweeps of that tongue, like a big 
dark cat licking at him. A panther... Well, a somewhat geeky panther 
with an extremely talented tongue. When Xander's hands firmly grabbed 
hold of Spike's thighs, he was a bit thrown. Just a bit. Then the 
soft tongue disappeared from his skin, and was used for its allegedly 
higher purpose, as Xander spoke, the heaviness of command once again 
lowering his voice past its usual cracking tenor. 

"Spread 'em." And damn if that didn't send ridiculous little thrills 
up and down his spine, regardless of the fact that it was spoken by a 
nineteen year old human kid playing at being the boss for the first 
time. So Spike shifted his legs, being a good evil dead guy, though 
he wasn't entirely sure what Xander was up to. He was feeling 
strangely, happily vulnerable, though, as Xander's hands spread his 
cheeks even wider apart.

He was certainly unprepared for the feeling of Xander's tongue on him 
again, tracing its way down his much-more-exposed crack, and swirling 
around his arsehole with a torturous, ticklish touch. Wet and soft 
and driving him utterly barmy. Ducking down to lick the sensitive 
strip of skin between his bollocks and hole, which just about had him 
ripping matching holes in the canvas tarp beneath him. {Where the 
hell...this was supposed to be *my* little surprise...how did he...} 
Back to swirling again, just close enough to make him squirm.

Then Xander's tongue darted *into* him, and there wasn't a lot of 
wondering to be done as the muscular little snake bathed his inner 
passage in slick, warm sensation, and he ground helplessly against 
the bed. Far beyond pleasantly surprised. 

***************************************************************
Xander had been...curious, but a bit nervous. Maybe a little 
theoretically grossed out by the concept, until he tasted the skin on 
Spike's ass, cool and clean except for the delicious stickiness of 
chocolate and ice cream. Realized he wanted *more*. That his diligent 
efforts at distinctly non-Gilesy research hadn't been completely half-
baked after all. Spike was *way* getting off on this, and he tasted 
*good*. Like ice cream and chocolate, of course, and like Spike, a 
lot like the way Spike's lips tasted, only stronger. A weird kind of 
spicy but salty but rainy taste. 

When he finally dared to put his tongue inside Spike, he found the 
taste was the same... just more distinct. Deeper. The feel of Spike 
writhing on the bed was enough to spur him on to a little action 
beyond just *being* in there, and he thrust his tongue in and out of 
the tight, cool space. [I'm actually *fucking* somebody with my 
tongue...which, okay, done before, but definitely not *there*.] 

When, at last, he started to get a bit tired, and Spike was grinding 
against the mattress like he'd get off in a minute just from the 
friction, Xander pulled his tongue out. Replaced it with an index 
finger coated in spit and melted ice cream, and moved *that* in and 
out, repeatedly hitting the spot that he now recognized as the one 
that sent Spike off into fireworks-ville. 

"Xan...der... God, luv, please..." Spike muttered into the 
pillow. "Gonna... come all over the bed and I want you *in* me when 
I do!"

It was just about the best request he'd ever heard, and Xander didn't 
need a hell of a lot of convincing. Pulling his finger out to the 
tune of a disappointed groan from Spike, he guided his erection, 
already slippery with pre-come, to the hole he'd just ravaged with 
his tongue and finger. Pushed slowly in until he felt his balls hit 
against Spike's ass. Spike pushed back up against him, and he 
answered in kind, feeling the sudden need to pound into his lover for 
all he was worth. Nothing gentle here, nothing hesitant, just him and 
the body beneath him, grinding in mutual rhythm, shaking the bed, 
creaking the damn shitty springs and probably bending that support 
bar back into its original back-attacking dip, and he didn't care. 

He *did* care about Spike, who was making little animal groans of 
pleasure that mingled with his own in a symphony that, at this point, 
he could give a shit whether his parents heard from upstairs. If they 
hadn't heard anything else that had gone on in this basement in the 
last year, they were pretty unlikely to suddenly grab a clue now, 
anyway. Frankly, if the door at the top of the stairs had burst open 
and his Dad had come thundering down at them, he probably wouldn't 
have noticed. For a while, anyway. There was just Xander and Spike 
and each other, bodies pressed together, one piece of flesh, two 
minds. Every other moment or so, it almost seemed to him that it was 
the other way around. One mind. His hands on Spike's waist, Spike's 
hands on the tarp, doing nasty things to it, like it mattered. Like 
anything beyond the two of them mattered at this point, and just when 
he thought he was going to fall over from exhaustion, because even a 
nineteen year old guy shouldn't be able to do *that* for that *long*, 
he felt the heat finally build to an explosion. Shooting out of him 
and into Spike in waves that sent electric sweet sugar-rush fire back 
up his own nerve endings, 'til it felt like every cell in his body 
was being lit-up from within.

Spike was still pushing against him, and with his cock still half-
hard inside Spike's ass, with his arms tight around Spike's waist, 
and with whatever part of his mind was still working wondering if God 
ever pardoned vampires in exchange for really good sex, Xander pulled 
that slim body up. He reached around to stroke Spike's rigid shaft, 
once, twice, and on the third firm pull back, Spike let loose all 
over his fingers, leaning back into him with a low, long growl. They 
sat that way for a second, maybe two... Xander on his knees, Spike 
pulled back against him... before they fell sideways onto the bed, 
with a creak of the springs and a laugh from Spike.

*****

A few minutes of Xander-breathing and Spike mentally what-the-hell-
ing later, Spike rolled over to face his lover. Who was wearing the 
shit-eating grin that his Spike-double had worn in this afternoon's 
barmy dream.

"Right, you little bastard. Where'd you learn that? That was *my* 
little trick to show *you*, and you fucking ice-cream scooped me on 
it."

Xander winked at him, which would've been a bit more seductive if A) 
the boy wasn't still breathing hard and trying not to laugh at the 
same time, and B) Spike wasn't almost completely 
knackered. "Research."

"We'd best be talking about secondary sources here... or did the 
Watcher give you a little tutorial? *That* I could almost go for..." 
And Spike pictured super-dignified Rupert regressing to his not-so-
long-ago youth, those silly specs tossed on the floor as he tongued 
into Xander, who was bent over the same sofa that Spike had slept 
several lonely nights on. Xander, trousers round his ankles, hands on 
the cushions, round little backside in the air, getting the lesson of 
a lifetime. Instead of the jealousy he expected, a little twinge of 
lust shot through his groin. Not completely knackered, apparently. 
{Oh. get an unlife, down there. Boy's shagged out.}

"You are *totally* disturbed, Spike. I can't begin to describe how 
much I don't want to even travel in the vicinity of the neighborhood 
where that thought might be temporarily living. I told you. I went 
surfing."

"Surfing? What in the name of all that's unholy are you on about?"

Xander made little motions with his right index finger. "Point. 
Click. Surf." 

{Point...click... Holy Hell, or other blasphemies to that effect...} 
He'd gone surfing... On the net? "You went out looking on the 
bloody internet?" Xander? With the balls to click his way 
into... "Double-you double-you double-you dot rimming dot com?" 
Snicker. "You get the witch to help you with that one, then?" 

And another naughty little scene flitted through Spike's mind: Xander 
at Willow's computer, the quirky-faced redhead frowning as she leaned 
over his shoulder to help him navigate, Xander's face as red as her 
hair. Spike really had to stop having such vivid dreams. They were 
carrying over into his waking hours, and. yeah. There it was. The 
lovely little warm flare of pre-getting-it-up-again, courtesy of the 
thought of Willow and Xander, flamey hair brushing against dark 
curls, looking at dirty pictures together. He really *was* 
disturbed, of course, but this was just your normal Spikey insanity, 
and he reveled in it. The shit that turned him on made sense to his 
cock and whichever deity or demon made him, and that was about it.

Xander sputtered at him. "No, I think that comes under the heading 
of 'Things Willow Not Only Doesn't Know Exist, But Must *Never* 
Know.' God, you're twisted, Spike! I went to the *library.* Where 
they have a nice quiet little room with semi-private cubes where you 
can point-and-click your way into all kinds of completely perverted 
sites, with nobody looking over your shoulder to see what a sicko you 
are. "

"And you found a site on rimming?" Spike asked with actual interest.

Xander suddenly slipped into shy-phase. Of all the times to do it, 
after he'd already *done* it. "Yeah. A. couple of sites. On all
kinds 
of things. How to do.stuff. How to do things *better*. You really 
should see at least one of 'em."

Not that Spike didn't *want* to, but. Not that he was worried
about 
it, but. "Meaning I need some pointers?"

"No, you idiot. Meaning I think you'd like it. It's got pictures. 
Um. *good* pictures."

Spike considered the idea. Yeah, maybe he could use a little spot of 
techno-geekiness, if it meant figuring out how to hunt-up all those 
nasty little images he'd heard were out there. Maybe even print 'em, 
so he could leave them lying around to make Xander blush. If he was 
going to do it, though, he *would* go to the little Wiccan hacker 
genius. Be so much bloody fun to see her face turn pretty colors when 
he told her *exactly* what he wanted to learn for. Leaving out the 
Xander bit, of course. Serious entertainment possibilities, there.

"What the hell put it into your mind to go and do that?" Spike asked, 
stretching suddenly. Because if he didn't get the hell out of that 
bed, he was going to turn around and shag the boy blind. Which might 
just leave him with a corpse on his hands. Not that he was being vain.

*****

Xander looked at Spike, who had sat up, and was stretching. Wakey-up 
type stretching. And. oh. Whatever sick little thoughts he'd been 
having about Giles.or Willow.. or. yeah. Vampires and
getting it up 
again in minutes. *That* was something he still hadn't quite gotten 
used to. Or maybe it was just Spike, since he hadn't actually had 
experience with any other vampires. And he certainly wasn't about to 
compare notes with Buffy.

Spike wanted to know why. Aside from the simple desire to do 
something to make him happy? Which probably wasn't worth sharing, 
since Spike didn't need a bigger ego than he already had. "Wanted to 
surprise you. Smarmy, know-it-all, here-let-me-show-you-how-it's-done 
bastard."

Spike grinned at him, and stood up. White statue of a guy in the 
faded light of the one lamp they'd left on. It had gotten dark out 
there. They must *really* have conked out. And Spike in the pale 
light looked like something out of the Art Appreciation class Xander 
had passed with a surprisingly high average in tenth grade. Twitch. 
Whaddya know. maybe it wasn't just vampires.

"Well, you did. Consider me surprised."

"I consider you a complete mess. You need a shower. *We* need a 
shower. And then."

Spike twisted his lips in that look that said 'I know you want to 
fuck me, so what are you waiting for?' louder than any similar words 
could ever do.

"And then?"

Xander got up too. Dragged the canvas tarp off the bed, careful not 
to spill assorted evidence, edible and otherwise, across the bed or 
the floor. Crumpled the thing up next to the bag of weapons he still 
hadn't had the chance to go through.

Out, out, out. Somewhere. They had to go out. Somewhere with people, 
who knew what day it was. Sometime soon, they had to *actually* get 
out. Leave the damn basement and find someplace sane to live. Or not 
live, in Spike's case. When Xander could be sure things would be at 
least.safe, upstairs, if not happy. But for now.

"We gotta get out of this place."

"If it's the last thing we ever do." Spike agreed musically.
Which 
was the first time Xander had ever heard him sing when he wasn't 
completely blasted. Spike's singing voice was surprisingly higher 
than his obnoxiously sexy speaking voice. Xander liked it. He could 
suddenly picture them singing along together in the car, if they 
could ever find some music they actually agreed on. Sick, weird, 
twisted mind, Xander. Kareoke Spike.

"Right. Wanna go bowling?" Groan.

*****

They emerged from the shower a little cleaner, a lot wetter, and both 
having ingested a nice bit of post-sundae snack. Desperate to get 
the hell out of there.

Out. Out. Xander was right. Great sex or not, Xander or not, the 
basement was suddenly driving Spike up the concrete walls. There was 
a world outside. A moon to howl at. Happy meals on legs, and if he 
couldn't eat them, he could at least take the piss, and walk the 
streets of Sunnydale with his. With his friggin' *friend*, Xander 
Harris.

He reached down for his jeans, where they lay on the floor next to 
the bed, and Xander stopped him with a shout.

"Hey, wait a minute!"

"What-- you wanna go out starkers?" Spike turned to him, trousers in 
hand. 

Xander covered his mouth with one hand, and then sang in an 
exaggerated country accent, "Oh yes, they call him the Streak..he 
likes to show off his physique." The boy broke down into giggles.
No 
fuckin' taste in music at *all*.

"No," Xander said at last. "I just have a damn *favor* to return. 
Bend over."

What, three times in one night? Or were they going for a little of 
the other sort of fun? Whatever. Spike was game. He put his hands 
down on the bed, wiggling his arse at Xander and craning his head 
round to look behind him. The boy fiddled around in that bloody great 
shopping bag that had disgorged all the lovely treats, and at last 
came up with something in his hand. Something that opened with a half-
familiar plastic *snap*. Then Xander was behind him, licking his arse 
again, which was nice, but. 

Oh hell. *That's* what the brat was up to. {Serves you right, 
smartarse.} 

*****

Xander pulled the paper backing off and admired Spike's new tattoo. 
It had cost him four-fifty in quarters to get the one he wanted. He 
was also something of a god to a little group of grade-schoolers, 
who had gleefully accepted the seven assorted Pokemon and Batman 
tattoos he'd pulled out before finally getting this one. And the 
Hello Kitty one for Willow...

"So what is it, then?" Spike asked with resigned sigh, twisting 
around to try to see it. No such luck, nyah-nyah. 

Xander said nothing. Sure, Spike would pester him about it for days, 
but it would drive the vampire absolutely nucking futs, so it sounded 
like a fair trade.

"Hey, you know I can't see it in the mirror. S'not fair."

"Whine, whine, whine." The only way Spike would find out what that 
tattoo was would be if Xander gave in and told him, or he dropped his 
pants for somebody else, and asked. The pants-dropping wouldn't phase 
Spike in the least, Xander was sure, but having to explain how it had 
gotten there, and the fear of what it might actually *be*... that 
ought to keep Spike's jeans in place. Xander snickered to himself. 
Revenge was pretty fucking sweet, sometimes.

*****

And they made it outside without shagging again, much to Spike's 
surprise. The sky was covered in stars, all whispering the weather 
report to Dru somewhere, probably, but there actually wasn't a moon 
to howl at. He really *had* lost track. The air was still, the night 
was warm, the little crickety-bugs were doing their best to drive 
Spike crazier that usual... And what the hell was there to actually 
*do* in Sunnydale, aside from look for night-things to beat up?

In Xander's car. Driving. Just around. Trying to think of something 
to do that wouldn't be a repetition of the trapped-in-the-basement 
syndrome. Finally Xander turned to Spike, and the look in those brown 
eyes was more frightening than any angsty Dawson's Creek moment the 
vampire had ever experienced. Because he knew what Xander was going 
to say, with the sudden psychic clarity that only comes to the 
completely doomed.

"You... wanna *actually* go bowling?"

Spike banged his head against the dash, repeatedly. Xander... seemed 
to be a bit concerned.

"Or... mini-golf? I mean... this *is* Sunnydale. There's not all that 
much to do that isn't Hellmouthy. Um... movie?"

Spike stopped the banging. It fucking *hurt*, anyway, and it didn't 
seem to be doing any good. "I *don't* bowl."

Xander was laughing at him again, and it was beginning to piss him 
off. Especially since he had a sodding tattoo on his behind and no 
way of figuring out what it was.

"*You* mean you don't know *how* to bowl. "

{Grrrrr...}

Xander babbled on. "That's okay. It's been a while for me, too. Last 
time I was gonna go bowling, somebody hit me over the head with a 
microscope and dragged me off to an abandoned factory. Really oughta 
look that guy up and kick his skinny English ass."

{Grrrr...}

"We could go get the witches. Willow's not all that good at it, but 
she's a kickin' score-keeper."

"Grrrrr...."

*****

Tara, as a matter of fact, bowled like a pro. Willow spent the 
evening rolling gutterballs, keeping score, and cheering the blonde 
on. Possibly drooling a little bit, very daintily, over her 
girlfriend. 

Spike, after he'd worn out the fun of bitching about the geeky shoes, 
discovered that he had yet another reason to swagger around town, as 
if he needed any more. He blew all three of them off the lanes, 
sending Willow into uber-cute Pout-Face.

"Undead hustler!" she accused. Which, in turn, had Spike waggling 
his eyebrows and quoting prices for his services, and Willow blushing 
and stammering.

Xander, on the other hand, with the legitimate excuse of watching an 
untaught master of the sport at work, was just having the time of his 
life staring at Spike's ass. 

*******************************************


Epilogue

"Xan...der...." buzzed a little voice in his ear. Great. Gnat season 
had started early. Xander sleepily tried to smack the thing, only for 
his hand to come into contact with somebody's hard skull, centimeters 
away from his ear.

"Xan....der..." Spike whined again.

"*What*, Spike?" Xander hissed through gritted teeth.

"What's the tattoo of?"

Smack. This time it was intentional, but Spike just laughed at him.

"I'm *not* telling you, so get an unlife and go back to sleep. 
It's..." he squinted at the red numbers on the radio alarm clock (the 
*new* radio alarm clock, since Spike had smashed the old one with his 
bootheel when he couldn't get it to shut off...) "two-thirty in the 
morning. I'm *tired*."

Grumble. Silence. He was waiting for it, though.

"Xan-der..."

Sigh. "What, Spike..."

"How'd you manage to go websurfing on Wednesday if you couldn't sit 
down?"

[Annoying bastard. Why do I keep him around here again?] "Carefully. 
Would you like to find out? Go to sleep."

"Now that you mention it.... Did get the highest bowling score..."

"That didn't *count*, and you know it. What if Tara had won?"

"Wouldn't have said no to givin' that little bottom a good 
smacking... seems fair..."

"Go to sleep, Spike."

Silence. More silence. Freakin' deafening silence.

"WHAT, Spike?!!" Xander finally snapped.

"You get the idea for the sundae all in your own little head?"

"Mostly."

"Mmmm?"

"The recipe she gave was actually for a three-course meal. The ice 
cream was my idea."

Spike was kind of gnawing on his earlobe now, which was usually nice, 
but the little hamster in his wheel inside the vampire's skull must 
have been running the hundred-yard dash, because the nibbling was 
starting to hurt. A distracted vampire with an oral fixation is a 
dangerous thing to have in your bed.

"Hey, ow!" Spike moaned, his teeth disappearing from Xander's 
ear. "Christ, I hate this chip. Wasn't *trying* to hurt you. Okay, I 
have to ask. *She*? What the hell was this site you were looking at?"

Lala la la la....

"Xan-der..."

"If I tell you, will you shut up about the tattoo for tonight, and go 
to *sleep*?"

"Er... yeah. S'pose."

"It's called 'Nancy's Home for Wayward Boys.' "

Two-thirty in the morning silence when you've just been woken up by 
your asshole of a lover who lives, or rather doesn't, to drive you 
absolutely crazy... is the second loudest kind of silence there is. 
Thankfully, it was broken by the sound of Spike tittering in his ear. 
Snuffling and snorting and doing all kinds of things that a guy who 
didn't need to breathe shouldn't have to do.

"Nancy's... home for.... oh, God, that's precious. Suits you to a 
tee. Only you could go out and get gay sex advice from a *woman*...." 
Spike lost it, and Xander lost what little patience he had left.

"Get up," he ordered.

"Eh?" Spike replied between gasps of laughter. "No. Quite comfy here, 
thanks."

"Get up and get me the other carton of ice cream from the freezer. 
I'm gonna be hungry when I get done with this."

Spike had the light on and was across the room and back before Xander 
really got the chance to appreciate the sight of a naked vampire 
scrambling away from the bed...or towards.

The ice cream and two spoons waiting on the bedside table, Xander 
hauled the uncomplaining and still snickering Spike across his lap. 
After a moment's thought, he reached across and flicked the radio 
part of the alarm clock on.

"It's been... one week since you looked at me, threw your arms in the 
air and said 'You're crazy'... "

"Hasn't been," Spike remarked. "Been about five hours."

"Five days since you tackled me... still got the rug burns on both my 
knees..."

Spike giggled. "Quite like this song, but innit a little loud for the 
wee hours? Wouldn't want to wake Mummy and Daddy..."

"Rather have them hear this than you yelping..." Xander answered, 
bringing his hand down firmly on Spike's behind.

"I don't *yelp*" Spike answered with dignity.

"You will when *I'm* through with you.... Wake me up at two-thirty in 
the morning to bug me about the damn tattoo on your ass..."

Which looked very nice, come to think of it, on Spike's left buttock, 
just about where Spike had put Winnie-the-Pooh on Xander. Maybe a 
little lower... after all, if Spike *did* decide to summon up the 
balls to drop his pants and ask somebody else what the tattoo was, 
Xander didn't want to make it easier on him...

He smacked his hand down right on top of the tattoo, and was rewarded 
with a pleasing bounce of the pale flesh, and the tattoo as well. 
[Well, that's what they do best, so I hear...] A few more smacks (and 
no sound at all from Spike, though there was some nice squirming 
going on...) and Xander was having a thought.

"You're not gonna turn pink, are you?" he asked Spike.

"Nope..." the vampire replied mockingly.

"How'm I gonna know when you're done, then, huh?"

Xander didn't even want to see the ha-ha-got-you face Spike was 
undoubtedly making at the blankets. The back of Spike's head, blonde 
hair tousled from sleep, skull shaking with silent laughter, was 
enough to spur him on to smacking the slim white ass even harder.

"Guess I'll just have t'let you know, won't I..." Spike finally 
choked out.

Smack. Smack. "I'm being manipulated here, aren't I?" Xander asked 
with an exaggerated sigh.

"...problem with that?" came the muffled reply.

SMACK! SMACK! "Yelp!"

"Nope. No problem at all," Xander answered smugly. Spike pounded 
voicelessly on the bed, and the unreliable support bar beneath the 
mattress gave an ominous creak.

"This.bed." Smack. ".has got to go." Spike pointed
out. "Gonna." 
Smack! ".collapse, sooner or." Thwap! "...later."

"Could be worse," Xander answered, watching the little waves run 
through the flesh in front of him. "We could be trying to do this in 
a waterbed."

" I have a tendency to wear my mind on my sleeve.I have a history
of 
losing my shirt ."


*****

In the tiny glow cast by the phosphorescent reading light (no 
removable parts, no sharp edges, nothing you could make a bomb out 
of), the dark-haired young woman crumpled up yet another piece of 
stationery and threw it at the trash can. Took another chocolate bar 
from the tiny shelf next to her bed, and glanced across the cell. No 
movement from her sleeping cellmate, so obviously neither the light 
nor the thwap of crumpled paper hitting the plastic wastebasket had 
woken her up. Two thirty in the morning, the only one awake in a cell-
block full of snoring women, trying to write something you'll never 
be able to put right. Alone in your head. That might very well be
the 
loudest kind of silence there is.

She unwrapped the chocolate, broke off a piece, and let it dissolve 
slowly onto her tongue. He brought it to her. *Him.* It wasn't enough 
he had to bring *himself*, every week, like some father-confessor at 
St. Mary of the fuckin' Palms. No, along with his soulful basset 
hound face and his big old unbeating heart in that eight-foot-wide-
chest, and his God-damn-it-all-to-hell *understanding*, he had to 
bring her chocolate. This chocolate. Dairy Milk, smooth and creamy 
and the best time you could have with your clothes on that didn't 
involve kicking, punching, or dusting something. God knew where the 
hell he got it; she'd never even seen this brand in the stores.
back 
when she was actually free to walk into one and slip something off 
the candy counter and into her pocket, nobody the wiser.

She ate them all. Every last one he brought. Well, as a gesture of 
whatever, she did share with her cellmate, but everybody else could 
go fuck themselves. Sell 'em? For what? Nothing she needed in here. 
Nothing she needed at all, that anybody in here could give her. 
Trade 'em? For what? Protection? Ha freakin' ha.

Another blank piece of paper, spread out on top of a book, on top of 
her bed. Big hardback copy of Les Miserables. More redemption crap 
from Angel, long and thick [And thinking those words in the same 
sentence as Angel's name ain't giving me any ideas, no, ma'am, and I 
*never* think of big dark dead guys when my hand's under the sheets 
in the middle of the night.] and boring as hell but it gave her 
something to read besides the crap in the Offenders' Library, and it 
gave her a little desk to put her papers on tonight. This morning. 
Whatever. Another letter she wouldn't send, because there wasn't a 
damn thing to say. Pick somebody. Anybody. Anybody she owed something 
to.

"Dear Xander.

Before you tear this up, I hope you read far enough down to see the 
part about I'm sorry."

Crumple.

[Oh yeah, that'll do it. He's soooo fuckin' likely to read anything 
with your name on the outside of it anyway, Faith. Throw in some weak-
ass humor, and it's just tailor-made for Harris.]

"Dear Xander.

I don't do apologies very well. Maybe I don't do a lot of things very 
well, but I'm trying. Really trying, these days. You may not want to 
hear anything from me at all, but I hope you do read this much. I'm 
sorry I hurt you. Sorry I scared you. Sorry I was gonna do exactly 
what you were afraid I was gonna do. I'm."

Crumple. Thwack.

Nothing she could say to him. Nothing she could say to any of them, 
that wouldn't come off sounding like "Poor, poor Faith, please 
forgive me, I was out of my head." Like a whiny little kid. 
Whiny, 
helpless little kid who couldn't defend herself. Who wasn't big 
enough and strong enough to make it through on her own. No thanks. 
Not Faith. Hell, she didn't deserve their forgiveness anyway, though 
Angel kept trying to foist his on her like some lame Christmas 
present that you didn't want in the first place. Except she did. 
want it. All of it. She just didn't have a damn clue how to accept 
it. Or, in anybody else's case besides Angel's, how to even ask for 
it.

"Dear Xander."

Crumple. He wouldn't even want to hear from her. It would hurt him 
more to be reminded of the whole thing, right? Maybe.

"Dear Buffy."

Crumple.

She sucked the last of the chocolate from her fingers, and shoved the 
blank paper, pencil, and book back on the shelf. Crumpled herself 
into a little ball, just like the letters. Faced the wall, and tried 
to go back to sleep.



********************

TBC