A Ritual Sacrifice, With Pie
by The Mad Poetess
Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven

Part One


Twenty minutes out of Sunnydale, and it really wasn't funny anymore. 
Xander's chocolate high was just fading away, and while he was still 
happy-on-the-road wired, Spike was starting to get on his nerves, 
because the vampire wasn't. Happy, that is. At least from the 
methodical kicking of the back of Xander's headrest, the heavy sighs, 
the fact that Spike was still sulking in the rear seat of the Chevy 
convertible like he was being dragged somewhere against his will. 
Which of course he was, but it wasn't to his death, or anything.

"Will you for God's sake come sit up here like a human, and tell me 
what's wrong?" Xander finally asked, starting to slow down.

"Makes you think anything's wrong?" Spike replied sarcastically 
around his cigarette. Xander could see the orange tip glowing in the 
rear-view mirror, which was a little disconcerting, since the back 
seat otherwise appeared to be empty. "Or that I'd want to act like a 
human, for some reason," he added.

"Um, let's see. You ran out of things to whine about five miles ago, 
that's your what, seventh cancer-stick tonight? And unless my ears 
deceive me, you've been humming 'Taps' since we passed the last sign 
that told how many miles it is to L.A." 

"Yeah, not all that impressed with your military, f'r obvious 
reasons, but they do have a way with dirges," Spike answered.

"And if you come up here, I'll let you pick the music," Xander added 
with a sigh.

Spike gave a half-hearted cheer, clambering over the top of the back 
seat as Xander frantically tried to slow the car down and pull over 
so the vampire didn't get tossed into the road during his sudden 
gymnastic maneuver. "Oh, God, yes, anything but Willie Nelson. You 
think I couldn't hear you singin' 'On The Road Again' under your 
breath? Gah."

"Or you could wait until we stopped moving," Xander commented, as 
Spike dropped easily into the passenger seat, cigarette still in his 
mouth. Crunch, as Spike landed on one of several bags of gas station 
snacks strewn across the seat. "Belt up."

"Excuse me? I didn't say anything!" Xander tapped his own seat belt, 
and Spike fingered his in realization. "Oh, the idiot belt. What's 
the point? Not like you're gonna kill me, here," Spike whined, 
pulling a deceased bag of something no longer crunchy from beneath 
him and tossing it into the back.

"I am if you don't buckle up. I don't need a hundred dollar fine, 
thanks." 

Spike complied, but not without a final grumble. "They'd stop you for 
what? I could push this thing faster'n you've been driving. "

Xander resisted the urge to put the pedal to the metal, just to show 
Spike he *wasn't* a sissy-boy. Last thing he needed was a speeding 
ticket, and Spike mouthing off to the cop--or something ungood 
happening to his uncle's precious chick-magnet car. "We'll be in L.A. 
before the sun comes up, so what's your worry? And no, you're not 
driving."

"My bloody worry," Spike said, taking one last long drag on the 
cigarette and flinging it , still half-unsmoked, over the side of the 
car, "is that we'll be in L.A. before the sun comes up." He flipped 
the radio on and began fiddling with the dials, growing more and more 
frustrated as nothing but static echoed out of the speakers.

The highway passed them by accompanied by white noise for a few 
seconds, while Xander cruised a few miles under the speed limit and 
tried to digest Spike's statement. Spike didn't want to see Angel. 
Well, fine, everybody has Dad issues, right? Or Grandad issues, or 
whatever. Really that bad, though? On a vampire scale? [Spike talks 
about Angel like he could live with a little one-on-one torture time, 
or at least a chance to annoy the heck out of him, so what's the big 
deal?]

"Hey, I don't love *my* Dad either," he finally offered, which was 
more than he'd said on that subject to anybody but Willow in the last 
four years. It didn't scrape his throat as much as he thought it 
would, to spit it out. Just a little. He glanced over at Spike, who 
was staring at the road ahead like there was a big green sign 
saying '120 miles until you meet your doom, bwah-ha-ha-ha' hanging 
over it. 

Spike didn't even look back at him, before he gave a bit of a sigh, 
turned the radio off, leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and 
spoke: "He's not my Dad. And I never said I didn't love him."

*****

"Huh?" came the stunned reply, and Spike opened his eyes. Fished 
about for something to put in his mouth, so he wouldn't have to 
answer all at once, and came upon some sort of packaged drink in a 
silvery bag. Let himself get distracted for a moment, or pretend to, 
by the concept of poking the little straw into the hole in the front, 
only to be greeted by a gush of lemonade all over the front of his 
shirt, as the liquid fountained out of the bag. He growled, flicking 
the stuff off of him.

"Spike?"

"Just thinking maybe we could market these things for vamps," he 
cracked. "Capri bloodbags, complete with straw."

"Right..." answered Xander. "You and Angel being the only vamps in 
the world who'd care, unless you know of anybody else who escaped 
from the Initiative."

Good point. Angel might be suckered into buying it if it had pictures 
of helpless little [ecch] children on the front, though. For every 
three bags of pig's blood on a stick you buy, you can save one 
walking Happy Meal from getting drained. Spike read the front of the 
lemonade bag, as if it would tell him what he was supposed to say to 
Xander.

"Now with new, safer packaging? What, it used to come with a rusty 
nail instead of a straw? An' you wonder why I say humans are better 
off as dinner, when you lot need warning labels on your soft drinks." 

"Says a man who's never staked himself in the hand with one of those 
straws when it went all the way through the package and out the other 
side. Spike, talk to me, here. You really want me to turn the car 
around and go back? It bothers you that much?" 

Xander was concerned for him. Wasn't that... nice. On top of the fact 
that he was going to face his Sire, whom he'd last seen on the nasty 
end of a hot poker, being tortured at Spike's orders, now the whelp 
was *worried*. About *Spike*. [Oh, so manly, Spike. Just lay your 
head on the altar now and be done with it, why don't you. Here comes 
a candle to light you to bed, here comes a chopper to chop off 
your...]

"Angel's a bloody hair-gel-worshipping poof," he explained, as if it 
answered everything. He took a drag on the straw, and realized once 
again that Yanks and Brits spoke two different languages. Lemonade? 
This was battery acid with a little sugar thrown in for flavoring. 
Not bad, really, if you were into pain.

"Yeah, so you've said. Repeatedly. With which I agree, pretty much. 
Your point, and I assume you do have one, being? Something about 
still loving him?" And Xander's light voice was a little quiet, 
there. Spike hadn't meant to say it. He really hadn't. Hadn't even 
meant to think it, but it was there all the same, and it had 
slithered its way out of his mouth like a slimy little worm, that 
word. 

Love. Luuuuurve. Item Two on his list of things that fucked up the 
grand scheme of the universe. The one thing he hadn't been able to 
bring himself to tell Xander, at least in English. Even though he'd 
given up hope of pretending it wasn't true, if he actually *said* it, 
he'd be admitting to his own defenselessness. That the human had 
control over him. [That you've actually turned into Harmony the 
CheerVamp, with a cock and better dress-sense.]

Which seemed so obvious to the vampire himself that Spike just kept 
thanking whichever totally-bent celestial or demonic powers were 
watching over him that Xander hadn't caught on thus far. When he 
wasn't cursing them colorfully for doing this to him in the first 
place, of course. [Er... Spike, you do realize you're in a... 
*relationship*, here?] giggled a thousand little demons in his head, 
and telling them to piss off really wasn't doing a lot for him 
anymore. Why could he spit the L-word out so easily about Angel, 
then? Oh. Sire. Right. Like *that* word didn't have a million little 
trap-door-spider threads of death hanging off it.

"Of course I still bloody love him," he answered at last. "You don't 
just stop loving somebody 'cos 'e comes down with a bad case of soul-
itis, leaves without sayin' goodbye, disappears for ninety-eight 
years, loses the soddin' soul by fuckin' your worst enemy, comes 
back, treats you like shit, steals your girl, pops off to Hell, and 
then shows up again fresh as a daisy." 

Xander was glancing back and forth between the road and Spike like 
his hair had torn itself off his head and was doing a little jig 
across the top of his skull. 

Spike grinned evilly. "You might, say, hate 'im with a fiery passion, 
shove hot pokers in his side, make fun of his nancified hair and get 
a bit peckish to eat 'is heart in the marketplace, but you don't stop 
lovin' him."

The entire repertoire of Xander-faces flashed over his lover's 
countenance, finally ending up with a cross between Duh-face and Why-
Did-I-Get-Into-The-Car-With-This-Bloke-Again?-face. "Eat his heart in 
the marketplace?" Xander repeated, at last.

Spike winced. Said that last one out loud, had he? "It's Shakespeare. 
Much Ado About Nothing." He really had to stop with the literary 
bollocks, or sooner or later Xander was going to twig to the fact 
that he hadn't been a badass all his life.

"Ooookay. I'll try to pretend you didn't just tell me that, because 
the mental image of you reading Shakespeare makes my brain go to a 
bad place, where it wants like crazy to ask you what you did for a 
living before you got vamped," Xander said. Fuck! Was the brat really 
that good, or just lucky? While Spike tried hard not to resort to 
banging his head against the dashboard, since it hadn't done him any 
good the last time he tried it, Xander pulled the car smoothly into 
the passing lane and politely accelerated past a minivan with several 
delicious-looking children pressed up against the windows, making 
faces at Spike. 

He turned his head to focus on the little monster who was sticking 
his tongue out, and slipped quickly into game face, crossing his eyes 
and sticking his own tongue out through his fangs. The kid 
disappeared from the window with a silent scream, and Spike nodded 
smugly, before returning to human guise. [Yeah, that showed 'em. 
You're still the Big Bad, Spike. You can scare six year olds, and 
your boyfriend's this close to figuring out you used to write 
sonnets. Positively putrid sonnets. Couplets. Terza bloody rima. 
Arrgh. Boyfriend? Did I just think that? ] 

"Plumber," he replied shortly.

"Cool, really? No, wait. In the eighteen hundreds? Who the heck had 
indoor plumbing?" Xander countered. "Nice try, but you couldn't even 
fix the leak in the basement when the pipe busted."

"Didn't say I was a *good* plumber," Spike pointed out. He reached 
for the radio again, hoping to tune it to something bearable. Finally 
he located a station, only to discover that the only thing the 
electronic tuner could pick up was National Public Radio. After three 
minutes of 'Prairie Home Companion,' he flicked it off again in 
disgust. "So, when you said I could pick the music, you meant."

"From the bin-o-tapes under the seat. Aww shucks, no Sex Pistols," 
Xander answered with his own little bit of smugness. "And thank you 
for sharing your vampire psychosis with me, by the way. I'm oddly 
touched. Could you please pass the Cheetos?"

Shamefully grateful for the obvious change of subject, Spike felt 
around on the floor for the requested snack, half-amazed that Xander 
could even think of eating, after the amount of chocolate he'd 
consumed this evening. Still, it *was* Xander. Coming up with 
nothing, he realized that he'd tossed the package in the back seat 
after having squished it by sitting on it.

"Think I dusted 'em, pet. Settle for..er... Chocolate Moon Pie?" 

Spike wasn't sure he wanted to know what was in the petrol station 
pastry, but Xander certainly gobbled it up enthusiastically enough. 
He thought the conversation was over, and he could get back to 
whining about wanting to drive, at least, when Xander, licking cheap 
American chocolate from his fingers, glanced away from the road to 
look him straight in the face.

"I won't let him hurt you, ya know." With a snotty grin that didn't 
quite hide the seriousness in his dark eyes. Oh, lovely. Just 
bleedin' perfect. Xander was gonna protect *him* from big bad Angel. 
Spike closed his eyes and started humming 'Taps' again.

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

Part Two


"So, it *doesn't* bother you enough that you want me to turn the car 
around?" Xander asked again, smirking unabashedly. He'd let Spike 
hum in peace for about fifteen miles, and then ambushed him just as 
he was reaching for the box of cassette tapes, causing the vamp to 
slink down in the passenger seat with a glare that could've cut a 
hole though your basic lead-lined vault.

"You're gettin' off on this, aren't you?" Spike stalled, with a 
rumbly growl. Well, yeah. A little. It wasn't often that he could get 
Spike all trapped and vulnerable and shuffly and embarrassed. It was 
just *way* too cute for Xander's own safety, based on the glower he 
was receiving. 

Worth it though. If he could keep Spike on the defensive, Xander 
wouldn't have to think too hard about the fact that he was jealous as 
hell that Spike still loved Angel. Big stupid [Classically educated.] 
jerk with the big [wide, strong] shoulders and the cool [rakishly 
sexy] hair. 

[Enough! You're not attracted to Angel, you've *never* been attracted 
to Angel, you're jealous of him, remember? Or.. no, that's not right. 
You're *not* jealous of him, and you're *not* thinking about how he 
and Spike would look pressed up against each other.and you can't 
decide if that makes you more jealous, or turns you on. You're 
*sick*, Xander Harris! Jeez, brain, make up your mind!] 

Xander tried to let the cool wind rushing over him wipe away some of 
his confusion. Tried to come up with an image that would get both 
Angel and Spike (and Angel *on* Spike) out of his head, just for a 
second. Something completely not sexy. Safe. Rupert Giles in a 
sweatshirt and jeans, hair still messed up from laughing hysterically 
at Buffy's creative French, leaning close over an acoustic guitar, 
singing "Come on over to my place." Oh, yeah, *that* was working. 
[Dammit! Not enough you have to have sexy thoughts about *Spike's* 
father figure, now you have to drag *mine* into it too? Bad brain. Go 
sit in the corner.]

He gave up on chastising his wayward cerebrum, and returned to the 
Angel question. Buffy's ex had a claim on Spike that Xander couldn't 
hope to understand-- and shouldn't give a damn about, because he was 
just having a good time, right? With a friend, right? Right. [Right, 
Harris. You're not in love with the Blonde Menace. You just curl up 
in his arms at night 'cause it's cheaper than buying a new teddy 
bear. He doesn't make you feel like you've found the only safe place 
in the world to be.] 

And he didn't want to protect Spike from somebody who'd obviously 
broken the vampire's non-beating heart at least once before. He 
wasn't being. what had Spike called him back when he was dating Anya 
and he gotten up in Spike's face 'cause he thought the vamp was 
making time with his girl? All splotchy and possessive, right. Nope, 
he was a big cool macho guy, Xander Harris, who happened to be 
boffing another big cool macho guy, purely for the mutual fun of it, 
because they were both insane, and things like 'I won't let him hurt 
you,' didn't get said. 'Cept he just had. Oops.

"No, I don't want you to turn the soddin' car around," Spike said, 
apparently tired of waiting for Xander to let him off the 
hook. "Doesn't bother me at all. I can put up with the Poof for a few 
days. If nothin' else, I could walk around naked an' see if he's 
tempted enough to let me shag the soul back out of 'im."

"Ha, bloody ha," Xander responded. Grrr. Nope. Not jealous. Not him. 
Spike, meanwhile, was trying to arrange the bags of food at his feet, 
with less than successful results.

"It's an hour and a half trip, mate. How come you bought enough food 
for you an' five other bottomless pits to cross the Gobi desert on?" 

"Hour and a half??? This is one of the *many* reasons you're *not* 
driving. Anyway, road trip, Spike. It's just what you do. Fill the 
car with snacks and pig out 'til you get absolutely sick. Didn't you 
and Dru ever stock up for a road trip?"

"Yeah, but it usually involved conking some git like you over the 
head and throwing him in the boot to suck on at leisure."

That bought Spike a few moments of silence as Xander decided once 
again that his imagination was a bad thing and should be surgically 
removed as soon as possible. He was picturing ads for Capri-Humans, 
complete with straw. Just stick this sharp little plastic thing in 
the jugular vein there, and.

"Xander, you just got passed by a blinkin' *Yugo*-- let me drive, 
already!"

"In your wet dreams, Junior. Anyway, that wasn't a Yugo, it was a Geo 
Metro."

Spike sighed dramatically. "Fine. The longer it takes to get there, 
the better the chance the sun'll rise and dust me before the ruddy 
ponce figures out we've been shagging."

Panic gripped Xander, and he wasn't entirely sure why. Well, that 
*anybody* would know they'd been-- shagging was as good a word as 
any, he supposed-- was a bit of a head-twister, but why would Spike 
tell Angel, of all people? Angel, being Soul Guy and Buffy-Drooler, 
would immediately call Sunnydale, and all hell would break loose. If 
Buffy knew, she'd stake Spike, right? Wasn't that the point of 
keeping the whole thing a big secret? Aside from certain small issues 
like coming out of a closet Xander hadn't even known he was in. 
[Closet? What closet? I'm just having fun, right? Brain? Chocolate? 
Anybody?]

"You're not gonna *tell* him?" he squeaked, and then tried to tone it 
down into something more manly. "I mean... Okay, your Sire and all 
that, but..."

*****

Spike shook his head. "You really don't get him, do ya. Big Irish 
potato-head can read me like a dirty book. Always could. He'll take 
one look at me, with you in the same room, and poof. Pun intended."

And Angel would know, and then he'd do something or other to bollocks 
it up, and Spike would be left with nobody. Again. Which was the 
biggest reason he wanted to be on the road to *anywhere* except L.A. 
But...Xander wanted to go see Angel, for whatever insane reason, and 
so they were going to see Angel. 

*****

And William the Bloody, ladies and gentleman, is your ritual 
sacrifice for the evening. He needs to re-do his roots, his nail 
varnish is chipping, and he's about to get his heart ripped out, one 
way or the other, but right now he's just wondering if there's 
anything worth listening to in that container of tapes under the car 
seat. Or if, possibly, since the boy won't let him drive, he can 
amuse himself by seeing how long it'll take them to run off the road 
when he sneaks his hand over into Xander's lap. 

If you rip off the bleached blonde hair, pry his thick skull open and 
look to your left, you'll see Angelus, the demon with the face of an 
angel. He'll be the Master of Ceremonies, and doesn't he look fine in 
those leather trousers. If you play nice with him, he'll share his 
hair-care tips with you. For a price. To the right, you'll notice the 
lovely lady with the long dark hair, currently trying to teach three 
squirrels to sing 'Good Morning, Little Schoolgirl.' Her name's 
Drusilla, and she'll be participating in the torture, to come later 
after hors d'oeuvres and a delightfully saucy cabernet. 

Off in the shadows, there's a blonde with a stake and a snotty 
attitude. Or maybe she has fangs. There's always a bitchy blonde, 
ain't there. Sitting in the middle of the stage, sucking chocolate 
off his fingers, is Alexander Harris, with the big gormless grin on 
his face and no sodding clue that Mr. The Bloody (let's call him 
that, shall we, since he doesn't admit to his own surname anymore) is 
completely, totally, suicidally in love with him--- and is terrified 
out of his not-so-limited, but utterly scattered wits that he's going 
to lose the boy. To who or what doesn't really enter into the 
picture. Hey, come on in. Mingle. Black-tie optional. Bring your own 
dip, but we've already got a nice little government chip in here to 
munch on.

*****

Interlude in a Sunnydale Nature Park:

Willow and Tara struggled their way up the trail, Tara lagging a 
little behind because the blonde was carrying both sleeping bags and 
the tent, to allow the redhead free arms for the bag of much more 
important spell components, which included several glass bottles.

"Are you sure this is the way?" Tara asked. They'd been walking in 
circles for half an hour or so before they finally got back on a path 
that seemed to be going somewhere, so it was a legitimate question. 
Willow tried very hard not to bite her girlfriend's head off when she 
answered, seeing as then she'd have to carry the spell stuff, both 
sleeping bags, the tent, *and* Tara's headless body, back down the 
wooded hill. [Okay, that was an icky image. Bad brain. Flog. Punish. 
No killing the girlfriend. No Tara would make for a pretty long, 
boring night...] she thought, suppressing a twinge of excitement at 
the thought of their weekend plans..

"Yes, I'm sure this is the way. If you just sort of... feel... for 
it," Willow said, letting herself get very, very quiet inside... 
there it was. The little area of peace, somewhere up ahead. It felt 
like the cool, wet quiet you get after a big thunderstorm, when 
everything's just perfectly balanced, and you can smell tomorrow in 
the air, but it's going to stay tonight forever.

"Oh!" said Tara, from behind her. "Oh yeah! Wow." And they trekked up 
the hillside, kicking overgrown foliage out of their way, until at 
last they came into a small clearing in the middle of a circle of 
spruce. The woods were dark, but not too dark, and the stars were out 
overhead, though the night was moonless. Willow shined her flashlight 
into the center of the clearing, and the beam shimmered across the 
grass and fallen twigs, before... bouncing suddenly back at them off 
the side of a bright orange full-size tent, with giggles and 
decidedly feminine moaning coming from within.

"Like... right there? Really, you sure that's how you... Oh! Yeah... 
wow. Mmmmmmmmm...." came a voice from inside the tent, and it was 
vaguely familiar to Willow...

"Oh my god! Somebody's out there!" came another, and that one seemed 
like she'd heard it before as well. In a second, she had her answer, 
as two girls poked their heads out of the tent flap. They both had 
henna-darkened hair, one straight, one permed into long, pre-
raphaelite curls. 

"Oh... hey..." said Tara. "Isis and Firewomon." She smiled 
uncertainly as Willow put the voices and the faces together in her 
head. Oh...the two girls who ran the Wicca group she'd kind of 
rescued Tara from. ['Who left their scented candles dripping on my 
womyn power shrine?'] she thought to herself in the snottiest voice 
her mind could come up with, which bore an eerie resemblance to the 
nasal whine that came out of the straight-haired girl.

"Oh, hello. It's Tara.. and... I'm sorry, I don't remember your name. 
You're a tree, right? I do remember you came to one of our circles, 
and decided the path of sisterhood wasn't for you." All in the 
brightest, cheeriest tone in the world. 

"It's Willow," she answered, trying to be nice. Trying very, very 
hard to be nice. Trying so hard to be nice that she was pretty sure 
her fingers were gouging holes in the plastic grip of the flashlight.

"Right. Willow," said the other girl. "Um, Tara, I'm kind of 
surprised that you ended up leaving us to, uh, study...with her. No 
offense, Willow, but we all thought you were just kind of cruising 
the meeting to pick up girls. Not that anybody would have said 
anything, of course, but..."

Huh-what-huh? They'd thought she was what? Er, um... Willow hadn't 
even known she was *interested* in girls until Tara, and she had more 
witchiness in her little toe (which had a nasty blister on it thanks 
to the fact that she'd decided to hike in sandals, because she was a 
big nimrod) than that entire group of poseurs could pull together if 
their lives depended on it! So did Tara. Somewhere in there, the urge 
to babble aimlessly got power-shifted into the urge to rip these two 
wenches new places to stick their scented candles.

"Now see here, you trendy little. LUG." she started.

Tara put her hand on Willow's arm, just as she was about to launch 
into a well-deserved tirade against 'Firewomon,' whose real name was 
something like Brandy, if she remembered right.

"Willow, let's just go," Tara said softly. "Obviously they have some 
very important... goddess worshipping to do." Tara's lips twitched 
into that little sly smile that only Willow knew the shy girl 
possessed. She did something with her hands, sketched a little symbol 
in the air, muttered something too low to hear, and tugged Willow out 
of the clearing. Tara turned back to shoot a cheery little wave to 
the two girls, who were already ducking their heads back into the 
tent and giggling again, though this time Willow was sure she heard 
her name mentioned.

"Okay," said the redhead, who'd been muttering nasty imprecations 
under her breath, or mostly under her breath, as they trudged back 
down the trail. "What did you do? I thought the whole point of that 
circle was that you can't work any negative magic inside it." She sat 
down with a thump on a fallen log at the side of the path.

"Who, me? That wasn't negative magic. Just a Dark-of-the-Moon Mirror. 
A little bit of folk magic from down home. Totally harmless." Tara 
sat down next to Willow and dropped the packs in front of her, 
putting her arm around her girlfriend. 

"Yeah?" Willow looked up into big dark blue eyes. "What's it do?"

"At midnight, it'll show them each as they truly are..." Tara said, 
with a smile that was so much more innocent than her voice, which 
contained a low half-chuckle.

Willow thought about the two idiots in the tent, and slowly a 
matching smile made it way to her own lips. "So if they see each 
other as they really are..."

"And they don't run screaming off into the night, then they obviously 
deserve each other," Tara finished. She leaned across and, brushing 
her own hair out of her face, gave Willow a kiss that more than made 
up for having to meet up with the Wiccan-Wanna-Be's for the second 
time in her life.

"You're *so* evil," said Willow after a minute. 

"Oh yeah, I'm bad," agreed Tara. "What's a lug? Isn't that something 
you hold a tire on with?"

"Lesbian Until Graduation." Appreciative snort from Tara. Willow 
gazed back up at the place where they *were* going to spend their two 
month anniversary, practicing spells. Only partially in the Xander-
speak sense of the phrase. Rassin-frassin-trendywitches and their 
orange tent and their scented candles... Not that she didn't like 
scented candles. Especially if you lit them in the bathroom, with 
some rosewater in the tub, and somebody to pour shampoo over your 
hair... She didn't brood very well, Willow decided, not for the first 
time. 

"Who knew you needed reservations?" asked the redhead.

"Plan B?" Tara suggested with a shrug.

"Plan B," Willow replied, standing up and shouldering one of the 
bedrolls. Not that she wanted to accidentally drop any of the 
supplies, but they weren't about to use them tonight, unfortunately, 
and it wasn't fair to make Tara carry all the heavy stuff. As they 
proceeded back down the trail, Tara leading, Willow spared a thought 
for their friends. [Hope everybody else's weekend plans are turning 
out better than ours.] Though Plan B wasn't that bad of an 
alternative.

"Um, Willow," Tara said suddenly, turning around in the middle of the 
path to face her, "what's Plan B?"

*********************************************************************
Part Three

Xander, as it turned out, was psychotically *not* interested in 
running off the road for the sake of a hand-job, for some reason. 
Spike had pulled the first cassette off the top of the jumbled pile 
in the case at his feet, and shoved it into the tape deck, trusting 
to random luck, and for once things had actually appeared to be going 
his way, as James Taylor started crooning out "Come on, baby, I'm 
your handyman..." It seemed like as good a sign as any...

"What the heck are you doing... uh...ur..." as Spike nonchalantly 
finger-walked his left hand over to Xander's lap, and began doing 
things there that he knew for a fact Xander was enjoying. He had 
physical evidence. After a bit of heavy breathing and bulging eyes, 
and a swerve that undoubtedly scared the religious fervor out of the 
station wagon full of nuns that was passing them in the right lane, 
Xander smacked his hand away, however.

"And on the Officer Friendly scale of interpersonal communication, I 
think that qualifies as a Bad Touch," Xander stammered. "Are you 
insa. Okay, let me re-phrase that, are you more insane than usual?"

"You don't want me?" Spike replied with a phony pout, fluttering his 
eyelashes. No go.

"I don't want you to molest me in the middle of the freeway! Aside 
from the fact that we're in a convertible and anybody could see you 
doing...that, I like my life!" Xander considered his words in silence 
for a second. "Okay, not all that much, though it's been more 
interesting recently, but I like being *alive*, anyway. I mean... 
haven't you ever read 'Thinner' ?"

Er... Spike was trying to give him a joy-buzz, and Xander wanted to 
discuss low-calorie cookbooks? "As in 'Seven Days To A More Svelte 
Vampire' ? "

"As in Stephen King. Guy's wife gives him a hand-job, he hits a 
little gypsy kid, gypsy family curses him to get thinner and 
thinner, 'til he's practically a living skeleton..."

Spike rubbed his still-smarting fingers. "Can't imagine how I missed 
that one-- King's m'favorite bedtime reading, all that blood n' guts 
and putrification." Blecch-face from Xander. "Okay, I'll spot you 
that one. My family never did 'ave a lot of luck with gypsy curses, 
if you recall." Though the chances of coming across a gypsy kid to 
hit in the middle of the freeway were actually pretty... thin, in 
Spike's opinion.

He had a thought. Quite a few of them, actually, but one managed to 
make its way through the tangled muck in his brain and slip 
downstairs to his tongue. "You could pull over, an' I could do you up 
proper..."

Xander looked tempted for a minute, but then shook his head. "See 
above, re convertible."

"Put the bloody top up, then, " Spike half-snarled. Xander looked a 
bit taken aback, and Spike realized it probably wasn't a good idea to 
piss off the person he was trying to get semi-horizontal with, though 
the devil only knew that strategy had worked the *first* time. Peanut 
butter.swipes of it across his forehead, rolling across the floor... 
Xander licking it off his nose.Where was he? Oh, ragtop convertible, 
right. "Sorry, luv. But it *does* have one."

"Yeah, but people can still see in the windows. Uh-uh." 

Spike settled grumpily back into his seat. If they had *his* car, 
that wouldn't be a bloody problem, would it. But they didn't have his 
car... Ooh. They could. Possibly. It *was* in L.A. Somewhere. Maybe 
he could put the Poof onto the problem-- he was supposed to be Angel, 
Vampire Detective, after all. He stared at the passing coastal 
highway in silence. He wasn't acting like Angel. No sir, no way. He 
wasn't brooding. He was sulking. There was a difference. Mostly the 
fact that he got bored with it pretty quickly, while Angel seemed to 
actually get his collywobbles off on it. Then again, Spike got bored 
with most things pretty quickly, Xander being an obvious exception.

Spike was just about to dig another tape out of Xander's hodge-podge 
collection, when the dark-haired teen, with a whoop and a holler, cut 
the wheel sharply to the right and dragged the car rapidly across 
three lanes of traffic. Tires squealing, Xander darted in front of a 
dangerous-looking pickup truck with a gun-rack across the top, and 
zoomed past the Geo that had passed them a while back. Almost taking 
the Chevy up on two wheels, he finally slid into the far right lane. 

All this earned Xander four honks in various keys, a middle finger 
flipped out the window of a VW bus, which Spike happily returned for 
him, a positively chilling glare from the driver of the pickup (back 
window plastered with NRA stickers and American flags), and Spike's 
undying love. Not that he didn't already have that last one. At 
least, if they were going to the chopping block, they could go in 
style! It was all Spike could do not to shout "Yee-haw!" into the 
night air. [There you go with the 'Dukes of Hazzard' repeats, Spike. 
Told you they'd do you in, but nooooooo, do we ever listen to 
ourselves?]

When they at last slowed down, it was on an exit ramp that led down 
and around a curve, to a little truck-stop diner nestled at the edge 
of a vast expanse of absolutely nothing. An empty field and some 
sparse woodland surrounded the gravel lot, which was a bit large for 
the small building with the sparking neon sign reading 'Ed's Place' 
attached to the roof. Turning room for the semis, Spike supposed. He 
was still too juiced from the ride to care.

"Do it again!" Spike gushed, and Xander looked up at him, perplexed. 
Oi! The kid had pulled off the driving maneuver of the century, and 
he hadn't even been paying attention? The vampire was beaming 
ludicrously himself, caught up in the adrenaline rush, or whatever 
was running through his veins in place of it. So what were they doing 
here, if it wasn't for the sheer thrill of driving at breakneck speed 
and pissing off all the surrounding morons on the highway?

"Um... no, I'd rather have some pie," Xander said, pointing up at the 
badly-lit white sign on the front of the building, which advertised, 
in plastic letters, 'World's Best Chocol te Pie,' the 'a' having 
disappeared somewhere. 

"You just smell chocolate from the passing lane, or did you know this 
place was here?" Spike snickered.

Xander parked the car in the almost empty lot, next to a huge 
juggernaut of a Mack truck. "We stopped here once when I was a kid. 
Ten or so, I guess, on the way to visit my grandparents. They have 
the *best* chocolate pie ever. Period. I looked for the highway sign 
every time I've driven south since then, and this is the first time 
I've ever seen it again."

Spike studied the parking lot and the diner dubiously. Best 'chocol-
te' pie in the world-- keeping in mind that Xander had grown up with 
*American* chocolate-- versus redneck truckers, waitresses with 
bubblegum hairdo's, and a radio that probably blared all Waylon 
Jennings, all the time. Errggh. Still, it put off getting to L.A. He 
followed Xander around the back of the car towards the door.

The sight of Xander walking away in one of his tighter pairs of jeans-
- there were *some* advantages to Spike having had to pack all the 
clothes, one of which being that he'd gotten to dress Xander, fashion-
wise as well as literally, this evening-- had Spike reaching out 
without thinking, to goose the boy on one round cheek. He snuggled up 
close behind with a little purr, and so was right in Xander's face 
when the human whirled around on him with a panicked glare.

Oh. Fine. That was the way it was. Spike was good enough to shag 
blind in the privacy of a dank little basement, but... Just when he 
was about to go off into another round of manic-depressive self-pity, 
he felt himself kicked in the arse. Mentally, of course, but damn if 
it wasn't hard enough that he was tempted to spin around in the 
gravel and see if there was anybody behind him. [He's nineteen, 
Spike. He's out to one, count 'em, one, person, an' that's you. Of 
course he's freaking out when you're coppin' a feel in a public 
place.] 

Aside from which, California or not, this place might as well be 
called the Dew-Drop-Inn, it gave off such vibes of the deep south. 
One innocent little gesture on Spike's part could have both of them 
stomped into jelly by some big bearded trucker with fists the size of 
Christmas hams. Spike was all for a little violence, of course, but 
not when merely raising his hands in defense of himself and his 
pillow-mate would end in a headache for him and a lot of bruises for 
both of them, if they got off easy. [Chip, you brainless berk. Chip. 
Don't bait the humans.]

He raised both hands, shrugged apologetically, and followed Xander 
into the little restaurant.

*****

Xander took a deep breath as they slid into a booth near the counter. 
Chicken-fried steak. Gravy. Hot coffee brewing, and the smell of 
that chocolate pie, fresh from the oven. It was like he was ten 
again, crammed into the booth next to his mom, with Uncle Rory and 
Aunt Judy across from them, Rory making faces at Xander and reaching 
across to pull a dime out of Xander's ear. (That was back when there 
*was* an Aunt Judy, of course, before she found out about Rory's all-
night poker parties that had more to do with poking multiple *hers* 
than playing cards with the boys. ) Dad had been on an overnight 
construction gig somewhere, and it was just the four of them, on the 
road to see the Harris grandparents. 

"Alexander, honey, sit up straight," his mom had said, when he slid 
down in the seat and started looking on the floor for the little army 
guy he'd dropped down there. She'd ruffled his hair, though, when he 
finally came up with the green plastic toy in his hand and showed it 
to her. She smiled, and laughed, and this place was just so much 
easier than home. He had felt like he could breathe, here, with the 
nice waitress who brought him an extra piece of pie, which Mom rolled 
her eyes about, but let him eat, even though she knew it would make 
him hyper and bouncy all the rest of the way to L.A. It was one of 
the best memories he had of his childhood, which should have 
depressed him, but didn't, because he was in such a damn good mood.

It was all here, in the sound of the radio, playing old country 
standards, in the laughing truckers in the corner booth, joking about 
Rolaids, Doan's Pills, and Preparation H. (Eew, and at one point he'd 
actually thought that song was cool, before he'd been old enough to 
figure out what the last over-the-counter medication mentioned was 
used for...) Mostly, though, it was the smell of this place that was 
getting to him. Which was warm and homey and exactly like it had been 
the last time he was here. Exactly.

"You smell that?" he raved at Spike, who rolled his eyes and took a 
sniff. Then another, and the light blue eyes got very big, and the 
dark eyebrows rose up.

"No... I don't smell...anything! What the hell?" Spike sniffed again, 
looking more and more confused by the second.

Xander shrugged. "Maybe they're cooking with garlic?" He reached over 
for one of the little paper menus that was stuck in the clip between 
the salt and pepper shakers.

Spike winced. "Naw, I'd smell *that*. Gives me a headache, makes me 
sneeze, but believe me, I'd smell it." He leaned over, obviously 
about to take a sniff of Xander. [Um, hello, acting weird in public 
is supposed to be *my* job, vampire?] He shot Spike the Bad Look, 
TM. [Don't screw up my happy flashback fantasy by getting us kicked 
out of here, Chipped One.] Twitch of the eyebrow, but Spike got the 
point, 'cause he backed off, and started playing distractedly with 
his silverware.

"What can I get you boys?" said a low female voice, with an accent 
almost as country as the one currently playing over the radio. What, 
did they just ship these women in from Alabama whenever they needed a 
new one? The waitress had been almost the same the other time Xander 
had been here: pretty, in an early-middle-aged way, with dyed reddish-
orange hair combed up on top of her head, chewing gum in her mouth, 
and a friendly smile. This one's nametag read "Marianne," and it had 
a little bell hanging off the bottom of it, with the words "I'm just 
a Ding-A-Ling," printed in tiny letters below her name.

"Slice of chocolate pie, chicken fried steak, home fries, biscuits 
and gravy, coffee and a coke, and a new nose for Spike, here. He says 
he can't smell all that deliciousness you've got on the grill," 
Xander said, flashing her his best charm-the-ladies smile. Which 
usually worked as well as it had in high school, when it had earned 
him rolling eyes, a sniff, and a snotty comment from Cordelia, or 
whoever the goddess d'jour had been. This time, surprisingly, it got 
him a wink from one false-eyelashed brown eye, before Marianne turned 
to Spike and gave him a quizzical stare.

Spike, who of course could charm the pants off anything that had 
pants, without even trying, was still sniffing distractedly, but he 
shot her a smile that had Xander wondering if they shouldn't pull off 
the road somewhere after all, a little later. He could put the top 
up... throw the sunshade in the front window (preferably not with 
the 'Help! Call police!' side facing out) and... No. Bad Xander. 
Arrest for public indecency = bailed out by Giles, or, God help him, 
Buffy = Very Bad Thing.

"I'll have a slice of the pie, luv. And a doggie bag to carry *him* 
home in, after he explodes from eating everything he just ordered." 

The waitress chuckled, while Xander tried to decide if he should get 
huffy or not. "Hey, I'm a growing boy, and I didn't have dinner." He 
gave his *best* puppy-dog eyes to Marianne, and added, "Could I have 
the pie first, please?" 


*****

Right, this was.weird. The whole place was giving Spike a strange 
vibe, not necessarily *bad*, but not quite right, and he couldn't 
*smell* anything. As the waitress turned away, he leaned in across 
the table and sniffed at Xander, glare or no. There it was. Warm, 
musky Xander-scent, topped off by Old Spice, and faint hints of 
tropical fruit shampoo. It was just the *food* he couldn't smell. 

The waitress, not a bad-looking bird, all told, early forties and 
carried herself younger, brought them two slices of pie, and Xander's 
coffee and coke. Spike watched as Xander sniffed the coffee 
appreciatively before shoving it to the middle of the table and 
starting in on the pie, occasionally sucking on his cola. Spike 
sniffed at the black coffee (Black coffee? Xander??). Nothing. He 
picked it up, about to take a sip, and Xander tapped the table. 

"Uh-uh. Mine."

"You're lettin' it get cold, then."

"Don't want to drink it. Tastes like crap. Just like the smell."

Of course. Why had he expected anything sane out of Xander? He 
sniffed the coffee again, with no luck. What smell?

"Eddie, I need a CFS, biscuits an' gravy, taters on the side," the 
woman called back in her countrified accent. "And tell Phil he's 
sleepin' on the job. We got a poor vampire out here who can't smell 
anything."

Spike's head shot up like somebody'd just announced it was raining 
blood outside. Whowhatwhenwhere?
Xander, of course, still had his face buried in the chocolate pie.

A skinny little fellow in an apron popped his head though the 
swinging doors that led to the kitchen, and looked around the 
restaurant, his eyes settling on Spike, who was trying to make sense 
of the whole thing. These folks couldn't be vampires. Wonky nose or 
not, he'd have picked up on another vamp the minute he walked in the 
door.

"Sorry, friend. We don't get a lot of you guys in here." The little 
bloke, who reminded Spike of Willy the Snitch, though he had lighter 
hair, must've done *something*, because all of a sudden, Spike could 
smell. Everything. Hot food aromas wafting out of the kitchen, the 
faint steam from the coffee in the cup that was slowly cooling in 
front of Xander, and the delicious scent of still-warm chocolate pie 
on Spike's plate. 

Spike blinked, his head swimming. Weird, he could deal with. He was 
dead, after all , and he'd traveled with Dru for a hundred and 
eighteen years, and he lived in a basement with Xander Harris. Weird 
was commonplace. He just had to re-adjust his perceptions, that was 
all. 

The waitress returned from pouring coffee for the two truckers in the 
corner, who seemed to be the only other customers in the place, and 
gave him a smile. "That better, honey?"

"Er, yeah..." he answered, still a bit befuddled. He sniffed again, 
reflexively, and realized he *still* couldn't smell *her.* 

She laughed at him. "You ain't gonna get a whiff of *me*, no matter 
how long you try. I stopped smellin' like much of anything a few 
years ago."

Bing! The cherries lined up on the one-armed-bandit in his head, and 
he got it. "You're dead," he said, studying her face with a puzzled 
frown.

"Well, yeah. So're you, but it ain't slowed *your* lifestyle down 
much." She gave him a wink, and took away Xander's coffee, replacing 
it with a fresh cup. "Best eat your pie before it cools off." She 
sashayed away to tidy up behind the counter, leaving Spike staring at 
his chocolate pie.

"Xander..." he started.

"Eat your pie, Spike," Xander replied, sucking on his fork, only a 
few mouthfuls left on his own plate.

"Yeah, but... you get it? This place ain't really..."

"Shut up and eat the pie, Spike."

Did the boy really not get it? The place was run by ghosts! It 
probably wasn't even really there. They were most likely sitting in 
the middle of an empty lot, eating dirt and weeds. Well, Xander was 
eating, anyway. Spike looked at the pie again. It did smell *damn* 
good. And Xander... well, Xander would eat anything, though, wouldn't 
he. Spike knew very well he was getting that damned goofy look on his 
own face just from watching the boy, and he felt another little surge 
of panic at the thought that they were most likely on their way to 
something, or rather someone, that would bollocks it all up. 

"Xander, luv, the place is haunted," he got out quickly enough that 
Xander couldn't interrupt him. Just to let him know. Didn't really 
bother Spike all that much, now that he knew what he was dealing with.

"I *know*, Spike. Eat. The. Damn. Pie." Xander finished his last bite 
of pie, and looked around frantically for the waitress.


*********************************************************************
Part Four


Of course he knew the place was haunted. He hadn't lived on the 
Hellmouth for almost twenty years without being able to pick up on 
whether something was massively ooky or not. He'd been listening to 
Spike and the waitress, while he was chowing down on what was 
definitely the world's best chocolate pie, no questions asked, just 
like he remembered. He heard it, he got it, he wasn't stupid, and 
sometimes a twenty-two track mind came in handy. 

[But this place isn't ooky at all. It's nice. Definitely not human-
person normal, but that makes it just like home, come to think of it. 
God, Spike, shut *up*!] If Spike made this pie disappear just because 
it wasn't real.

"Marianne?" he called out, and she was at the table before Spike 
could get another word out.

"Hey, what can I do for you?"

"Could I get another slice of pie?" 

Spike's eyes bugged out. He really was cute when he was knocked off 
his guard. And when he was being smarmy. And when he was being naked, 
and when he was hopping on one foot and cursing in some demon 
language `cause he'd just stubbed his toe on the bedframe for the 
fourth time in the same night. 

The waitress shook her head at Xander, with a very Giles-like air of 
amused concern. "You really should save it for after dinner, hon. It 
ain't goin' nowhere."

Xander glared at Spike, but he was mostly faking it. Still seeing a 
naked Spike bouncing up and down on one foot, holding his opposite 
little toe. Remembering his own earnest attempts to kiss it better. 

"I just don't want this place to disappear before I get another slice 
of pie 'cause *he* keeps trying to point out that you're all ghosts." 

Marianne went into a long, low chuckle. When Xander started to glare 
at *her*, she reached out and ruffled his hair. 

Cool. she could touch him. Wait, why was it cool that a ghost could 
touch him? Eek. He tried a little harder. Eek. Nope. Not wigged. She 
didn't seem any different from a human. No, she did, after he 
analyzed the feel of her fingers on his scalp. She was cool, just 
like Spike. She was making herself solid, so she could pour coffee 
and carry stuff, but she wasn't putting out fake body heat to go 
along with it. He'd just gotten so used to touching Spike that he 
hadn't realized at first.

"We ain't all ghosts, just me and Phil and Eddie. And this place 
ain't gonna disappear, kiddo. If you can see it now, it ain't goin' 
nowhere, like I said."

Xander wondered if the restaurant had been a ghost joint the first 
time he was here. He didn't *think* so, but then he hadn't been quite 
as used to Hellmouthy stuff then as he was now. [And doesn't that 
speak volumes for my sanity, that I'm sitting across from my vampire 
lover, trying to convince a ghost to give me more nonexistent pie, 
and deciding that it doesn't make me as nervous as it should?]

Since his ghostly pseudo-mom had apparently decided he wasn't old 
enough to make the decision about whether he could have two pieces of 
pie before dinner, Xander heaved a sigh, and went back to staring at 
Spike, which was a close second on his current list of fun things to 
do.

*****

Spike shook his head. A roadside diner run by ghosts, with phantom 
food, and the patrons... He glanced over at the truckers in the 
corner, who were leaning close across the table between them, and... 
kissing? Marianne followed his gaze, and, when the two men broke for 
air, she started clapping.

"Yee-haw, boys. I'd give that one a nine point eight." Spike gave up 
trying to understand what was going on, at that point.

The short trucker in the Atlanta Braves cap gave her a lopsided 
smile. "What'd I lose the two tenths for this time, darlin' ?"

The man across from him, taller, and very thin, leaned back in the 
booth. "Waiting until *after* the liver and onions to try it."

"I was gonna say feelin' him up under the table at the same time," 
Marianne said with a shrug, "since it ain't fair to distract the 
competition. But you got a point there, about the liver an' onions, 
Kels."

"I should eat the pie now, right?" Spike asked no one in particular, 
trying to maintain a grip on reality that he'd never really been that 
certain of in the first place. As Marianne turned her attention back 
to him, the door opened, and three tall figures in leather jackets 
entered. Nice leather jackets-- nothing that would give Spike's 
duster a case of cowhide-envy, but not bad.

Of course, more important in Spike's view was the fact that they were 
Kaillif demons. He raised an eyebrow when they slid into the booth 
behind Xander, one male and one female facing Spike, the other male 
back to back with Xander. The boy was a little green about the gills 
at the sight of the three demons, who had symmetrical horns 
protruding from their faces and necks, and looked like serious 
hardcases. They were. Kaillif demons tended to work the shady side of 
the shadows: bonebreakers, loan sharks, killers for hire. The most 
legit job Spike had ever seen a Kaillif in was bouncer at a demon 
club in Queens. Great, and Xander was closer to them if anything 
broke out. Spike would have to dive across the table...

"Hey, Mari-girl!" The male facing Spike called out to the waitress, 
and she tapped the table in front of Spike. 

"Yeah, you should eat the pie, sweets. It's good pie." She walked 
over to the other booth, pulling out her order pad. "How do, Charlie, 
Jesha. Weido--hey, how's the missus?"

"Fine, big as a Fyarl. We're lookin' at seventeen, this time. Gotta 
get a bigger cave."

From the corner table, the taller trucker called over, "If you'd 
spend more time on the road and less with Mandy, you'd have a hell of 
a lot more money, and you wouldn't be drownin' in spawn, Wei!"

Some general chuckling and exchanging of greetings later, Spike was 
still staring at his pie. Xander had calmed down a bit, after seeing 
that the demons had no interest in, say, taking over the world, 
opening the Hellmouth, or eating him for dinner. He was actually 
talking Star Trek plots with the Kaillif behind him, his legs 
sticking out into the aisle as he gestured animatedly, trying to 
describe something complex they'd done to get the USS Voyager out of 
an intergalactic mudhole. Spike fell back into the not too unpleasant 
occupation of staring at him.

Marianne tapped Spike on the shoulder. She set Xander's dinner on the 
table--a truly bountiful spread, and Spike stole a fried potato piece 
from the plate, since Xander was completely distracted anyway. "Scoot 
over, honey." He did, with a perplexed look at her, and she slid into 
the booth next to him.

"You look a little lost. This place ain't so weird, is it? I mean, 
you're a vampire, you havta been in wilder dives than this one." 

He nodded. "Yeah. Never one run by ghosts, granted, but...Jimmy 
Turoni's in Queens." 

She looked a little impressed with that one. Vampires didn't tend to 
get into Turoni's, but he'd had Dru on his arm, and his princess had 
charmed the horns off the Kaillif at the door. And later that night, 
the leather chaps, while he'd looked on with unhidden appreciation.

"So what's wrong?" She sounded...concerned. Bad enough he was getting 
it from Xander, now complete *strangers* wanted to treat him like a 
fluffy puppy? [Great, all I need's advice for the lovelorn from the 
undead Dear Abby.] 

She followed his gaze across the table to Xander, who was looking 
goofier than usual as he shared his sci-fi anoraktivity with the 
proud papa-to-be. Marianne picked up a home fry herself, and nibbled 
on it.

"He's sweet," she said at last. "And he's stuck as all hell on you, 
so you really should get your head outta that cute behind of yours, 
and eat the pie."

Spike snorted, and finally took fork in hand to taste the chocolate 
pie. It was.the best chocolate pie in the world. Xander was right. 
Dark, and rich, and still warm, the chocolate filling soaking into a 
flaky crust laced with enough butter to lubricate a couple of hundred 
sexual encounters. Which his tongue insisted this was, or would be, 
if it were Xander snuggling up to him, instead of a ghostly agony 
aunt who said that Xander was.

"Stuck on me?" Letting the almost-but-not-quite-burnt taste of the 
chocolate pie filling slide over his tongue, smoothing it against the 
roof of his mouth while he tried to decide if he believed her or not.

"Trust me, honey. Heels over head," Marianne said with a wink, 
slipping back out of the booth and leaning over to clear away 
Xander's empty pie plate. She gave Spike a calculating look. "You're 
just as gaga over him, ain't ya." 

Spike narrowed his eyes. "I'm not `gaga' over anybody, lady."

"Yeah, whatever," she snickered. With a shrug, she returned to plain 
old friendly curiosity. "How'd you end up with him, anyway? You don't 
see a lotta vampires with human boyfriends."

Boyfriend, again. Double-arrgh. How'd he ended up with Xander. 
Snarf. "Chocolate." he replied with a helpless smile, taking another 
bite of pie. Well, mostly chocolate. Chocolate and a lovely arse and 
an idiot smile and a terrible sense of humor and.just Xander.

"Mmmm.." The waitress nodded sagely. "Chocolate. Gets `em every time. 
Daddy used to warn me `bout boys who'd promise me chocolate an' then 
break my heart. Never got over my first chocolate affair, and by th' 
time my husband left me for a little piece a' trailer trash from 
Hershey, Pennsylvania."

"Yeah, yeah, very funny," Spike said around a mouthful of pie. "Okay, 
maybe it's more than chocolate."

"Must be, if you brought him here. I think he's only the third human 
been in here since the tractor-trailer crashed through in ninety-two, 
not countin' the dead kind. If you're takin' him to Free Zones..."

Spike blinked at her. "I didn't bring him. 'E brought me. I didn't 
even know this place was here." So the ghosts had gotten ghosted when 
Xander was what-- twelve? A couple of years after the boy'd been 
through here the first time.

Marianne gave him a funny look. "You got somethin' special, there. 
Humans don't see this place from the road. Ever." 

She didn't say anything more, just took the dirty dish away. Xander 
spun back around after a few minutes, and started in on his dinner. 
Spike watched him eat, occasionally stealing a bite or two, which had 
Xander pretending to growl at him like a territorial vampire, before 
letting him escape with the odd bit of potato or southern biscuit. Of 
course he bloody well had something special. If only he knew what the 
hell he was doing with it...

*****

Interlude in Front of a Computer

"So they'll still take us?" Tara asked, leaning over Willow's 
shoulder to look at the reservation web page for Multi-Media Con 
2000. A pair of roundish cartoon candies-- who were *just* misdrawn 
enough not to get the convention-runners sued by the M&M's people-- 
held white-gloved hands and danced at the top of the page. Red 
was 'Multi' and Yellow was 'Media.' 

"Oh yeah. They'll even sell tickets at the door, but you get better 
seating for some of the events if you register ahead of time." Willow 
was tapping away at the keyboard, entering name and credit card 
information for the both of them. Tara played with Willow's hair, and 
wondered if three days at a science fiction convention, with more 
people than probably lived in the little town she grew up in, was 
really the best Plan B in the world. Still, Willow said it was fun, 
and she hadn't really been wrong yet, where Tara was concerned.

"How many of these things have you been to?" she asked, as Willow 
confirmed their registration with a click that resulted in a monotone 
electronic voice grinding the word 'Ex-term-in-ate" out of the 
speakers. Willow bounced a little in her seat, green eyes dancing in 
her reflection on the laptop's monitor screen.

"Xander and I used to go every year, in middle school. It was one of 
our things. My dad would drive us down to L.A., 'cause it was always 
held the same weekend as one of his professional conferences across 
town, and we'd have a big hotel room to ourselves for the convention."

Tara frowned. "Your dad let you two stay all by yourselves for three 
days?"

Willow stopped bouncing quite so much. "Well, yeah. He thought I was 
mature enough to handle being on my own, as long as we didn't leave 
the hotel." 

Tara shook her head. It was a change from her own family, always in 
each other's business, but not necessarily an improvement. Just a 
different way of messing with your kids. Why would anybody want to 
leave Willow alone for three days, anyway? *She* wouldn't... Tara ran 
her fingers gently down Willow's shoulder, giving both a silent 
acknowledgement that parents could be stupid, and a less-than-subtle 
hint that they could maybe do some of the things here that they'd 
been planning to do in the woods tonight...

Willow caught her hand and smiled. "Of course, that meant I had to 
handle *Xander* for three days, too. Usually on a chocolate high, 
since convention tradition dictates that you're required to stock up 
the room with as much junk food as possible so you don't have to pay 
thirty bucks a meal for hotel food."

Tara spent a few minutes boggling over the concept of three days 
trapped in a hotel with a hyperactive adolescent Xander (He was wacky 
enough *these* days!) while Willow made their room reservations and 
shut down the computer.

"When was the last time you guys went?" 

An expression somewhere between nostalgia and regret crossed Willow's 
face as she turned to her girlfriend. "That kind of ended when Buffy 
came along. Not that it was a bad thing, making a new friend, but... "

Tara studied Willow's face. There was something she wasn't saying, 
and Tara could tell that Willow knew she knew. "That wasn't all, was 
it." 

Willow sighed. "No, that's not." The redhead looked deep at Tara. 
Hard to define that, looking deep. It was just something Willow had a 
way of doing, seeing past skin and bone and right into your heart. 
Tara feared it and welcomed it at the same time, wanted her secrets 
known, wanted to keep them hidden forever. Only this time, there was 
no sudden icy shiver of suppressed terror in the dark-blonde girl. 
Willow wasn't probing for the secrets in her lover's heart. She was 
looking for whatever it took to allow her to let Tara into her own, 
and the other witch only hoped Willow found it there.

"C'mere," Willow said, pulling her into a hug. "I need me some Tara-
snugglies for this one." They stood that way for a minute or so, just 
wrapped around each other, and then Willow took a deep breath.

"Xander and I had a friend. Best friend, since third grade. His name 
was Jesse."

It started there, and it went on, and it ended with the two of them 
sitting on the bed, Willow leaning into Tara's embrace, Tara putting 
her mouth on strawberry-scented hair, and whispering. It's alright. 
It's okay. Other stupid words that didn't mean anything, but were all 
she could say. It ended with Willow giving her another look-deep, and 
one sentence. It twisted things up somewhere in Tara's chest, 
because there was nothing she could do to take it away, the wet gray 
ache in Willow's voice. A little summer rainshower for the friend 
she'd lost, and an angry ocean for the one she still had. "We don't 
talk about him in front of Xander."

*********************************************************************
Part Five


The Kaillif demons had taken off after they finished their coffee and 
pie. Xander was still a little wigged by the fact that the one 
sitting next to him had been a Trekker, and that he'd actually been 
having a civil, even friendly conversation about Janeway and her 
obvious lust for Seven of Nine with a guy who looked a hell of a lot 
like something whose ass Buffy had kicked a few months ago. Probably 
Weido's second cousin once removed. Then there was the fact that he'd 
been indulging his geekerdom in front of Spike, but heck, everybody 
watched Star Trek, right? It wasn't like he'd revealed any of his 
*really* unmanly sci-fi addictions. Spike caught him looking when the 
three demons walked out the door, and cocked his head.

"Penny for 'em? Think I might be able to scrape that much together."

"Just thinking that life doesn't get any less freaky away from the 
Hellmouth." 

Spike chortled at that one. "Nah. It's pretty much a wild ride 
wherever you end up. When it's not boring as hell." Pause. "Hasn't 
been boring, these days." 

Spike was giving him the look, Xander realized. Not 'The Look'--('We 
*will* talk about this...') or the 'Bad Look, TM'-- (laser glare of 
death to be followed by sweeping up your ashes and using them for cat 
litter.), but the other look. The Spike look. The one that translated 
to 'my foot is slowly sliding across under the table and making its 
way oh so subtly up the leg of your jeans, while I smile innocently 
and imply without saying a damn thing that I'd like to be boffing 
your brains out against the nearest wall...' Xander used every bit of 
willpower he possessed to restrain the urge to go looking for a 
convenient wall, and gave Spike a gentle kick. Yeah, he could tell 
Marianne was on to them, but that didn't mean they had to...

"Xander...." Spike purred.

"Yes, Spike?" Patience of a nineteen year old saint, really. Which 
was not a heck of a lot.

"Everybody in this place is either dead or bent." 

Or both, Xander thought with an internal snigger, but he got the 
point. "And...?"

"And can I kiss you now?" 

Oh hell. He wasn't going to say yes. In fact, he was going to jump up 
and run out the door and sit in the car and sulk because Spike wasn't 
playing nice at *all*, and Xander's face was turning all sorts of 
shades of red, he was sure... But his body had other ideas, and he 
was leaning across the table, looking into those suddenly dark blue 
eyes that were terribly, terribly serious. Not a trace of the devil 
that Spike usually was anywhere in them. 

For some reason, Spike's lower lip was suddenly in between Xander's, 
and it tasted like the world's best chocol-te pie, and it didn't 
matter that two gay truckers and a ghost waitress were probably 
staring at them. It didn't matter at all, as Xander's tongue found 
the little ridge that ran down the underside of Spike's, as Spike 
pulled back a little and gave him what felt like a million tiny mini-
kisses. Ghost kisses, to go with the ghost pie, and everything was 
warm and safe, here. In this place, with Spike... When he opened his 
eyes, Xander blinked twice, watching the world go back to what passed 
for normal around here, trying to focus on Spike's face only 
centimeters away from his, and realized that breathing was probably a 
good thing.

And of course, as he sank back into his seat and tried to see if 
maybe there wasn't a little green army guy he could look for on the 
floor, the applause started up. Just Marianne and the tall trucker, 
Kels, though the shorter guy gave him a thumbs-up. [Where's a 
Hellmouth opening when you need one?] Xander groaned inwardly, while 
Spike tipped an imaginary hat at the waitress.

"Ten point oh, boys," she commented.

"Hey, how come they get the extra two tenths? Nobody ever gets a ten 
at the Olympics!" the shorter trucker complained.

"One for first time in public, one 'cause they're just so goldarn 
cute, Jack. You used to be cute, before you decided the Braves were a 
real sports team," Marianne explained. Jack pulled his hat off and 
looked at it, revealing a delicately pointed ear on the side that 
Xander could see.

"Which one's cuter, him or me?" Spike mugged shamelessly.

[Okay, can I die now, or do I have to make an appearance in the 
second act?] Xander asked himself.

*****

Twenty minutes later, and Spike was beginning to wonder if getting 
Xander to admit to their relationship in public, albeit a limited 
sort of public, was such a wise idea. Marianne had turned the country 
music station on the radio up to Spinal Tap volume levels, and Xander 
had joined the waitress, Kels, and Jack in a voice-over to 'What You 
Gonna Do With A Cowboy.' Only the assembled multitudes were drowning 
out the original (alleged) artists with their own version, 'What You 
Gonna Do With A Vampire' :

"His boots are always muddy..." and Xander kicked the toe of Spike's 
left Doc under the table, "and his blood-drinkin' buddies will camp 
out on your couch an' never leave..." Spike groaned and banged his 
head against the tabletop, thankfully drowning out most the rest of 
the verse, though he caught that line about "Honey, you can't hide 
him from your friends," and briefly considered hanging himself from 
that bridge when they came to it. He misjudged the length of the 
song, unfortunately, uncovering his ears just in time for the final 
chorus.

"What you gonna do with a vampire, when that old rooster crows at 
dawn? When he's lyin' there instead of gettin' out of bed and puttin' 
on his cape and gettin' gone..."

"Dust," shouted Spike to no one and everyone. "I could be dust... 
Dust is a nice thing to be. Anybody got a toothpick?"

"What you gonna do when he says honey, I've got half a mind to stay," 
Xander sang not all that badly, looking at Spike with an evil glint 
in those dark eyes.

"Better than no mind at all..." Spike replied with a murderous glare.

"What you gonna do with a vampire bat," (Xander's ingenious little 
addition) "When he don t flap his wings and fly away!"


"Thank you," said Spike after the laughter died down. "Thank you from 
the bottom of my souless, cashless, malevolent little heart, and be 
assured that I've memorized every one of your names and faces, and I 
know exactly where to find you. I won't do it tonight. Won't do it 
tomorrow, won't do it next week. Years from now, when you least 
expect..." 

He had a nasty little finale in mind, but he was cut off mid-address 
by Xander's mouth on his, which, he supposed, made it alright, though 
he really would have to get back at the boy somehow. He was naught 
for two now, considering that he *still* didn't know what the bloody 
temporary tattoo Xander'd stuck on his arse was, and now this.

*****

Spike held the door for Xander as they walked out, and Xander really 
should've known something was fishy there. Never let the psychotic 
vampire walk *behind* you. But noooo, he was too busy waving goodbye 
to Marianne, lusting in his heart over the extra piece of pie she'd 
wrapped up for him, and wondering if he couldn't sneak off from Spike 
for a minute to duck back in and ask the two elfin truckers if either 
of them spoke Glaistig. Having to take a leak sounded like a pretty 
good excuse, even if it wasn't true.

La la la la... Walking towards the car, out of sight of the door, and 
the diner didn't have any windows to speak of... and Spike grabbed 
Xander from behind, spun him around, and pushed him up against the 
trunk of the Chevy. After a second of surprise, Xander shrugged, 
tossed the pie over the back seat and into the front with more game 
than he usually possessed, and gave in to the addiction that was 
Spike. Whose pie-flavored tongue was getting itself re-acquainted 
with Xander's as if they hadn't met intimately just a few long 
minutes ago. 

Well.it wasn't that naughty, right? Who was gonna see them who hadn't 
already? Except, of course, anybody new who pulled into the lot, 
demonic squirrels who might be nesting in the trees, random spy 
planes overhead. Not that Xander was getting his usual case of the 
paranoid, self-conscious wigginses back. Really.

"Urrrmmm. Aren't we getting a little case of the too-frisky-in-
publics, here?" Xander asked, his hands nonetheless moving over 
Spike's back underneath the duster, feeling straining muscles through 
the two layers of t-shirt and silk. Silk. Red silk, that would never 
wrinkle again, if Tara's little laundry spell worked like it was 
supposed to, and it felt like Spike's skin under his hands, cool and 
smooth.

Spike pulled Xander closer. Kissed him hard, his hand reaching around 
and down to do exactly what Xander had glared at him for earlier, 
squeezing Xander's left butt cheek like it was a melon in the fruit 
and vegetable section of Food Mart. A place whose innocence, Xander 
admitted, was probably forever ruined for him by the concept of 
frozen grapes on a string, anyway... and he moaned as Spike brought 
his other hand down and repeated the process on the opposite side. 

"Hey, *abandoned* parking lots are one thing. I'm not sure I'm ready.
mmmm. to blaze new trails into indecent exposure, though. Wouldn't 
wanna.oh, nice. disturb the natives." Xander tried very hard to 
concentrate on being good and just, and semi-pure, here. *One* of 
them had to make the effort. Spike's hands, however, were basically 
telling good and just and pure to sod off, if Xander could read hand-
to-ass language correctly, and he suspected he was getting pretty 
fluent. He attempted to pull away. Really. Well, he tried wriggling, 
anyway, which got Spike to smile, and they somehow ended up trading 
places. Spike was pushed up against the back bumper, Xander yanked 
even closer to him, so the fronts of their jeans were pressed 
together, and Xander could feel just exactly how good and pure they 
both weren't feeling.

Spike squeezed again, with both hands. "You forget, luv. I've got no 
problem with colonial expansion; Bring on the conquering hordes. " He 
ran one hand up Xander's back, under the sweatshirt, sending little 
shivery sparks up and down Xander's spine. "Westward migration." That 
hand somehow made its way around to the front, and it was expertly 
slipping cool fingers into the waistband of Xander's 501's, while the 
other was still doing dangerous things around back. "Manifest." Spike 
shut up for a moment to kiss Xander, sucking away just about every 
bit of breath left in his body, or so it seemed to one lightheaded 
earthboy at the moment. "Manifest destiny."

Xander fixed Spike with a hard glare when he was at last offered a 
chance at oxygen again. "You," he said, grabbing the hand at his 
waist and firmly tugging it away, "are *way* too over-educated for an 
ex-plumber. Plus, no plumber's crack," he added, barely fitting a 
finger into the back waistband of *Spike's* jeans. Spike gave a 
strange little shake of his head, and pulled Xander in again.

It wasn't one of those 'Princess Bride'-type kisses. You know, the 
ten purest (pure? Spike?), most romantic, mind-bendingest kisses in 
the world-- but it was definitely on the waiting list to take over if 
one of those historical smoochies should ever be unable to fulfill 
its duties and have to give up its crown Which was why Xander didn't 
notice the rusty pickup pull off the exit ramp and grind into the 
parking spot on the other side of the Chevy. He probably wouldn't 
have noticed if it were driven by a naked, chocolate-covered Yasmeen 
Bleeth, and had the entire cast of All-New, All-Nude Baywatch frolic-
ing in the truck-bed.

He did, finally, notice when a door slammed loudly only a few feet 
from him, and a deep voice with a kind of liquid snort in it, like 
somebody sucking snot back up his nose, announced, "This place is 
goin' to hell faster than I thought, Dwayne."

Followed by Spike pulling away (Bad Spike!), looking over Xander's 
shoulder, and growling, "You have *got* to be bloody kidding me."

*****

Redneck Chaos Demons? The slimy, mucus-dripping gits were bad enough 
when they just hung about and played gigolo to lonely, looney vamp 
girls. At least those guys, and Dru had flirted with more than one, 
had bought their clothes at Leisure-Suit Larry's Tacky Demon Togs R' 
Us. These two! Flannel shirts open over sleeveless white vests, jeans 
stretched across the beginnings of beer bellies, and one of 'em was 
even wearing a baseball cap, perched between his antlers. Only this 
hat didn't advertise the home team-- it bore a single silver 'S' on 
the front, with a scaly green fist behind it. The bloody Scourge. 

No way the anti-mixed-breed fascists would allow these two twits into 
their ranks, no matter how pure of blood they might be. They looked 
like they had one brain cell between them, and neither was using it 
at the moment. They could be rank and file, but Spike doubted it. 
Even the Scourge's bully boys usually had *some* smarts. Which, in 
its way, was worse, because it meant these two were wanna-be's. 
[Can't actually get into the big boys' club and beat up on vamps, 
half-breeds, and humans officially, we'd better do our part on a 
local scale. Useless wankers.]

"Geez, I guess, Kenny. Look at these two. Bad enough Eddie's lettin' 
fairies in this place, but this just about makes me sick."

Xander, bless his insane little mind, chose this moment to open his 
mouth and show off those knackers of his at the same time. "Oh, nice. 
We don't have enough human gay-bashers to make the world a better 
place, they have to start recruiting from the demon community? Step 
right up, if your IQ is smaller than your dick length, and join the 
jamboree?"

Spike snickered. [That's my boy. Have I mentioned recently that I 
love you?] But.

"I think they actually meant the elves, Xander."

Xander shook his head. "Okay, fine, elf-bashers. Don't you morons 
have anything better to do than." He turned around, Spike's arms 
still around his waist, and finally got a look at the two Chaos 
Demons, both six-five at least, muscles on their muscles and a good 
fifty pounds heavier than Xander would be if he ate straight through 
the Fourth of July weekend without stopping. Which, knowing him, was 
actually a possibility.

"You're very large," Xander stated. "Very. very large. And I. am not. 
I am in fact on the dinky side, in comparison, and I squish easily, 
so I think I'll shut up now." 

"Good call, scum-puppy," the hatted-one, Dwayne, sneered. To his mate 
(brother, lover, stock analyst for all Spike cared), he bitched 
again. "Humans. They're lettin' humans in here now."

Spike gripped Xander tighter and let a little of his annoyance show 
through, blue eyes flashing gold, face re-forming, fangs 
descending. "I'm not a human, lads. I just play one on TV." This had 
the makings of some fun, aside from the fact that the toe-rag had 
just insulted Xander. Only *Spike* was allowed to insult Xander. Grrr.

"Oh, a *vampire.* This night's gettin' better and better. I haven't 
played football with a vampire-head for. oh, a week, wouldn't you 
say?" Scourge-hat asked his partner.

"Why do I think you mean American football?" Spike asked, and tensed 
his grip on Xander's waist, trying to put the warning into his touch--
when I say run, run. "You two really wanna throw down with me? Gotta 
warn ya, I've been doin' Buns of Steel. I can crack your head open at 
twenty paces just by flexin' my arse at you." Xander snerked, 
shifting in his arms. "Xan, go get me another piece of pie. I'm 
gonna be hungry when I finish with these gits." 

He released Xander, who stood there for a moment, then took a few 
nervous steps towards the door--which was on the other side of the 
two gobshites with the slime-dripping antlers and the bad attitudes. 
Kenny, a little greener than his friend, stepped in front of Xander, 
who froze where he stood. The demon smiled mock-politely at 
him. "Going somewhere?" 

He put one large arm on Xander's shoulder, and Spike was across the 
space between them in milliseconds, pulling Xander away and shoving 
him not-too-roughly in the direction of the diner's door. "Get 
inside. Now." When he saw that Xander had indeed made it in the door 
and was watching out through the glass, a worried frown on his face, 
Spike spun back to the demon, gold eyes blazing like a thousand lost 
suns.

"You *don't* wanna touch him. You don't even wanna *look* at him 
funny, arse-wipe." He curled his fingers into fists. Oh, yeah, this 
was gonna be good. *Nobody* touched what was his, especially a 
fuckin' *Chaos Demon* with a brain the size of a walnut. Spike rushed 
the moron, knocking him back against the high-roofed cab of the 
pickup. He'd landed about eight good socks to the stomach when Moron 
Number Two decided to join in-- Kenny must've tossed him the brain 
cell-- and then things got really fun.

*********************************************************************
Part Six


"Back so soon?" Marianne asked, coming over to join Xander by the 
door, where he was watching Spike lay into *both* of the big slimy 
demons at once. They'd moved out into the middle of the parking lot, 
so he got the full view of five-foot ten inches of pissy, kissing-
interrupted vampire who loved to kick ass anyway, doing what he did 
best. Second-best, actually, Xander thought with a grin. He'd been 
worried for a minute, but this was Spike. 

He'd watched Spike fight before-- pick up a Vahrall demon one and a 
half times his size and -oops-- toss it down the Hellmouth. Duck in 
and out of the tentacles of a Mathgarau while landing kicks in just 
the right places to keep it off-balance, insulting its mother, and 
shouting out just in time for Xander to bring his too-heavy helm-axe 
down on the thing's long, skinny tail. Spike was a joy to see in 
action, as long as he wasn't threatening *you*, and the vampire was 
having the time of his unlife out there now, spinning and kicking, 
black duster flying behind him. He knocked one of the demons down to 
the gravel, and was stomping on what passed for its face, while the 
other one was trying to drag him off. Xander was so caught up in 
watching, it took Marianne tapping him on the shoulder with a pie-
plate to get his attention.

"What's goin' on out there?" she asked, peering out into the 
night. "Oh." She gave a disgusted snort. "The Bilbo brothers. Those 
two're about the only thing keepin' this place from bein' a real Free 
Zone. I serve, Eddie grills, Phil makes pies an' keeps the peace in 
here, and we got ourselves a nice little setup. Place for the night-
folks to hang out without worryin' about who don't like whose 
mother's brother's step-cousin's face or the number a' horns on his 
ass. No profit, since the food ain't real, but it's somethin' to do 
for as long as we're hangin' around here."

"Those hammerheads show up a year ago from Tennessee, and keep 
botherin' the customers. Not inside, a' course, but out in the lot 
Phil can't do a damn thing, and the Bilbos won't ever start somethin' 
when one of the big suckers, like the Kaillifs, is here. They just 
mess around with sweet little guys like Kels an' Jack, or the Lister 
demons who came through here a year ago. Anybody who can't defend 
himself and has a little human in his pedigree somewhere. Fuckin' 
assholes."

It was weird to hear that southern momma voice spit out the last two 
words, and Xander turned to look at the ghost. She grimaced.

"I had me a vampire friend, for a while. Mighta been more than 
friends, if he'd hung around, but the Bilbos beat him up so bad a few 
months back, he almost died. Well, died again. You know what I mean. 
One of them little Listers did die, and nobody could do a damn thing 
about it. I never seen a Chaos Demon like them-- they ain't too 
street-smart, none of 'em, but these are the only two I ever heard of 
got a mad on for beatin' hell out of things that can't fight back."

Xander grinned at her. "You'll like this, then." They both turned to 
watch Spike haul Kenny off the ground by his antlers, while landing a 
backwards kick to Dwayne's groin that had the jerk doubled over and 
not about to mess with Spike for at least a few minutes. Marianne 
sucked in an admiring breath.

"Damn, he's good. He just like fightin'? I know he could care less 
about this place, really-- vamps don't make friends that easy." 

Xander took a forkful of the pie she'd handed him, and chewed it 
slowly, before answering. "Oh, I think he likes you, as much as he 
likes anybody he can't kill anyway, who hasn't pissed him off yet. 
But yeah, he just loves to kick ass. That, and." Best evil grin yet, 
learned from the master, "Spike doesn't *like* Chaos Demons. His 
girlfriend left him for one."

Marianne watched thoughtfully. "Could be it, I guess, but. Those guys 
try to rough him up, or he just start whalin' on 'em?" 

Xander shook his head. "They probably would've, but they never really 
got that far. Old Big, Green and Antlery started doing a Bad Touch 
thing on my shoulder, rapidly heading towards Bang, Squish, Splat, 
Bye Bye Xander."

She nodded, satisfied. "That makes a lot more sense. That's not just 
vampy fun times, though ya can see he's havin' a blast. That's a 
pissin' war over *you.*"

"Me?" [Me? Ulp. Nah. Why would Spike get all bumpy over me? Aside 
from that one time with Anya, yet another Spike oopsie, but that was 
just. oh. Spike getting territorial. Over me. ] Xander hoped the 
smile on his face didn't look too goofy. Something in the range 
of 'Oh, I'm watching my something-or-other kick ass and he looks 
really good' instead of 'You sent the birds with the spy cameras, 
didn't you, and now they're going to take over the world.' 

He realized as Spike tripped Dwayne, who'd recovered a bit quicker 
than Xander had expected, and sent the Chaos Demon diving to the 
gravel again, that watching Spike fight was getting him almost as 
excited as he'd been a few minutes ago during the impromptu parking-
lot grope. He was thankful he was pressed up against the door where 
Marianne couldn't see the obvious evidence. "You're a sick, twisted 
bastard, Alexander Harris." he muttered.


*****

Spike let go of Hat-head to attend to his partner-in-stupidity, who 
was getting up from the gravel *again*. As he bent down to haul 
Dwayne up for a nice gut-punch, the other demon rushed him from 
behind, with those nasty antlers lowered. Almost as good as a stake, 
if one of those tines went through his back. Wouldn't kill him, but 
it would lay him out long enough for the gimboids to drag him off 
somewhere and finish the job. Lucky for Spike, Chaos Demons, despite 
their race name, were about the most predictable creatures he'd ever 
come across besides Buffy Summers in her non-Slaying moments. He spun 
around, grabbed Kenny by the antlers, and raised his knee up sharply, 
cracking the slimy horns right off the bastard's head. 

Slump. as the demon fell lifeless to the ground, his energy draining 
out with the loss of his antlers. Dwayne, who been in the process of 
getting to his feet, just stood there, looking at the corpse of his 
fellow monster. "You. you killed Kenny," he finally stuttered.

Spike just blinked at him. "That doesn't even deserve an answer," he 
snorted, and snapped the moron's neck with his foot. 

He was going to just leave them there in the lot, for whoever felt 
like cleaning up to deal with, but on second thought. He reached down 
and cracked Dwayne's antlers off at the base, using his boot as a 
brace, then went over and collected Kenny's from the ground.

When he stalked back into the diner, Xander gave him a snarky 
grin. "My hero." the boy said, batting his dark eyelashes.

"Shut up." Spike handed the two sets of antlers to Marianne. "Thought 
you might like a souvenir. Make a great trophy for over the grill. He 
wiped the nasty slime off on a wet towel handed to him by a grateful 
Phil (Was it a real towel? How bloody philosophical could you get 
about a diner that served the best chocolate pie in the world?) and 
dragged Xander back out the door to the car.

"That was nice," Xander commented, walking over to the passenger 
side. 

"Didn't do it for them," Spike said with a shrug.

"I know," Xander replied, getting in. "You just wanted a little 
action." The brightest smile Spike had ever seen followed that 
statement, and afterwards, "Thanks."

"Shut up. Wait, I get to drive?"

Xander mirrored Spike's shrug. "Least I can do, for my big, strong 
hero."

"Shut up. You ate so much you're gonna fall asleep in fifteen 
minutes," Spike groused, "and you don't wanna run off the road."

"I resemble that remark, and furthermore."

"Belt up." Spike buckled his own seatbelt with the minimum amount of 
fuss, to Xander's obvious confusion. Well, he couldn't risk the 
Xander-glare again, could he? The kid might wish him into the 
cornfield or something.

*****

Interlude In, Um, Tara's Bed, With The Lights Off

Fingers on skin, lips on lips. a crackle as a spark of green static 
lit the room, and a low exclamation of delight.

Then:

"Oh! I should call and tell Cordy we're coming!"

Amusement, bubbled into the shoulder of one witch from the lips of 
another.

"Right now?"

"Ta-ra! No, not right now."

Silence, and then a giggle.

"Oh God. or Gods. there's something you have to say to Angel the 
first time you meet him! It's wrong and evil. Bad. Rotten. Absolutely 
perfect."

"Like you. Shhhsh."

*****

"On the road again, like a band of gypsies we go down the highway."

Spike groaned. "No. No, nononononono. Tape. Now. Don't bloody care 
what as long as it's not Willie, Waylon, or Garth Brooks."

Xander stuck his tongue out at Spike. Hee-hee. navigator got to pick 
the music, but with all the distractions, Spike had actually chosen 
what, one tape on the entire trip? Xander dug busily through the bin 
of tapes, while defending his own taste in tunes. Like anybody who 
liked the Sex Pistols had a right to dis *his* music collection?

"Garth's not bad. He's great break-up music. 'Friends in Low Places' 
was the world's best Fuck-You-Cordy song. Before, during, and after 
we were dating, actually."

"I've met your friends; I'm not surprised. No Garth."

"Um. Rasputina?" Xander held up the tape and hummed a bit 
of 'Transylvanian Concubine.' 

"No. Not that one." Ouch. Vampire bite in Spike's voice. Xander 
didn't ask, just nodded and went back to digging. 

"Oh, by the way," he said, looking up, "you realize you're a legend 
in the making back at Eddie's?'

Spike grinned. 'Yeah? So?" Sure, like it could hurt his reputation 
to have been the source of the antlers nailed to the wall in what was 
probably gonna be one of the more famous Free Zones on the West Coast 
if the pie was anything to judge by. He wasn't thinking far enough 
ahead, though. Typical Spike.

"So everybody who passes through gets to know William the Bloody 
ripped apart two Chaos Demons in a turf war over a human named Xander 
Harris."

Spike groaned. 

Yeah, that would be a shot in the arm for the Chipped Wonder, having 
their names linked. "Which is why," continued Xander, still 
shuffling, "I asked Marianne and company to keep their mouths shut 
about me."

Spike didn't say anything. Lower lip. he was actually pouting! Spike 
was insulted! And the things Xander had to do to keep his vampire 
happy."Not because I care about being seen with you, Spike. What, 
like Xander Harris has street cred in the demon world? Jeez, and you 
say *I'm* insecure? Because I don't want rumors getting back to 
Sunnydale and you having to feel all unvamply about it."

"Oh." Pause. "Thanks."

"Shut up. " Xander waggled one arched eyebrow. Spike should've known 
he was crazy the minute they met-- who else but psychos and movie mad 
scientists have eyebrows like that? Xander had spent years being 
thankful for those eyebrows. They scared away Jehovah's Witnesses, 
for one thing. "Anyway, in the official version, I'm a woman."

Poor Spike. Only a hundred and twenty-whatzit. Mind gone at such a 
young age. "Er, ah, what? Oh, I see. Pull the other one, luv--it's 
got bells on."

"The other what?" Xander asked, confused.

"Anything I've got two of," replied Spike with a leer. 

Xander snorted. "No, seriously. I'm a gorgeous six foot tall chick 
with three breasts."

Spike almost drove off the road, he laughed so hard. "Eccentrica 
Gallumbits, the triple-breasted whore of Eroticon Six? You do get 
around."

"I have *no* idea what you're talking about," Xander answered with 
great dignity. At last he pulled a hand-labeled tape from the bin, 
and just stared at it for a few seconds, as a smile slowly inched its 
way across his face. Smile, little gasp, snort, silence, snicker.. It 
was obviously driving Spike nuts. Good.

"What?" Spike asked.

"It's.um.don't hit me or anything."

"I can't *reach* you, at the moment, and I can't hit you anywhere 
y'don't like to be hit, so get on with it."

"It's. Our Song. Capitalize as needed."

"If it's 'Wind Beneath My Wings,' I'm getting out of the car. Right 
now. You're on your own." 

Since they were doing-- gulp--ninety-three in a sixty-five zone, the 
threat was sufficient unto the day, not that the song in question 
didn't make Xander want to gag too. Xander shook his head.

"Nah. Billy Joel."

Spike heaved his shoulders in an exaggerated exhalation. "Put it in."

The motorcycle sounds echoed over the opening notes, and Spike raised 
one eyebrow in tickled surprise. 

"Friday night I crashed your party.Saturday I said I'm sorry, Sunday 
came and we trashed it out again."

"Tell me that didn't happen. Word for word," Xander challenged. Spike 
nodded, mouthing the words along with the tape. Finally, not looking 
at Xander, he started to sing along, and Xander joined him.

"You may be right, I may be crazy, but it just may be a lunatic 
you're lookin' for."

By the end, they were roaring it out. Why not? Who the hell could 
hear them? Afterwards, Spike frowned.

"Okay, that's us. Granted. It's missin' something, though. No 
chocolate."

Xander considered. "True. It's a little like 'I wrote back and told 
my friend that it wasn't the perfect country and western song, 
because he hadn't put anything in it about momma, or trucks, or 
prison, or trains, or gettin' drunk.' "

"So he wrote back with this verse.. An' I felt obliged to include it 
on the album," Spike supplied. For a guy who hated everything but 
punk and classic rock, he sure had a. oh yeah. Brain full of useless 
trivia. "Okay, fine. Let's see. Remember how I found you there, with 
peanut butter in your hair, and I fed you chocolate icing 'til you 
smiled." he sang with his head tilted, a sparkle in the eye that 
Xander could see.

"You were lonely for a vamp. I said take me as I am, and you might 
enjoy some madness for a while."

*********************************************************************
Part Seven

Message Left For Cordelia Chase--As Recorded By The Wire-Tap That 
Doesn't Exist On Tara McClay's Dorm Phone, And Wasn't Put There By 
Shadowy Government Agencies Trying To Keep Tabs On U.S. Citizens With 
Alleged Supernatural Powers.

"Hey, Cordy, it's Willow. I know I said we weren't coming down this 
weekend. What can I say, I'm a sneaky, lying witch. Our holiday plans 
went wrong, so Tara and I are coming to L.A. after all. We can help 
out in the morning when we get there, and then we're taking off for a 
convention. I don't know if Spike's got Xander climbing the walls 
over there yet, but don't let them kill each other. Tell them we'll 
see you all tomorrow. I'm gonna call Angel at the cell number you 
gave me, just in case you don't get this tonight, so no big danger of 
us not getting picked up at the bus station-- like you were worried, 
I'm sure. Bye!"

*****

Spike was. well, not in heaven. There were things he'd rather be 
doing than driving the streets of L.A. with Xander Harris sleeping 
against his shoulder. Driving the streets of London with Xander 
Harris sleeping against his shoulder, for instance. Still, it wasn't 
a bad place to be at all. If he had to face the firing squad, or 
whichever execution metaphor his creative and bloodthirsty brain 
decided to fling up at him this time, at least he had Xander around. 
Which would make it more interesting, if nothing else. He was 
reluctant to wake the boy, it felt so good just to have that warmth 
against him, his arm around Xander, who was leaning across the seat 
where he'd fallen asleep a good half an hour ago.

"Hey. Sleeping Beauty. We're here," he said, shaking Xander gently. 
The brown eyes opened, and focused blearily on their surroundings.

"Where's here?" They were parked in front of a collapsed building 
that Spike had last seen in a somewhat more pristine condition. 
Neatly lettered signs announced that this was an LAPD investigation 
site, and former tenants who wished to claim recovered property 
should see the sergeant on duty between eight a.m. and five p.m.

"The pile of rubble formerly known as Angel Investigations. Seemed 
like as good a place to navigate from as any. You've got the 
directions to the Prom Princess' pad."

"Yeah," said Xander, yawning and stretching. "What time is it?" He 
reached into the little white paper bag on the floor at his feet, 
and, what a surprise, uncovered a leftover piece of chocolate pie. 
Ghost pie, that had somehow survived the trip without disintegrating, 
or winging its way to pie heaven, or whatever ghost pie did when it 
was outside the ghost diner. Xander ate with his hands, digging into 
the chocolate filling and licking it slowly off each finger, and 
Spike was hard put to remember the question at hand. Fingers.hands... 
Clock... What time was it.

"Just about eleven. Shock, horror, we're fashionably late. Big 
surprise, considering the Flintstone speeds you drive at."

"Shut up," Xander said succinctly, and kissed him. A mouthful of 
chocolate and Xander breath, warm and familiar, and reminiscent of 
the first time he'd had this taste in his mouth, though that time, 
there had been blood, too. He'd settle, Spike would. More than settle 
for this, and he bent his head to the task, licking chocolate filling 
from thin human lips that turned full when Xander smiled into the 
kiss. It lasted a lot longer than that first one, too. There was 
something to be said for training your human in the ways of holding 
his breath.

"Happy Anniversary. Or some sappy shit like that," Xander added 
manfully. From the glove box, he pulled a little plastic case. Spike 
ought to recognise the shape by now; he'd been subjected to them all 
evening: an audio cassette, wrapped in cellophane. "Don't think this 
means I like you or anything," Xander said sternly, handing it over 
to him. Spike yipped, just a little, when he saw the cover. Not in an 
unvamply way, or anything.

It may have been stupid, and girly, and something teenagers would do, 
but it had been Spike, after all, who pointed out the anniversary 
thing in the first place. On the Hellmouth, two weeks was nothing to 
sneeze at, really. He'd said all this stuff, done it all with Dru, 
and she'd eaten it up. Why did he have to keep fighting being a 
romantic twit when he was around the whelp? Sod it. Really and truly 
sod it. "I didn't get you anything, y'know. Sorry-- totally skint."

Xander shrugged, fingering Spike's collar. "I seem to recall some 
pretty mind-expanding ruin-the-basement-for-your-relatives lur-ur-ur-
urve. I liked it. Wouldn't return it for store credit. "

"Mmmm. Let's say it was mutually acceptable. Which doesn't leave us 
even." What could Spike give that he had on him at the moment, aside 
from more mutually acceptable anniversary sex, which hadn't been sex 
at all, and they both damn well knew it? Xander wouldn't go for sex 
in a car on the street, Spike felt sure. Not yet, anyway. What did he 
have?

[How 'bout the truth, pillock? It's free an' all.] said the voice 
that had kicked his arse earlier this evening.

"One question. Any question. Straight answer," Spike proffered, 
laying his head on that metaphorical chopping block and hoping the 
blade was sharp. 
[Don'taskifIloveyoudon'taskifIloveyoudon'taskifIloveyoudon'taskifIlove
youdon'taskifIloveyou.]

Xander's eyes lit up with a glee far too unholy for one so young and 
soul-filled. "So. I could ask what happened to your car?"

Spike breathed a sigh of relief. Embarrassing, but not *too* 
sacrificial. "Nicked. On the street outside the bloody club where 
SP66 was playin', right after my little 'torture Angel to get the 
ring' plan went arse-end-up. Sad thing was, I even paid for the 
soddin' parkin' meter, like a. human, or somethin'. Come out and the 
DeSoto's nowhere to be seen. William the Bloody gets 'is motor jacked 
like any twit who leaves it on an L.A. streetcorner."

Xander looked at him with wide dark eyes, and snickered. "That's.
fascinating. And it wasn't my question."

Brat. Little bastard. Whelp. Puppy-dog-faced hound of hell. He'd 
*never* been this bad when *he* was this age, Spike was sure. 
Honestly. Made him proud, it did, though it also gave him the urge to 
smack the grin off that laughing face. Or kiss it off, or something. 
He'd make such an adorable vamp... [Oh, Christ, Spike, put that 
thought aside. Way aside. Far enough aside to get Angel's giant arse 
past it without even brushing skin.] He grabbed Xander by the shirt 
collar and stared at him.

"One question. Straight answer. This time, you'd better play nice, or 
no deal."

Xander bit his lip, but the laughter still spilled out at Spike. He 
growled. He was doing this voluntarily, right? Spending time with the 
Slayer's pet Snoopy dog? [Brain? Where've you got to, eh? Hello?]

"Okay. Real question. What did you do when you were human?" 

Sincere. He really wanted to know. Of course he did. Because Spike 
couldn't keep his mouth shut on all those bleedin' literary quotes. 
James Dickey oughtta be shot, he recalled prattling during their 
first time together. [And why does a badass vampire know who 
wrote 'Deliverance,' eh?] Why couldn't William the Bloody have been a 
supermarket stockboy? Pizza delivery bloke? Railroad bull? No, he had 
to be.

"You promise you won't tell a bleedin' soul, or even anybody without 
one?" Spike asked, wondering who exactly had decided to steal his 
voicebox when he wasn't paying attention, and Xander nodded eagerly.

What exactly was he doing, aside from acting suspiciously like the 
Poof, Spike wondered deliriously. He couldn't be about to. Yeah. 
Apparently, according to Snarky Brain Voice Number Three, also known 
as the little quiet one who once answered to Will, he was. That 
particular personality quirk had decided to commandeer not only 
Spike's head, but also his mouth, in an accent he hadn't used in a 
century for much besides faking his way into dinner reservations and 
doing dead-on impressions of Rupert Giles. Was this really worth it, 
in exchange for a copy of 'Pistol Whipped--Sex Pistols Live' ? 
[Sorry, Sid.What was I thinkin'?]

"I used to be." he said, bringing his mouth very close to Xander's 
ear, "a *very* terrible poet."

'Agog' was such a nice word. Only two syllables, scanned well, you 
could use it in iambic pentameter without twisting up your line 
structure. and it rhymed a hell of a lot easier than, say, 'orange.' 
Off the top of his head, Spike came up with: [And there sat Xander, 
all agog, respect for Spike flushed down the bog.] Bit of schoolboy 
doggerel, but it served its purpose reasonably well, he thought. Not 
that he believed Xander had *ever* had any *respect* for him, as 
such, but this last little act of dementia had undoubtedly put the 
capper on any hope of Spike being able pretend he was the grown-up 
here. [Or potential Sire, and no, and sit, stay, heel, dead brain.]

But Xander was just chuckling gently at him. " A *poet*? You, Spike, 
are a complete psycho. "

"Well, yeah." That was a given, wasn't it? But where was the 
ridicule, the smirking, the Xander laughing so hard his tight little 
backside fell off? Where was the abuse, dammit? He could *deal* with 
that!

"When you least expect it," Xander promised, eyes twinkling. "Don't 
worry. It's goin' on my list. Right up there with 'ticklish shins' 
and 'Actually talks back to Mr. Whipple when he says not to squeeze 
the Charmin.' "

"Well, who bloody wants to go around squeezin' bog rolls?" Thank God. 
He'd got his accent back. Maybe he could convince Xander it'd all 
been an hallucination from eating bad pie?

"Mrs. Whipple?" 

Or maybe he should just quit while he was ahead.

*****

Message Actually Received On Cordelia Chase's Brand Spankin' New 
Digital Answering Machine And Cordless Phone With Built-In Caller ID 
and Last Number Re-Dial:


"Bzzt. Willow. Snccchtttt..Szot.went wrong. coming to L.A..Help.
shhscht.. {unintelligible}. ..eeeeeee...Spike's got Xander.. kill 
..tomorrow. Call Angel.. {line noise, sound of Muzak cutting in from 
another digital channel: and I-eee-I will always love you-oo-ooo.} 
big danger . worried. {dead air} Beeeeeeeep!"

*****

"You sure this is it?" Spike was asking as they pulled to a stop in 
front of a nice-looking apartment building, almost as well-kept as 
Giles', in a halfway-decent neighborhood.

"Yes, Spike," Xander answered for the fourth time. Like he couldn't 
read his own handwriting? Xander had occasionally been known to stoop 
to the suspiciously feminine act of stopping to ask for directions, 
but this time it wasn't necessary.

"Can't figure how the Poof makes enough money savin' the downtrodden 
to put her up in a place like this. You reckon she's got herself a 
sideline? If I remember right, she dresses the part." Spike pulled 
the keys from the ignition, and Xander held out his hand. 

[Mine. My keys, my car, --Okay, my uncle's car, and won't he be happy 
about the extra miles. Then again, haha, I don't have to see him this 
weekend, do I-- my brain, my vampire who used to be a poet and had an 
accent like Giles'. Help. Total nuclear meltdown between the ears.]

"And that, boys and girls, would be an example of what *not* to say 
to the woman who's putting us up for the weekend, if we don't wanna 
sleep on the sidewalk. Today's words to avoid include hooker, bint, 
and tasty-looking morsel," he pointed out.

"Well." Spike sulked. "She called me a Cockney the last time I saw 
her. A *Cockney*!" He got out and opened the trunk, pulling out 
Xander's duffel bag with a wince. "Your entire bleedin' wardrobe, and 
I use the term loosely. Come on, already." Still not returning the 
keys, mind you.

Xander followed Spike up the walk and into the building, checking out 
the mailboxes on the way in. Yep, Chase, C. A 'Woman's Weekly' was 
sticking out of the not-quite shut mailbox door, and Xander pulled it 
out. Might as well come bearing gifts. At Cordelia's apartment door, 
he stood back behind Spike, purely to get a good look at Cordy's face 
when she opened the door and saw them. It had nothing to do with 
checking out Spike's butt. Nothing whatsoever. He wasn't about to 
reach out and.

Knock knock. And Xander snatched his hands back. Foiled again, 
dangit. The door swung open almost immediately, and Xander peered 
around Spike, to get his first look since graduation at Cordelia 
Chase, who was simply, as always, a knockout. She wore tight black 
jeans, cut low, and a glittery sleeveless top that didn't quite reach 
down to the top of the jeans, showing off a pretty lickable expanse 
of tan skin in between. To complete the ensemble, she was pointing a 
stake-loaded crossbow directly at Spike's chest.

"Would now be a good time to mention that I forgot to call before we 
left?" Xander croaked out.

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

End.