Sometimes You Feel Like A Nut
by The Mad Poetess
Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five

Part One Parking lot of the Food Mart. Dark-haired guy in jeans and Sunnydale Swim
Team t-shirt. Arms full of grocery bags. Look left -- no demons. Look right
-- no vamps. [It's 1:30 in the afternoon, Harris. They don't sell Gems of
Amara in the gumball machine next to the exit sign.] Spin around -- no Anya
following him to rip apart his lame excuses for buying six boxes of Count
Chocula, three jars of chocolate peanut butter, and a 24-count Valu-pack of
Almond Joy candy bars.

Said excuses being:

1. He was planning to make "Count Chocula treats" for the Scoobyriffic
research party at Giles' next Tuesday-- a bold-faced lie which resulted in
him also having to buy several bags of marshmallows and a tub of butter.
[But I can't very well tell her that my subconscious is apparently hoping
the blood-sucking, chocolate-crunching undead will decide to give me
mouth-to-mouth again. Preferably without the blood this time. Oh, I did
*not* just think that. I am *losing* my mind!]

2. He was out of peanut butter-- the shameful truth.

3. Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don't-- that one had earned
him a smile. Okay, the Anya getting his jokes thing was really
wiggins-inducing..

Truthfully, junk food, especially chocolate, was his fallback comfort zone. 
Home life getting a little too nightmarish? Love life or lack thereof
tearing him up inside? There was always his safe, supportive, delicious
friend, chocolate. And Willow, and once, Jesse. They'd been the Three
Musketeers. [Chocolate was d'Artagnon! Willow would be so proud of me. See,
watching American Movie Classics at 3 a.m. really can increase your cultural
literacy.]

When they'd lost Jesse, when they'd found Buffy, everything changed. Their
fab four turned into the fab five. Or fab six. Or fab seven, depending on
the day of the week or the phase of the moon. [And when I felt like I was on
the outside looking in, couldn't do a damn thing to help save the world this
week, at least there was good old chocolate. Friends and lovers may come and
go, but chocolate is constant. Chocolate is pure and good.] Especially this
last year, as he began to feel more and more left behind, while the fab
however-many seemed to be falling apart. [And I'm babbling, thankfully not
out loud. Chocolate is pure and good?]

Now, though, since Adam, they were back in each other's lives. Now they were
vowing Scooby togetherness, and no more keeping stupid hurtful secrets. Now
chocolate was on the outside lookin' in, and everything was supposed to be
fine in Xanderland, except for the whole Anya dumping him thing, which,
truthfully, he wasn't all that upset about. Confused, but somehow not
surprised, and since their little conversation in Aisle Two, not even all
that confused any more.

So-- Almond Joy. Lots of it. Why? [Because I'm losing my *frickin'* mind!
Chocolate, come home, all is forgiven! I neeeeed you!] Spike. Basement.
Tight jeans. Count Chocula. Kiss. Huh? And then there was the fact that he'd
played the entire experience over in his mind in a delirious film loop all
day as he'd stocked groceries. And his entire conversation with Anya had
been carried on with "I did not kiss a vampire last night, I did not kiss
*Spike* last night" playing as the background music in his skull.
[Chocolate, help meeeee!] Silence from the chocolate. [I'm not gay, right?
Not that there's anything wrong with that… I’m cool with good old Larry,
may he rest in peace, and believe me, I'm totally in the Willow and Tara
groove, but not me, right? Right? Um, chocolate, you're not answering me
here….]

Except chocolate wasn't really all that pure anymore, was it, since the
blonde vampire had pressed his chocolate-coated lips to Xander's [chocolate
and blood, but I'm trying to forget that], blown Xander's exhausted
[*mind*, Xander, mind, he blew your *mind*], and then smirked his way back
to the table to happily crunch his bloody Count Chocula. [And a big eeeuww
to my mind for dredging up *that* image, thanks so much…] Still, it wasn't
chocolate's fault Spike had dragged it into that bizarre little scene.
Chocolate would stand by him, Xander was sure of it.

[Yup, talkin' 'bout the choc like it's a person. Definitely feelin' like a
nut at the moment.] With that thought, he reached his Uncle Rory's
repaired-for-the-moment car, and set the grocery bags on the trunk. Reaching
into the all-important one, he ripped open the plastic on the Valu-pack and
fished out one of those familiar blue-wrappered bars. Tearing the slick
paper away, he slid both milk-chocolate pieces out of their cardboard holder
and into his waiting mouth. Prozac for the poor: sweet milk-chocolate, chewy
coconut, and those two crunchy almonds waiting in the center of each bar...
Oh, yeah.

***

Spike was trapped, bored, and looking for a fight. Unfortunately the only
thing he could find to fight with at the moment was Xander's washing
machine, and it was winning. Not stupid enough to try washing his own
clothes in it again, at least not yet, he'd decided to practice on Xander's.
The mixed pile of cast-off and still viable uniforms on the floor, including
the one that the boy had thrown at his head last night, provided a nice
start. Everything was going swimmingly until the damned buzzer went off,
and nothing he did seemed to make a blind bit of difference towards shutting
it up. {It didn't do this before! What the hell button did I press this
time??}

"Xander, open the lid and add the fabric softener! If you absolutely have to
set the washer on Idiot-Proof, the least you can do is pay attention to the
buzzer!" shouted an exasperated female voice from upstairs. Spike lifted the
washer's lid, and there was wonderful, holy, or maybe unholy, silence.

{Ah, thank you, Xander's half-drunk mum. You, I'll consider not killing
immediately if I ever get this bloody chip dug out of my skull.} The silence
was maybe a little too silent, and he didn't particularly want to have the
"who are you and what are you doing in my son's room" conversation with Mrs.
Bourgeois Suburban Housewife. The English vampire raised his voice from his
natural baritone to something approaching Xander's youthful tenor, and,
thankful he didn't have to try to keep a straight face, shouted up to her 
in his very best attempt at a Californian accent:

"Uh, thanks, Mom." The silence continued, but there was no creaking, and no
knocking, so apparently she'd bought his impression. Which was bloody
amazing if he did say so himself, because his American accent sucked, even
if he no longer could. {Or maybe she's one martini too far gone to actually
give a shit. Works for me.}

He reached for the bottle of fabric softener (conveniently labeled “FABRIC
SOFTENER” -- God bless Xander’s penny-pinching eye for the generic!), poured
some in, and shut the lid. The machine resumed its chugging, thankfully
without accompaniment from the high-pitched buzzer. Mission accomplished.

“Yeah, kicked your Maytag ass, didn’t I!” Spike growled triumphantly. On
second thought… {Right. Big bad vampire trounces household appliance all by
himself. No, that’s not right. With some help from suburban kid’s
intoxicated mother. Ooh, I’m a badass, I am.} He silently knocked his
white-blonde head against the cinderblock wall a few times. {Useless.
Useless, that's what you are.}

Still a badass, though. {I *am*, sod it!} He might be drinking his blood
from a cup (or bowl) but at least he could still beat the living shit out of
the inhuman and the unalive. He was still Spike. Bu the sun was shining
merrily outside; it wasn’t as if he could go out and kick demon ass at the
moment, like he had last night. Ahh, last night. Now *that* was fun. 
Somewhere around two in the morning he’d pummeled two seven-foot-tall
Tyrellix into the pavement behind Willie’s place. After cruising Sunnydale
for hours looking for a good fight and finding bugger-all, he’d finally come
upon the giant pseudo-demons putting the squeeze on Willie the Snitch in the
parking lot behind his own bar.

Trying to ignore the sound of “Here I come to save the day!” playing on his
mental soundtrack, it was Spike to the rescue. Well, it was Spike into the
fray, any road, and if it looked to the little bartender like he was
actually coming down on the side of good and order, it wasn’t Spike’s fault.
He needed to bust some heads, and it couldn’t hurt to get in good with his
major blood supplier, and one of the centers of supernatural gossip in
Sunnyhell. {I’m not exactly persona grata among the toothy an’ scaly set
right now, but if Willie’s on my side, maybe I won’t be Public Enemy Number
One, at least.} He’d tried to make it clear to Willie that he was just
protecting his food source, though he wasn’t sure if the rat-boy entirely
believed him.

He’d slipped out of Xander’s basement as soon as he heard the rhythmic
not-quite-snores that announced that the boy had fallen asleep. He’d even
shut the light off on his way out. {How’s that for being a considerate
houseguest? After all, he is putting me up after I shopped ‘em all to that
Frankenweenie, Adam. I can’t piss him off *too* much, or I might be out on
my ear again. And he’s such fun to play with, too…}
That little game with the chocolate cereal had been…amusing, to say the
least. The look on the kid’s face! If he’d known it was this easy to mess
with Xander’s head, he’d have skipped all that “your mates think you should
join the army” crap and gone straight for the lips.

Not bad ones, neither. The lips, that is. No sacrifice on Spike’s part to
spread a little chocolate-flavored panic by pressing his mouth to the
whelp’s. Sent Chuck-E-Cheese-Boy scuttling and stuttering back to bed, and
got Spike his chocolate crispies back, didn’t it? Poor little Xander-- “I
must be manly at all times lest they all think I’m one of *those*.” {As if
masculinity has a damn thing to do with who you screw. }


Anyway, just a bit of fun to kick off the evening, followed by a serious
dust-up. {That it took you two and a half hours to find, by which point you
were ready to run head-first into a brick wall to conk yourself out…} his
inner self bitched at him. {Shut up, self. Not as if I actually fancy the
little git...}

It wasn’t as if he’d been {working up a load of sexual tension and then
prancing away like a magnificent poof…} Spike growled, maybe a little too
loudly, and kicked the chair in front of him. {I am *not* my bloody sire,
thank you, dead brain of mine. I’m just trapped and bored and it’s the
weekend so there’s no “Passions” on.} He flipped Xander’s little TV on,
grabbed the remote, and threw himself down on the boy’s unmade sofa bed.

Ooh. Home and Garden TV. Click. {Hey wait-- the kid has cable? He didn't
before.} Spike jumped back up and examined the wires leading from the back
of the small color TV. A little rabbit-ear antenna sat atop the set, but it
wasn't actually connected. A coaxial cable ran down to the floor, and
disappeared surreptitiously into a snake's nest of other cables-- with a
splitter at the center of it. Another black cable ran into a hole in the
wall, and presumably up to the main floor. {Well, good on ya, Harris! I'd
never have suspected you for stealing cable from the folks. Just about makes
up for the ridiculous rent you're paying 'em for this rathole.} Nodding
approvingly, Spike flung himself back down on the bed. Ooh, C-Span. Click.
Grr. Bored, bored... Not particularly hungry, {never get particularly
hungry, 'cept for blood, violence, or a good shag} but... oh, so bored.

{Wonder what he has to eat around here besides blood and cereal?}

Part Two
***************************************

Xander was still leaning against the trunk of "his" car, staring into space,
and well into his fourth
Almond Joy when the light blue Ford station wagon pulled to a stop in front
of him. He blinked, and the car began to come into focus as he drifted back
from his chocolate haze. He dimly remembered seeing Anya pass him and wave
as she guided her little Neon out of the lot, so who on earth could this be?
Hopefully not the middle-aged neighbor woman who'd overheard Anya describing
their former sex life in flattering but inappropriate detail.

Aha! No, from the familiar head hunched over the in the driver's seat-- no,
he was banging his head repeatedly against the steering wheel-- this was
Giles' rental-of-the-week. Since Spike had turned his beloved Citroen into a
pathetic heap of crushed metal, the G-Man had been reduced to trying one
substandard American-type vehicle after another. Meanwhile, the foreign car
mechanics at Jim's on Summerville Street continued to shake their heads over
the Gilesmobile, and draw straws over who was going to sign the death
certificate.

The passenger door opened on the other side of the wagon, and Willow popped
out, smiling way too cheerfully for a Saturday afternoon in the middle of
the re-run season. [Oh, no. Evil's afoot, and only the Slayer and her
faithful band of buds can avert the apocalypse. Hey, I'm alliterating! And
I'm aware of alliteration! Willow would be proud of me again!] The back
passenger side door opened, and Tara's blonde head emerged more slowly, but
she, too, was smiling. Okay, maybe not apocalyptic, then, or Shy Girl would
be looking a little more worried.

"Xander! Yay-- we caught you!" Okay, today was apparently Perky Willow day.

"Greetings, Mistresses of the Dark Arts. Does danger beckon?" [At least it
would mean I don't have to go home, and deal with a basement full of Spike,
just yet.] Willow shook her head, grinning, and then took stock of the
Almond Joy wrappers lined up neatly on the trunk of the car. The grin
disappeared from the redhead's little elf-mouth, to be replaced with Concern
Face.

"Xander, what's wrong? Whatever it is, it can't be bad enough for Suicide By
Chocolate. We're here for you. I even have helpline numbers!" She probably
did, too. Since they'd made up their various differences and vowed never to
shut each other out again, Willow had taken it upon herself to be the Scooby
peer facilitator or something. Any appearance of depression or anti-social
withdrawal brought out the Willow and Tara Cheer Squad, with bonding
exercises aplenty-- including, to Giles' horror, miniature golf at the new
Putt n' Play last Tuesday. Part of the "Help Xander Get Over Anya" crusade.

She'd even taken to calling Angel's new place in L.A. every two weeks or so,
just to check in with the extended Scooby family. [God-- Willow and Cordy
bonding (bonding, Xander, not bondage!!) Almost as scary as Anya taking
relationship advice from Queen C.]

"But no, good Witch. I merely hunger after the nectar of the cocoa bean,
combined with the sweet flesh of the coco...er...nut." He faltered to a
stop, and gathered up the wrappers, dumping them into the nearest grocery
bag.

"Nut is right," Willow answered, quirking one eyebrow. [Hey-- where did she
learn that? I thought only Giles and Spike could do that. It's not fair.
Everyone can do the eyebrow thing but me.] "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes, Will, I'm sure I'm okay. Long morning. Just needed a sugar-rush. No
vast depression here." He did his best to match her original grin. "See?
Happy Xander-boy. If there's no emergency of the Scooby variety, then what's
up?"

"Party! Pasta! Giles!" Willow responded happily. Xander did the eyebrow
thing with both eyebrows, since that was the best he could do. [Curse you,
eyebrow-dexterous people. I'll get you yet!]

Giles leaned his bespectacled head out the window. "What she's trying to
explain, in words of more than two syllables, is that my humble abode has
once again been co-opted for a Slayerette bonding ceremony, thankfully not
involving Lilliputian golf this time. Buffy is, believe it or not, in my
living room studying for a make-up French exam that might actually allow her
to pass the class. The young witches are on a quest for provisions, and *I*
am the designated chauffeur. And host. And dishwasher."

"And entertainment..." Tara said proudly. "Mr. Giles promised to sing for
us, if we're good."

"A promise I sincerely doubt I'll have to keep, if Xander's attending,"
Giles commented dryly. "And Mister Giles was my deceased father. Grown-up
people get to call me Giles. Or Rupert, if you think you can bear the
Englishness of it all."

Tara blushed. [What a surprise.]

"Okay, Mis...G...Giles." Xander did his best not to laugh at Shy Girl and
Stuffy Guy both working on the informality thing. He didn't want Tara to
think he was laughing at *her*. Might drive her back into ghost mode again,
where she didn't say a word, just looked around with those big dark blue
eyes like somebody was about to kick her. There was a story there,
somewhere. Probably a familiar one.

"Hey, way to manage the mid-life crisis, Rupert!" he cracked. Giles rolled
his eyes.

"You, on the other hand, Xander, may call me Mister Giles. Are you going to
be attending the festivities?"

Xander nodded. [Oh, yeah, beats going home and deciding whether I pretend
last night was completely ordinary, or confront bleach-boy so he doesn't
think he can get away with twisting my head in circles. He *was* twisting my
head, right? He must've been.]

"You guys just missed Anya, or you could've invited her, too." Oooookay...
dead silence, and Concerned Face had made another appearance. Even Giles
looked perturbed. "What did I say?"

"You do mean the same Anya who just dumped you this Monday, right? The one
we were trying to mini-golf out of your broken heart? Or is there another
Anya that you forgot to introduce us to?" Willow cocked her head in
confusion, and it was oddly reminiscent of Spike's much more mischievous
expression last night.

[Gotta get vampire off the brain! More chocolate is required. Focus. Willow.
Oh yeah-- they weren't here for that eye-opening little conversation with
Anya next to the Wonder Bread.]

"Yeah, same Anya. We kind of had a talk. The broken heart's not quite so
broken. Guess it wasn't all that shattered to begin with. I pretty much get
why she did what she did. Which is absolutely amazing to me, and I think I
deserve a round of choc... I mean, applause, for my sensitivity." Willow's
eyes were doing a sort of buggy-out thing, which wasn't completely
unattractive, but made Xander a little concerned for her own mental state.
"Umm, Will?"

Tara spoke up. [Hey, way to go, T!]

"So you're...okay...with Anya? Like...still friends?"

"Yup. Shocked the hell out of me, too. I may be mature enough to call you
Rupert yet, G-Man. Anyway, I think Anya still wants to be of the Scoob, if
you can put up with her. Far as I know, she's coming to the research shindig
on Tuesday. Speaking of which, is that still on, or is this a replacement?"
Wow. More words than he'd spoken in a coherent row in a long time.

Willow was still looking at him suspiciously. "Yeah, it's still on. Scooby
Jeopardy on demon breeds, languages, spells, prophecies, feeding habits,
and shoe sizes. Tonight's just dinner and laid-back stuff. A good time to be
had by all."

Giles groaned. "Speak for yourselves."

Xander studied him. Old sweatshirt, faded jeans...non-Watcher clothes, light
brown hair a little disheveled...[Methinks the lonely unemployed librarian
protests too much. He likes this family fun stuff. I'll get him to admit it
yet.]

"Anyway," Tara added, "we were kind of hoping you'd like to come shopping
for the dinner stuff, and the Tuesday stuff, with us."

"Me and my employee discount, you mean?" Xander laughed. "Sure. Hey Giles--
how 'bout I swap you my groceries for these two witches, and you stash this
stuff," he nodded toward his grocery bags, "at your place?"

The ex-Watcher nodded. "Gladly. Ladies, much as I regret losing the
pleasure of your company, I'm sure Buffy could use someone to quiz her on
irregular verbs."

"And there's no one more irregular than you, Giles." Xander shot back, as
Willow and Tara helped him load his grocery bags into the back of the
station wagon. " Err... I mean that in a mental sense, not a digestive one."

Giles nodded again, the perfect picture of martyrdom. "Thank you, Xander.
I'm glad we clarified that. Everyone out who's getting out?" Since everyone
was, and everything was in that was going in, Giles pulled off with a
long-suffering wave, and the three remaining shoppers walked slowly toward
the entrance of the Food Mart.

[I'm never getting out of this place!] Xander thought, only half annoyed.
Meanwhile, Willow still hadn't quite got the Anya thing in perspective.

"You're sure you're not just being a brave little soldier?"

"I assure you, Willow, this soldier is neither brave, nor little. Umm...that
only came out half right."

"Because we can always help you, if you need it. I've found, for instance,
that finding a nice public place and yelling 'Fuck you, Oz!' or, umm,
'Anya,' in this case, at the top of your lungs, is really therapeutic. Oh,
and the horse he, or she, rode in on..."

Xander turned to her as the three of them walked in the door. "Willow! You
kiss Tara with that mouth?"

Willow smiled evilly. "Among other things." Tara, naturally, blushed again.

"Really?" mused Xander. "Go on. Please."

***

Spike was on the prowl. He was a leatherclad, shit-kickin', predatory
creature of the night, and he could smell the fear wafting off his prey
where it hid...somewhere in Xander's mess of an excuse for a kitchen. Well,
actually, he wasn't leatherclad at the moment. Too damned hot. T-shirt and
jeans would do for this particular hunt.

Growling softly, he tore open a box on the floor next to the fridge.
"Almond licorice? Bit of an overkill on the amaretto flavor, yeah? Maple
walnut... cherry berry..." he muttered to himself. Pulling the wrapper off
one of the "Cherry Berry" Boost bars, he bit gingerly into one corner of the
chocolate-coated rectangle. Chewed. A look of dawning realization rippled
its way up his face, from the sharp chin, over the twitching of the hollowed
cheekbones, up to the demonstrably dexterous eyebrows....

"Gachhh....gluch..." he choked, muddy blue eyes turning golden as he morphed
into full game-face. He spat repeatedly into the little wastebasket on the
other side of the fridge, but the taste of the hideous power snack thing
still filled his now-fanged mouth. "Bloody hell! Trust the Yanks to market
rat shit in a chewy cookie shell!" Now he *really* needed something to eat,
just to get the taste of that abomination out of his mouth. He opened the
fridge. Cran-apple in boxes. No thanks. But what was this? At the back of
the lettuce crisper, a lone pint bottle of Woodpecker cider! {Someone's been
a naughty underage hooligan. S'pose I'll just have to get rid of the
evidence for him.}

He pulled the lovely chilled brown bottle from the little refrigerator. Now
for something actually edible. Just to have something to chew on, give his
jaws something to do so he didn't end up talking to himself until the sun
went down, or something equally as squirrelly. {I'm the sanest vamp in...
in this basement, anyway. Hell, trap me in this town with this chip for long
enough, and you could just lock me and Dru in the same padded cell and see
who needs the straitjacket first.} On the hunt again. The fake chocolate on
the outside of the Boost bar had fooled him for a moment-- damn, he was
slipping-- but he knew the real stuff was somewhere in this dank little
bolthole.

The nasty little voice in his head, the one that was so good at coming up
with those cutting retorts to throw at the Slayer and her cartoon friends,
didn't play favorites, and it was after him with a vengeance today. {Yeah,
bolthole, and that's exactly what it is, innit Spike? Place for you to hide
from the world. You're not trapped in this town, and with the bloody
Initiative down the bog, that chip's not conking out until it runs down of
its own accord. Better hope it don't have one of those nuclear batteries
like Adam's. You're just cowerin' in Harris' little hole, 'cos you'd rather
pretend you have a chance to get the chip out than face the fact that Dru's
done with you once and for all, chip or no chip, fangs or no fangs. It's
not about the damn chip. You've gone soft, and she wants a real demon.}
Spike growled again, a real vampire growl. Sure, that was gonna work. {Yeah,
it's really terrifying when you try to use your badass vampire powers to
scare the shit out of *yourself*...}

{Shut up, you. Where the hell were you when I needed you, like when I was
tryin' to convince Adam that my plan hadn't failed, and he needed to get the
chip out of my head without getting my head off my body? No, all you could
say then was "Oh, shit," or something equally brilliant. 'Sides, she doesn't
want a real demon. She wants bloody Angelus. She's just running to the
mucus-n'-horns types 'cos she doesn't want his little wanna-be shadow.
Namely me... }

{Great. The voices in my head agree with each other, and they both think I'm
a tosser. Anyway, that's not why I'm cowerin' in Harris' little bolthole...I
get genuine pleasure out of annoying the hell out of him.}

{You get genuine pleasure out of lookin' at him. Annoying the hell out of
him is just window-dressing. Tosser.}

Spike grumbled his way through the storage cupboards. Damn it, there was
chocolate in here somewhere, and not that cereal crap, either, though it
would do in a pinch. Aha! There--a brown paper grocery bag, top folded down
three quarters of the way, in the tool cupboard behind a plunger , a pipe
wrench, and five rolls of silver duct tape. He pulled the bag out carefully,
ripped off the piece of duct tape that held it shut, and unrolled it.
Jackpot. Three cherries on the fruit machine. Two plastic bags full of
Halloween-sized Mounds bars.

Cider in one hand, chocolate in the other, he stomped back to the sofa-bed
for a third time. Wait-- bottle opener. Where... "Oh, screw it." He
muttered, ripping the crimped metal cap off the bottle with his vamped-out
teeth. Ouch. Hurt like hell. {I *am* goin' soft!} He guzzled about half of
the hard cider, until the taste of the Boost bar was firmly banished from
his mouth, and then ripped into one of the bags of candy, returning his
attention to the TV. Nickelodeon. Bloody Rugrats. Don't think so. Click. He
popped a Mounds into his mouth, and as the dark chocolate dissolved in his
fang-filled mouth and he began to chew the coconut filling, his face
returned to its human likeness.

That was the stuff. That bit he'd given Xander about blood and chocolate
being like vampire Viagra had been about half shit {What vamp would need
chemical help to get it up? Has he spent about five seconds observing the
species?}, but it was true that chocolate, at least for Spike, had some
interesting effects. Pissed off and fuming, a little chocolate would get him
into a better mood. A little more, especially with the added effect of the
sugar and his own admittedly limited attention-span, and he'd be scratching
at the walls, itching to either fight or shag something. A lot more, and he
wouldn't be all that choosy about which was which.

Where was his genial host, anyway? Should he have gotten off work by now?
{And why the fuck do I care? Oh yeah, company. Need somebody to piss off.}

Hey, here was something. "...so I could never marry a horrible heffalump, or
I might get squished!" Alright! Miranda Richardson, in a blonde wig and
Regency gown. "Blackadder the Third. " {Second series is better-- she has
red hair in that one, and Edmund's an absolute scream. But this'll do.} He
reached absently into the bag of candy and retrieved another Mounds. {Won't
overdo it. Don't want to go completely stir-crazy in here. Just a few...}


***************************************
Part Three
Xander and the two witches walked in the door to Giles' condo, arms laden
with yet more grocery bags, to find Giles seated on the sofa next to Buffy,
holding a French textbook.

"Alright, Buffy, let's try this again. Où votre père est né?"

The Slayer ran a hand through her longish blonde hair, which had apparently
been in a crimpy mood today, and screwed her face up in concentration. [Go,
Buff. Do the French thing. Très beau. Whoa-- where did that come from? Bad
memory! No more bonbons for you!]

"Umm...Veuillez permettre aux poissons de continuer de danser. ... Mmmm.... 
Je suis très attiré à lui....? "
She looked up at Giles hopefully, and he buried his face in his hands.
Emerging after a few seconds, his face was quite a bit redder than before,
and he looked like he was desperately trying not to either laugh or cry.

"That's very interesting, Buffy, and ah..a much more ambitious attempt at
the language than I was expecting." He, too, ran a hand over his hair,
probably to smooth over the bald patches where he'd been tearing it out,
Xander decided.

Cute Slayer-pout. "But not cruising anywhere near the neighborhood
of...right?" she asked sadly.

"Not unless I'm missing some information about your family history, and the
answer to 'Where was your father born?' actually is… now let me try to
translate this properly... 'Please allow the fish to continue dancing; I am
very attracted to it.' " Giles was obviously losing his battle, for he
brought the large textbook up in front of his face, and his entire body
began shaking silently. Xander, Willow, and Tara weren't doing much better.

Buffy reached out and pulled on the bottom of the book. Watcher
determination was no match for Slayer strength, and at last the book came
down to reveal a gasping Giles, red-faced and teary-eyed. When she met his
eyes, he lost it completely. Great honking guffaws. Which, of course, sent
the three newcomers over the edge. It wasn't that it was all that funny;
Buffy had come up with some interesting Frenchisms in the past-- it was the
sight of the normally reserved Brit unable to stop his hysterical laughing
jag. Even Buffy was chuckling, if a bit half-heartedly.

"I don't suppose you'd believe that was intended as a tension breaker?" she
asked hopefully. Finally Giles mopped his face with the sleeve of his
sweatshirt, and shook his head with a smile. [Whoo, and did we all need one.
We haven't laughed like that since... oh, the last really stupid thing I
did. That they actually know about.]

"I'm sorry, Buffy. It's been... a long morning. Why don't we try this again
a little later? Perhaps Willow can take a hand as well. And Xander? Didn't
you take French?"

Xander put his two bags of groceries on the kitchen counter and returned to
take a bag each from Willow and Tara. "I think the operative word there was
'take,' not 'pass,' right? In that case, yes." Willow punched him on the
arm. "Hey, watch the arm, Will. Don't want me to drop les baguettes, non?"
He put them on the counter and returned to the living room, taking a seat on
the arm of the sofa.

"You didn't fail French. Because I tutored you. And Buffy passed high school
French-- for the same reason. You're just having a little case of
too-much-Slayage amnesia, Buff. We'll get you through it." Willow said
enthusiastically.

Buffy smiled. "Thanks, guys. Xander, glad you could make it."

Willow nodded enthusiastically. "So are we. He saved us about ten bucks on
the groceries. Umm, and of course, because we love you, Xander. Also. Too."

"Yeah, Wills, I can feel the love," he teased. "Everyone in this room wants
a piece of the Xan..."

Giles looked up at him. Smiling, so he was at least a little amused. Nice
to know Xanderspeak could compete with the attractive dancing fish. "I'm
glad you're here, Xander. I'm not sure I'd go as far as all that."

"C'mon, G. Admit it. I have it on very good authority that I'm a nummy
treat. " They all stared at him. [Erk. Okay, wondering where that came
from...] "Vampire joke, guys. Xander blood? Nummy treat?"

"Don't mind Xander. He's just lost his mind. He almost invited Anya to come
along, except we missed her by about five minutes." Willow put in for him.

Buffy stood up. "Anya? As in dumped-you-on-the-answering-machine-Anya?"
What... protectiveness from the Buffster? He could get to like this Scooby
togetherness thing.

"Apparently he had some eye-opening encounter with her in the aisle between
the wheat bread and the crunchy peanut butter, and now he's Mr. Forgiveness
Guy." Willow sounded a bit put out, but resigned to it. She went into Giles'
little kitchenette, followed by Tara, and began to unpack the groceries.

"Maybe you could give it to me slowly, in words of one syllable, in
English?" Buffy pleaded.

"Anya broke up with me because she…loves me."

Giles nodded. "Yes, that explains it all." Buffy's head swung around like
Mantis-Woman's, to stare at him.
"Sarcasm, Buffy. Yes, I know. It's been a long day." Mantis-Slayer swung
back to Xander.

"She doesn't think I'll ever actually be in love with her, and she's…" Buffy
looked at him skeptically, but he forged ahead. "…probably right. I love
her, and yeah, warning, cliché approaching, but she's right. I'm not in love
with her. I love her the same way I love you guys. " Seeing Giles'
incredulous look, he quickly added, "Not meaning in the actual physical
sense, because that would be just wrong on so many levels, and I should just
shut up now… Anyway, she really does want to be friends. With me, with us…
she's coming to the thing on Tuesday, if it doesn't bother you guys too
much."

Buffy blinked. Repeatedly. In fact, he began to wonder if she didn't have
something in her eye. Like a plank. "I guess if it doesn't bother you…" she
finally answered, "it doesn't bother me." She turned to Giles. "Do I get
Mature Slayer points? I'm being much better about this than Xander was about
Angel."

Giles put down the French textbook and rose to help the two kitchen-witches,
not looking at Buffy as he lifted the side of his mouth that Xander could
see in that good old British-guy smirk. "I think ten points for the mature
attitude, with a four point deduction for the immaturity of pointing it out,
for a total of… how many, Buffy?"

"Six. I passed math, thanks. Yay, me! I'm still in the black! What about
you, Will? Um, and Tara, but I'm guessing you don't care much about Anya one
way or the other."

The other blonde popped her head through the counter-top cutout and
answered, "Actually, I like her. She's, kinda like, not afraid to speak her
mind." Then she quickly pulled her head back into the kitchen zone, as if
she was a little shocked at having spoken her own. Willow snorted from the
stove, where she appeared to be dumping spaghetti into boiling water.

"Can't argue with you there, sweetie. Anyway, I guess if I could put up with
Anya as Xander's girlfriend, I can put up with her as, okay, wigging me out
just to say it, but, our friend. Maybe. I'm just thinking, whoa, with the
forgiveness and the lack of bitterness, Xander. Not in the Cordelia zone
here. Not even in the Oz zone, though I'm in a somewhat Oz-friendly place at
this point. Have you reached new levels of maturity, or are you really
Xander? 'Cause, next you'll be inviting Spike to the Tuesday thing." She
spun around, wooden spoon in hand, and smiled to show she wasn't being
snotty. Then she frowned.

"Umm-- *are* you inviting Spike to the Tuesday thing? "Cause I'm thinking,
more cookie dough, if so."

Xander choked. [Little more worried about ever having to face Spike again
than whether he wants to join the Scooby fun club for a rousing evening of
"What is a Bezoar, Alex?" Come to think of it, Spike would probably wipe the
floor with everyone except Willow and Giles.]

Buffy's eyes narrowed. "Speaking of the manipulative little
rat-bastard…okay, losing Mature Slayer points here, I know. I'm not sure I'm
entirely down with the concept of Spike living in your basement. I mean,
hello, Adam? Head games? "

Xander shrugged awkwardly. [Nothing I haven't said myself. But the
alternative to having to put up with Spike is… not having to put up with
Spike. Whose sanity were we questioning, again?] "Yeah, but at least he's
where we can see him. And I don't think he'll be trying that particular
divide and conquer game on us again. Plus, he brought my lamp back, which
was nice. Well, it was broken, but Riley's guys actually did that."

"Uh-huh. Point? Point? Heeeere Point…" she called, looking around as if for
a puppy.

"And he's… I don't know. It's a daily question of whether I'll kick his ass
out the door, but at this point, I'm not quite ready to kill him yet, and
I'm less worried about him in doing something behind our backs if he's... in
front of our backs, which also didn't emerge as coherently as intended. " He
paused. "I dunno. Maybe I *am* Mr. Maturity." [Riiiiiight…] "But I can see
why he went along with Adam-- he was desperate to get the chip out of his
head. And he got screwed, which, good for the human population, but I can…"
he trailed off, losing any sense of intelligent thought. What exactly was
his reasoning, anyway?

"Feel his pain? Yeah, okay, I guess. I'm not the boss of you. You want to
play Tom Bodette to Chip-Boy, it's your basement. Just… be careful. As for
inviting him here…" Buffy shrugged. "It's Giles' party. If Spike's willing
to work with us, I don't see that we're much worse off than we were before
the Adam thing. We know he's in it for himself. He feels like whaling on
evil, or digging fascinating demon facts out of the corners of his slimy
little brain, I guess I don't have a problem with it, if Giles doesn't."

She looked over at Giles, who was leaning against the wall where kitchen met
living room, as if to say 'Oh, please, Giles, have a problem with it…' but
he merely raised both eyebrows.

"Er…well-put, Buffy. Twenty-five Mature Slayer points for that one. As long
as we remain aware of what Spike is, it might be a waste of our resources
not to take advantage of his skills."

[And the mind boggles. In fact, it's still boggling. It's shakin' that
Boggle cube for all it's worth. I can't decide if Spike's jerking me around
or… what? And they're ready to welcome him back with… folded arms? I need
chocolate. Where's my groceries?]

"Okay, if it happens to come up in conversation, I'll mention that the
Scooby Maturity Squad has spoken, and he's welcome to come beat things up
with us. I'm sure he'll do cartwheels." That got a snort from the Buff.

[Now, where did that chocolate go...] Xander noticed a grocery bag on the
floor just inside the door, and did the "I'm so subtle, I think I'll go for
a stroll…" thing, rising from the sofa arm and ambling in the direction of
the bag. Yup. Blue bars. He reached down for one, only to have Willow dart
out of the kitchen and smack it out of his hand.

"No you don't. You'll spoil your dinner. Who wants garlic bread?"

[Curses-- foiled again.]

***

The half-hour of "Blackadder" had disappeared all too quickly from what
Spike realized was the local PBS station, to be replaced by "Yan Can Cook."
Click. The candy bars had disappeared all too quickly too, as had the cider.
The empty bottle rested on the floor, alongside one crumpled plastic Mounds
bag. The other bag was still half full (or half empty, as the snarky little
voice in his head pointed out) and sat beside him on the sofa bed.

"Four-thirty and all's petrifyingly boring..." he sing-songed as he glanced
at the digital watch that was the only thing he'd managed to lift from his
last "Vamp-n-Mug" attempt. That routine was getting boring, too. The
residents of fair Sunnydale had either gotten so used to supernatural
activity that he wasn't a terribly frightening sight anymore, or, more
likely, they were in such denial that they couldn't even admit they saw the
stone-wicked monster looming over them. {Yeah, 'cos it couldn't be Door
Number Three, behind which lies the fact that it's just *you* who doesn't
inspire terror in the human herd. Yeah, so you can kick the hell out of a
demon or two in a fair fight. Really impressive, when you can't actually
touch the ones that're *below* you on the food chain.}

"Sod off," he whispered to himself, but he didn't seem to be listening.
Click.

"The mating habits of the squid, while visually fascinating..." Click.
"Hey Loooooooocy, I'm ho-ome..." Click.
"And, ya know, it wasn't like I didn't like the guys, but when I found out
they were really from the Road Rules crew, I just felt, I dunno, like,
violated. I mean, they stole our dog, and so it's a toy, yeah, but the point
is, I think it was really lame of them to use the Make-A-Wish Foundation as
their cover story, 'cause y'know, there's some really sick kids out
there...and..."

{Look--the Food Network. All moronic teens, all the time, with occasional
breaks for the bloody awful crap they try to pass off as music these days.
Not that VH-1's much better.} Click. Click. Click.

He jumped up from the bed and began to pace the room. Well, as much room as
there was to pace in here, it was a bit more like spinning around in
circles, but it got the job done.

{Where's Harris, anyway? I know he doesn't work at Pizza Hell tonight. Damn
sun. Sink already, you big orange ball of happiness. Need to be free, need
to be me, need to stop scarfing the choccies before I lose what's left of my
mind and start singing Rogers and Hammerstein medleys. Bored, trapped,
raving-- Dru, why didn't you kill me when I asked you to?}

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

Empty spaghetti plates pushed to the side, the over-full Slayer and -ettes
exchanged worried glances as Giles finished laboriously tuning his acoustic
guitar ("Spike made me do a bad thing to it. I don't want to talk about
it.") and bent his head over to play.

[Well, hell, he wouldn't look at us, would he? I mean, that incident at the
Expresso Pump was bad enough, and now the Willow and Tara Express has
steamrolled him into actually performing for us voluntarily? I'm not sure
whether to be impressed with his cojones, or sincerely creeped out by the
fact that the aging rocker look is kind of sexy...no. I did *not* think
that, and I'll kill the next one of you who says I did. And not sure who I'm
talking to, so I vote for the creeped out option.] Xander had finally gotten
into his stash of Almond Joys without being pimp-slapped by Willow, and
offered them around as dessert. Only one taker-- Tara, who was happily
munching on her second. [Oh, my child, you *will* come over to the Dark
Side. The cocoa is strong in you.] Xander, meanwhile, was quietly devouring
number ten. [Leaving eight proud beauties left, bwah-ha-ha...oh man, have I
lost it.]

"She was just a waitress in the café at night, and a part-time mother by
day..." Giles' voice filled the little living room, and Xander was jolted
back out of his chocolate groove. "I heard her life story in a conversation
as she walked me to the side of the stage..." It wasn't so much the singing
that had done the world-rockin' thing when they caught Giles at the Expresso
Pump; it was the fact that here was this guy, you know? Not just stodgy
librarian guy in his normal place, but this guy. Named Giles. Somebody he
knew, or thought he knew. Which, on reflection, was actually pretty cool.
[And yet, still with the creepiness.]

"She said when you're done, if you need someone to tell your troubles to,
well come on over to my place, and we can make do..."

***

The voices in Spike's head were into their third round of "You're a loser,"
"Yeah, so's your mum."
It wasn't getting any more amusing. There was nothing on telly, it was
six-thirty, and Xander hadn't wandered home from his supermarket job, which,
according to Spike's pinpoint memory, ended at one o'clock on Saturdays. 
Off with the Slayer, no doubt, saving the bloody world.

{Alright, break it up in there. New topic of conversation. Why I give a shit
where Harris is, and why I'm hiding in *his* basement instead of, say, the
crypt next door to the one the military morons trashed. Talk amongst
yourselves.}

Snarky Voice Number One
(the one that told the Slayer that Angel hadn't thought she was worth a
second go) :
{'Cos you actually *like* the pathetic little git.}

Snarky Voice Number Two
(the one that took great delight in pointing out the Watcher's status as an
unemployed librarian):
{Yeh, you're *fond* of 'im, even.}

Semi-sane Spike Voice
(the one that was pretty sure he'd gone utterly round the twist):
{Ever notice how the more wonked out I get, the more my mental accent
matches my physical one? I mean, I can usually think in straight English,
even if I don't speak it.}

Snarky Voices One and Two: {Shut up. You lost control about three chocolate
bars ago. Or maybe it was that first night you spent tied up in the bloody
chair watchin' him sleep, and thinkin' by two a.m. that he might be moist
and delicious after all. }

Snarky Voice Three (The quiet little one that he steadfastly pretended
didn't exist, because it sounded uncomfortably like a dark-haired mortal guy
he'd once known, name of Will), added softly,
{And realized you weren't talking about blood at all, at all.}

"Sod off..." he whispered to himself again.

***

Giles handed him a plate, and he dried it. The girls gathered around the
coffee table, speaking fractured French. Giles handed him a plate, and he
dried it. They had a rhythm going. It was quiet. Nice, even. Couldn't last.

"So," said the quiet British voice, "do you want to tell me about it?"
Xander almost dropped the plate.

[And he catches it on the rebound... a nice save for Harris, folks.] "About
what, Giles?"

"Whatever's got you inhaling chocolate at what I must say is a truly
impressive speed. Are you really...er...alright with Anya remaining part of
our merry band of brothers, as it were?"

[Does everybody know about the chocolate thing? I thought it was just
Willow, and here's Giles being all observant. What was I saying about Scooby
togetherness being a good thing?] Xander dried his dish slowly. Nice
pattern, little blue flowers around the edges... la la la la....

"Ahh, Xander?"

"Yeah, I'm fine about Anya. Really."

"Then what is it?"

"Nothing, G-Man. What makes you think anything's...anything?" [Oh yeah, that
was smoooooth.]

"I brought in your groceries, Xander. There's enough chocolate in there to
feed the French Foreign Legion, if they still have one. And yes, I do know
about you and chocolate. " Giles handed him the spaghetti strainer.

"Willow worries about you, you know. We all do. Admittedly, we weren't
paying a lot of attention to each other in the recent past. Probably
something to do with the difficulty of noticing our friends' problems with
our heads lodged firmly in our own asses..." And Xander's choking fit was
luckily quiet enough not to attract attention from the living room.

"What, the English can't be direct?" Smile.

"Not in my recent experience. Look, everything's fine about Anya. I'm
just...working through some other stuff in my head." [Like the fact that I'm
going out of it.]

"Well, it's your head, and I'm not going to try poking about in there, but
believe it or not, you *can* talk to me. "

"Not just about slimy dead things and how to kill them?"

"No, and not just about the oxymoron inherent in the concept of killing dead
things." Beat. "I might surprise you." All said softly, while stubbornly
scrubbing the spaghetti pot, which had amazing things stuck to the bottom of
it.

"Constantly, Giles. Constantly. Oh, hell..." [Oh, hell...]

Verrrrrry quietly, "It's so not about Anya. Or Buffy, or Willow, or any of
my other more wholesome teenage fantasies."

"Wholesome? No, I won't ask. So you're diving into the ocean of comfort food
because..."

"I had an interesting experience last night, to say the least." [Am I
actually telling him this? Okay, I've arrived at the final destination.
Mind, lost. Gone. AWOL.]

"Not, I assume, at the Chuck-E-Cheese place."

"No, that was horrifying, but not interesting." [Stall...stall...how did I
get myself into this?]

"An experience of the romantic variety, I'm guessing?"

[Damn! Damn..damn...damn-de-damn damn...]

"I'm not sure you could call it romantic, but theoretically, yeah. Kissing
was involved. Or rather, *a* kiss, or being the object of one..." [And the
babbling commences...]

Scrub, scrub. How kind of Giles not to actually look at him. "And this
distresses you because..."

"Umm, because it was..." [ Distressing? Gulp.] Terribly, terribly
quietly... "a guy." [Oh God, I actually said that. Out loud. To Giles. At
least I didn't say it was Spike. Oh, because *that* fact was really likely
to pry its way out of my mouth....]

"Ahh." The silence that had once been companionable was now filled with
roiling uncertainty, at least on Xander's part, and the fervent desire not
to have eaten so much of the pasta that now seemed to want to crawl its way
back up his throat. [Maybe I could chase it down with the remaining eight
Almond Joys. All at once, preferably.]

Finally... shit, Giles was actually looking at him. With what-- disgust?
Concern? Amusement? "Xander?"

"Yeah."

"Are you upset about the fact that this man kissed you, or the fact that you
liked it?"

Xander rested his head against the cabinet next the sink. It had been a
really long day.

"Both..." he whispered.

***

The only reason Spike hadn't kicked the walls in was that it would have had
Mr. or Mrs. Harris down to the basement in a flash-- and from the sound of
Xander's father's dinnertime shouting, he was in none too good a mood
already, not that he ever was. Oh, and then there was the fact that it would
hurt. They were bloody concrete, behind the cinderblock.

The last of the bag of candy bars had disappeared somewhere. He couldn't
recall having eaten them, but the empty bag lay beside its brother on the
floor. He'd finally tuned the telly to the Cartoon Network and left it
there, but he was having a hard time getting enthused over the seventh
episode of the Powerpuff Girls marathon, somehow.

"Kick 'is furry ass, Buttercup..." he muttered

***

"Somebody you know?" asked Giles softly.

"Yeah."

"Somebody you trust?"

"As far as I could throw Buffy. "

"I'll take that as a no. Which no doubt complicates things."

Xander laughed in spite of his mental meltdown, but it was on the hysterical
side.

"*Things* couldn't get a lot more complicated. No, I shouldn't say that.
Welcome to the Hellmouth. Yeah, there's the distinct possibility that he's
playing me."

Damn-- they were out of dishes for him to dry. Now he actually had to look
at Giles, unless he could get away with counting floor tiles. Nope--
linoleum.

"Somebody you care about?"

[Who the hell knows?] "Yeah. I think so." [Really? Who knew?]



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

Spike snarled to himself as he sat on the washer and slowly drummed his
booted heels against the side. That would amuse him for about thirty
seconds.

He'd dried and folded the first load of laundry, just to have something to
do. A second load swirled in the water inside the machine beneath him. It
included his own habitual ensemble (repurchased since he'd shrunk them
beyond all imagining in his first adventure with the laundry appliances) of
black jeans, black t-shirt, and red silk formal shirt. That left him wearing
Xander's clothes, of course, something he'd sworn he'd never do again. At
least this time he'd dug up a plain old dark blue T, and a pair of jeans
whose cuffs he'd only had to roll twice to stop the legs from dragging the
floor… {I do *not* have a height-related inferiority complex, Angel.}

"It's eight o'bloody' o'clock. Doesn't 'e know it's dangerous out there?
Nah, Slayer's there to protect 'im from the fearsome creatures of the
night."

Snarky Voice Number Something-Or-Other-- he'd lost track: {*You're* a
fearsome creature of the night, you great soddin' fairy! What the hell are
you doin' in here?}

"What the hell is there to do in this bloody city?" he answered himself
aloud, angrily. "Not a single, solitary thing."

{You could go beat something up.}

"I don't want to go beat something up." He jumped down from the washing
machine and resumed pacing.

Silence from the voices in his head, at that one.

{What-- not a single pip-pip-cheerio out of you lot?}

"I don't want to go beat something up," he said again, trying it on for
size. God, it sounded horrible.

The little quiet one took the opportunity to sneak in a shot: {What the hell
is there to do in this bloody *world* ? Not a single, solitary thing.}

He didn't even bother telling it to sod off.

***

"So..." said Giles.

"So." agreed Xander. "Sorry you asked?"
Giles shook his head, and looked for something to dry his hands on. Xander
handed him a clean dish towel.

"Not at all. Sorry you answered?"

[Long past emotions as simple and straightforward as "sorry," Brit-man.]
"I...ah...don't know. What does the accumulated wisdom of thousands of year
of Watchers have to say on the subject?"

"Bugger all." Pause... "Trust me." Pause... "Did you want to know what
the accumulated wisdom of forty-six years of Rupert Giles has to say on the
subject?"

"Yeah. I'd like that."

"Be careful."

***

Spike was standing at the top of the back stairs, in the open doorway to the
outside. Looking out at the stars. The night had gotten cool, as they
usually did, but not enough for him to go back for his leather duster. He
wasn't going anywhere.

"Hey Dru, you out there?" he said quietly. "'Cos I think I've gone and lost
my mind, and I need some expert advice on the subject."

***

"Be careful? Forty-six years and that's all you can come up with??? A
condom ad?" Xander retorted incredulously. Perhaps, on reflection, a little
too loudly, but none of the women looked up from le cramming of le Francais.
[What the heck am I doing? Did I just say that to Giles? Giles? Isn't the
mere presence of Giles supposed to wipe all sex-related words from your
memory?]

"No, I could go into enough bloody detail to pin your tender little ears to
the wall, but I'm assuming that's not the sort of accumulated wisdom you
were looking for. Damn it, Xander, I meant be careful with your heart. I
credit you with enough sense to have figured the other bit out on your own."
Giles was looking almost as frazzled as he had before the dancing fish had
made its appearance.

"Oh."

"But not so careful that you never let anyone in. Alone in there is a sorry
place to live. "

"But at least you know the landlord," Xander pointed out.

"I believe you know your current landlords."

"Point taken."

"And you aren't living alone. Is that why you haven't kicked Spike out, by
the way?"

"Ahh...what??" [Panicking now. Thanks for asking.]

"Somebody to keep you from being alone in the house with your parents.
Honestly, Xander, why you don't move out is beyond me." Giles hung the dish
towel from one of the cabinet handles, and leaned his tall frame back
against the refrigerator.

[Whew.] "Maybe. Probably. And why I don't move out is beyond my finances, at
the moment. " [And then there's not wanting to leave my Mom alone with my
Dad. 'Cause without me around to treat like shit...But that's my problem,
not Giles'.]

***

Dru, wherever she was, was probably fucking the brains out of something
slimy and horny. {Which only halfway describes me, ta. Cheers, Princess,
whatever you're doing.}

The stars used to talk to her. She said she'd named them all. The same name,
of course, but that was Drusilla for you. {But not for me, anymore. 'Bout
time I faced up to that one like a man. Or demon. I can chase her 'round the
world, and she still won't be mine anymore.}

"Oi-- stars! Got anything useful to say?"

The stars, if they did, were keeping it to themselves. {Didn't bloody think
so.}

***

"Just...be careful, Xander. We don't want to see you hurt. Now that we can
see each other, that is."

"Right, now that our asses are head-free."

"*I* don't want to see you hurt. Head-free enough for you? But I don't want
to see you locked away inside yourself, afraid to let anyone love you. I've
been there, and like I said, the view isn't worth the rent."

"So the accumulated wisdom is what-- play it by ear?" Xander asked, opening
a cupboard to put away the clean dishes.

"Or by heart. Once you learn the music, then you can improvise. Oh, crap...
what the hell did I just say? Was that as sappy as it sounded?" Giles
scratched his ear. "I sound like a bloody coffee advert!"

"Yeah, the one with the stalker guy who keeps coming around to borrow a cup
of Taster's Choice." Xander needled. They'd teased Giles unmercifully in
high school about his resemblance to the actor in the commercial series.
"Seriously. Y'know. Thanks." [Something I'm forgetting here...] "Oh...G-Man,
a favor?"

"If you promise to stop calling me that."

"Conversation not for public consumption, right?" [I'm glowing with joy that
they all care about my welfare, but I can just see them having a Taster's
Choice moment about me. Please, no.]

Giles stared at him. "What??" Xander responded.

"I can't believe the sound is coming out of my mouth, but," Giles sighed,
"duh."

***

Damn stars. Damn road. Damn idiotic Spike on the top step staring out at the
dark like it would get damn idiotic Xander Harris back any quicker.

{You've lost it, William the bloody idiot!} Snarky Voice number whatever
taunted in his ear.

"Yeah, I've lost it. Shut up already."

The sound of a car starting up and pulling out had him diving down the
stairs. Tires squealed as the car blew through the stop sign at the end of
the road. Another night of the boy's dad on the road after four beers and a
whiskey chaser, or maybe the other way around. {Least I don't have to
listen to the shouting, or the throwing, or, shudder, the subtle attempt at
post-row romance.}

Leaving the door cracked open, he stalked back to the TV. {Joy of joys. 
Bubbles has been smashed headfirst into the pavement and is now firmly
convinced that she's Mojo Jojo. Now there's a bad guy with style. 
Chimpanzee with a brain twice the size of his skull, wearing a purple cape.
No wonder his brilliant plans always meet with some cock-up or other. At
least the crack team that foils *my* every plan aren't three kindergarten
kids in pastel frocks. Granted, I could probably learn something from the
chimp-- like the good guys always win, or some such rot.}

He stomped off to the washer and stomped the clean clothes over to the
dryer, then stomped off to the "kitchen." All in all, about four stomps.
{What did I do with the rest of that chocolate cereal?}

***

And the silence in Giles' kitchenette was once again companionable, as the
two men put the last of the clean dishes away.

"Hey, Giles!" shouted Buffy from the living room.

"Oui, mademoiselle?"

"Mon père est né à Bakersfield!"

Giles and Xander emerged from the kitchen applauding.

"Très bon. Et les poissons attrayants??" Giles asked seriously.

Buffy grinned wickedly. "Les poissons attrayants ont obtenu un travail
dansant sur des tables à Las Vegas."

Xander puzzled that one out in his head, and at last came up with, "The
attractive fish got a job table dancing in Las Vegas?"

Giles laughed. "Close enough."

"I'm so proud!" Willow announced.

***

{...} "Sod off, brain."

Spike had long since lost track of which part of his mind was trying to tell
him he was an imbecile.

"Point bloody taken."

He tried clicking the TV remote again, anything to get the ruddy Powerpuffs
off the screen. Nothing. The batteries had finally gone out. Frustrated, he
threw the remote at the nearest wall. It was a measure of his frustration
that it shattered into about twenty-five pieces. It was a more telling
measure of his mental situation that he didn't particularly notice. His
addled thoughts were three logic-leaps ahead before the pieces even hit the
ground. The concept of changing the channel by hand was bypassed entirely.
No, his mind was back on the Harris track.

Then he heard the car pull up, and then the sound of someone singing, coming
up the walk.

***

"Before I could answer, I looked and I was standin' on her point of view..."
Xander sang softly as he juggled the two bags containing his groceries and
what was left of the garlic bread, trying to fish his hard-won key out of
his jeans pocket without dropping anything. "...and she said come on over to
my place, and we can make do."

He looked up and realized he didn't need it. The door that led into his
basement apartment was ever so slightly open. [If he took off into the night
and left the door open, I'll... no, why would he? Yeah, the place is pretty
much safe from vampires, but if Spike wants a place to stay, he knows better
than to let burglars of the plain old human variety clean me out.]

He cautiously nudged the door open and peered down. The sound of the TV rose
up to him...

"The city of Townsville..."

[He's watching the Powerpuff Girls? Focus, Xander, focus. Playing by ear,
remember?]

He reached into a grocery bag and pulled out the last remaining Almond Joy.
Tara had taken another, Buffy had devoured two after victoriously passing
the pre-test at the back of the French book...[and okay, yours truly gobbled
the other four on the drive home. So sue me. It's been a *very* long day.]

He took a step in, and stood at the top of the stairs looking down. Spike
stood next to the TV, thumping it absently with his fist, looking up at him.
[Wearing my clothes?]

"Heads up!" he called, and tossed the candy bar down. He took another step
down.

"Hey Spike--" he began. [What's a good opening line, G-Man? B-flat? No,
that's just a note.] "We need to talk." [Oh, yeah, that was it. Very suave,
very not pathetic.]

He started to take that third step down, but he didn't have to bother. In
the time it had taken his brain to quote his younger self, the vampire was
across the room, up the stairs, and two inches from Xander's face, the candy
bar lying crumpled on the basement floor.

"And just where the hell 'ave *you* been? " Spike growled.

***

The end