Sidelines
by
Anna S
9 I Only Feel Right on My Knees
"Time was, billiards was a gentleman's game." Spike chalked his cue absently as he studied the table. "Sport of kings. Now it's the sport of every yobbo with a fancy stick." He lined up a shot. "Course--" Cue ball smacked its target, which rolled into the corner pocket. "--you won't see me complaining." He straightened up and smiled slyly at Xander. "I never was a gentleman."
Xander watched as he continued to shoot. Watching was how he'd spent most of his evening so far. He'd watched Spike shark a few frat boys out of fifty bucks, which seemed to win him table rights too; he'd stacked an entire roll of quarters on the edge and no one had dared argue. With the crowd cleared away, they'd set up a game, but so far Xander hadn't had the chance to play. He didn't mind much. He was a hot and crazy voyeur, oh yeah. The way Spike's fingers worked the chalk across the cue tip, his deliberate movements around the table, his body's bend and the pump of his arm as he took a shot. God, just the back of his neck--Xander shifted and gripped his inadequate pool cue closer as if it would hide the evidence of his interest.
He could feel himself going all googly-eyed and lame, and strove to hide it. The past week of sex and snark had provided ample proof that if Spike suspected weakness, he'd find a way to take advantage of the situation. Even now the vampire was catching his eye, as if sensing in his silence something meaningful. Pretending to study the set of the table, Xander sensed Spike circling around. They were both pretending, but Spike's facade was smoother; when he'd prowled close he examined his shot for a long moment before turning and reaching past Xander for a beer. Leaning and reaching. Leaning and reaching and brushing. And drinking and swallowing, and oh wow.
Breathing was damn hard. How did people remember to keep it up, day after day, when they had so much else to concentrate on? Keep it up--no, keep it down, kids. Keep. It. Down. That was his command to his insurgent body, but Spike was doing the whole leaning-and-reaching thing again as he returned the beer.
"Trade sticks with me," Spike said in a suggestive voice, and Xander's sweaty fingers fumbled as they made the exchange, and thank god his shirt was untucked. Foresight, at least he had that, yes--and Spike's own fingers were dry as kindling where they stroked against his, and Xander heard himself catch his breath. Embarrassing, exciting. Why didn't they turn on the air conditioning in this place?
"Don't you want to--" He nodded toward the table as the rest of the words lodged in his throat.
"In front of everyone?" Spike asked, raising his brows. Xander felt his face heat. "Now that you mention it--" He leaned in.
"Cut it out," Xander managed to say, as over Spike's shoulder he noticed a group of kids he'd gone to school with.
Spike noticed his glance, turned his head, then turned back knowingly. "'Fraid of people finding out you're a poofter?" One of his hands drifted with lazy assurance across Xander's belly to slip under his shirt. His face was cool, interested, the way he might look as if he were gutting a dog, even while his hand pledged intimacy.
"I've had my name on the bathroom wall. I'd rather not relive junior high and please do that a little lower--no, stop--stop doing that!" Xander's breath was growing ragged.
"You're only a poofter if you can't stand up for yourself. A real man does what he likes, when he likes."
"Don't mentor me, Iron John. It freaks me out."
"More than this?" Spike hooked his thumb into Xander's jeans and pulled him near, then kissed him. It was an oh-god-everyone-can-see-me kiss, full of silky beer-wet tongue with a hint of fried onion, and Xander's fingers tightened on his cue stick so hard he swore he felt the wood crack, but after a second he forgot where he was, the music and babble of the club merging into white background noise. A vampire thrall--had to be. He'd heard about those. Damn Spike's insidious power. Properly enthralled, Xander kissed back until a peal of laughter broke through his distracted senses. He jerked his mouth away, scanning the club with self-consciousness.
"People are staring," he said, and people were. Not all of them, but enough to make him wish he'd styled his hair better for the occasion.
"Let them." Satisfied or irritated--always so difficult to tell--Spike turned back to the pool table and continued playing.
Xander licked his lips and watched with dazed, stupid longing. Apparently lust for other men made you just as man-dumb as lust for women. Good to know. Armed with that knowledge, he'd be on guard against the amoral affections of his dick. No way was he going to save up his pizza earnings and buy Spike jewelry at the Silver Palace, or take him on romantic moonlight rides. Spike was Cordelia without the humanity. Wait, hold on. Cordelia was Cordelia without the humanity. Spike was just a demon, and it meant nothing that he had abs you could bounce dimes on, hands like an erotic lock-pick, an ass tighter than a calfskin glove--okay, his train of thought had jumped tracks. Damn.
Man pretty.
"Well, well, well," a hard-candy voice said, as a hand forcefully clapped Xander's shoulder and made him jump. "Boys' night out."
Startled and guilty, Xander turned to see Buffy--and saw a lot more Buffy than usual. His gaze zoomed down her cleavage on automatic perv-cam, and he shook himself free of vertigo. Eyes up. "Hey, Buffy. You've, uh, done something with your hair." With her lips, too. Mighty glossy, wrapping themselves around the mouth of his beer bottle like that.
"Sweet of you to notice," she said after downing half his beer. And she smiled and squeezed his butt.
He jumped again, stumbling away from her and almost knocking over a chair. "Ha! Hands!" he cried inanely, honestly shocked. Despite his better instincts, he darted a look at Spike, who was perusing Buffy with narrowed eyes.
"Who's your friend?" she challenged, stretching a little and swinging the beer bottle loosely in her hand as if she might suddenly throw it.
Xander paused, caught between vampire and slayer and trying to read the situation. "Spike and I are just hanging out," he said, trying for a placating tone. Spike hefted his pool stick like a sword and began closing in, hips rolling like a tomcat's. He was just finding a better position to shoot from, but his movements spelled trouble. Danger, Will Robinson. Hoping to head off a confrontation, Xander asked, "What's up, Buff?"
"Xander Harris hangin' with William the Bloody," Buffy said, eyebrows climbing. "Whaddaya know." She sounded cool, mocking, dryly amused, but he couldn't tell where she was coming from. She had to be half-drunk. "So which of you is making the lifestyle change?" With nimble skill, she hopped backwards onto a stool and wrapped her legs around its own.
The unerring hit rattled Xander's composure. Were they that obvious? "That's, that's--" he stammered. "We're just friends. I mean, not friends. We're just enemies--sharing a game of pool between bouts of furious--uh, fisticuffs. Is that so wrong?" Anxiety made him sound combative, or maybe terrified.
Spike gave him a disgusted look while Buffy smiled. "Whatever rows your boat." She eyed him thoughtfully. "Or rocks it." With a shrug, she dismissed her insinuation as easily as she'd made it. "Guess you don't want me to kill him then."
"Hey!" Spike frowned and adopted an offended pose. "Innocent victim of military tinkering, don't forget." He pointed to his head. "Can't hurt a damn flea."
"Really?" Buffy acted delighted, as if this was news to her. "Wicked bad luck there, Willie."
With effortful restraint, Spike turned his pointy finger on her. "Watch it, Princess."
Buffy uttered a small laugh of contempt. "Are all the vamps in this town such lightweights? No wonder my life's so boring." She hopped off her stool and drained her stolen beer as Spike and Xander stood there equally nonplussed. "Care to point out the real men, ladies?" Her gaze had already wandered to the dance floor, and her restless body shifted from side to side as it picked up the rhythm. "I just need one good one to tease, and one bad one to...slay." The lush pause implied other, dirtier thoughts.
Xander cared about Buffy, he really did, but he'd learned he didn't much like her drunk. "Hey, maybe you should go home," he said, stepping in front of her before she could walk off.
"Hey, maybe you should back off."
He held up his empty hands, alarmed at her ready aggression. "Puny mortal here. Not trying to anger the beer goddess. I'm just saying. Think of Riley."
Buffy blinked as if she wasn't quite registering the name, and then a change slid through her face, made her eyes light up. "Yeah," she said softly. "Think of Riley."
~*~*~*~*~
"And then I said, 'Think of Riley,'" Xander groaned, dropping his head in his hands.
"It's not your fault," Willow reassured him. "Faith would have put him on her naughty to-do list sooner or later."
"Yeah, but if it had been later, she might not have had time." A silence fell, and he looked up. "Pause for rebuttal."
"Sorry. You may be right." Willow made an apology face. "But you thought it was Buffy. You were just being a friend."
"I should have known. It's so obvious in retrospect. She was slutty and mean and wearing leather pants. She practically had 'Faith' tattooed on her bicep."
Willow sipped her coffee. "None of us suspected. Except Tara."
"That helping of irony is too rich for me." Xander flexed his shoulders and leaned back in his chair, looking through the unwalled cafe at the street. Angry energy wanted out. He wondered if this was how Faith felt all the time, harboring the desire to do something, someone, with violent intensity. He'd always thought of it as male hormones, the curse and blessing of testosterone. These days he was less sure.
He wondered if this was how Spike felt all the time.
"Xander?"
"What?" Xander dragged his focus back to the present.
"I said, have you seen Buffy since Freaky Friday?"
"Oh. No. You?"
"Still sharing a dorm room."
"Right."
Willow's hands encircled her coffee cup as if trying to warm themselves. "Of course, she's kind of absent behind the eyes lately. It's like, she's less there now than when Faith had her body. All the usual recovery methods have failed. Chocolate, Ani DiFranco, The Bold and the Beautiful. I know she just needs to work through it, but it's hard playing spectator."
He smiled a crooked smile. "The Buffy angst sucks you in, doesn't it?"
"Like a Hoover." She sighed. "Letting it go," she said with a definitive hand wave that swatted the angst away. "We have lives too. So they don't involve body-switching or kidnapping by watchers. We've still got stuff to talk about."
"Yeah." Xander folded his arms on the table and gave that thought. Willow seemed to be doing the same.
I've applied for twenty jobs this month, he didn't say, and the only offer I got was for shoveling up roadkill on state roads, so I stuck with pizza, which is like roadkill but doesn't pay the rent, and that's okay for now, because I live rent-free alongside fleshy, poker-playing demons, and for entertainment I do my laundry and read sci-fi, when I'm not killing vampires or trying to stop Frankenstein's monster from carving up local citizens that is, and by the way, I'm having sex with Spike.
How about them Knicks?
"More coffee?" he asked Willow.
"Make it--"
~*~*~*~*~
"--a double," Xander demanded, because that would tighten his bootstraps and finish his day off right. On cue, Tammy Wynette started to twang from the juke. A grimace crossed Spike's face, caused by the music itself or thoughts of bodily harm it engendered, and he shot a dark look across the room at someone favored by the chips of fate.
Spike passed him bourbon on the rocks without argument, and once again ignored Xander's proffered money. Giving up, Xander tucked the bills away and resigned himself to freeloading. As he nursed his drink, Spike waited on the last-call crowd, pouring shots with quick efficiency. He took their money, no problem. Some bills even made it to the register. His hands, skilled and articulate, fanned around bottles and shoved shot glasses; his fingers--
~*~*~*~*~
--slid expertly inside Xander and twisted like a swizzle stick.
Face damp, one arm thrown over his head, Xander worked himself helplessly onto a second row of knuckles. Vampires were obsessive-compulsive sex maniacs, he'd learned. Or that might just be Spike, who seemed driven to discover how close he could get to the threshold of cruelty without triggering a brain-fry. Strangely, he didn't seem to mind his long and consistent string of failures.
"Ow," Xander breathed, testing him.
Spike's eyelids lowered a fraction as he gazed down at Xander, unpained. "Oh no. Can't fool the monitor, love. I've got you cored like an apple, don't I?" He shoved his fingers in deeper and more rudely. "You're all soft and hot and fluttery in there. Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie." He sounded dreamy and more than a little like Dru. Xander supposed some measure of insanity rubbed off after a hundred years. "Yeah. Pretend you don't want that."
Somewhere in Xander's mind was a file of witty retorts he couldn't access. That office was closed for the night, lights off. His insides flexed and trembled. "Knucklebones," he said, unable to communicate anything but appreciation, and then those padded knobs brushed across a raw, aching place that made him cry out in surprise.
"Calling me names?" Spike murmured. "Think of nastier ones." He dragged his fingers half out then slid the pads of his fingers back up teasingly to that spot.
"Oh, fuck, fuck, fucker--"
"Now that's merely descriptive. Keep going," he encouraged.
Xander arched, pleasure tightening like a guitar string about to snap, and tried to take his own dick in hand, but that made Spike remove his fingers to interrupt him. "Damn it!" he wailed.
"Don't worry, pet, I'll put something better there." And Spike flipped him over.
"Wait, wait--" They hadn't done this yet, and warning bells were ringing. Unfortunately, other bells were ringing too, trying to drown the warning ones out.
"Told you already, no more waiting. No more bashful lad act. Reciprocity." Spike slapped his thighs apart and Xander yelped. "Oh, take it like a man."
Not entirely sure he felt manlike, Xander struggled to his knees just as Spike grabbed his neck and yanked him upright. He was rough but careful; he'd had practice maintaining that fine line between force and pain. One hand on Xander's neck, the other snaking between his legs, cock nudging Xander's ass--okay, why was he arguing again? He wrestled despite himself, but Spike moved to cage him, arms like steel, barely exerting pressure but holding him in place. Xander's skin was slippery, and his struggles inside the cage of Spike were oh so good. He began to rock a bit, gripping the arm that barred his throat too lightly to cut off breath, too firmly to escape. He could feel the head of Spike's cock kissing the door to his insides, and what, did he need an invitation?
"Do it," he gritted out. "Hurry."
When Spike caught his breath, Xander felt it against his ear, and then felt his face change, like wax melting and reforming. Oh shit, he wanted to say, but the words didn't come. Spike snarled and pushed inside him and it hurt, and that slowed them down, Xander gasping, Spike wincing with reflected pain, and slower was better, slower was good. Slower was...unbelievable.
Xander moved, trying to capture the goodness, a full, stretched feeling he'd needed without knowing it. Behind him, Spike was a cool hard wall, a pressure of chest and belly along his back, holding him up. He could feel how leashed Spike was. He twisted his body, shoulder blades cutting Spike's chest, thighs trying to find purchase. The arm around his neck lifted, forcing his chin up; Spike's other arm loosened and slid down like a heavy belt, hand closing around Xander's cock and making his hips jerk, driving him forward and then back. His breath came in harsh gasps. The pleasure gathering in front was excruciating, a string of knotted beads being dragged from his dick; the pleasure behind, a deep wave swell. Spike's face rubbed his, ridges warring with his own beard stubble, and Xander felt a growl rise in the vampire's throat before he heard it. A shudder descended through him, the good kind. He was swollen and brimming, buoyed by unholy strength. He lifted and pushed back, head sliding across Spike's shoulder, hips climbing and riding him. Spike was making funny little noises now, choking grunts of wonder that said this was good enough to make even a vampire lose his cool.
"Fuck," Spike said throatily, sounding lost. "Sweet buggering hell--" His shoves grew ragged, desperate, and his hand tightened to ruthlessly strip Xander's cock. Xander reeled back and shouted as he came. It was a long and splashy production and when he finished Spike shoved him onto his hands and knees--from which position Xander promptly collapsed onto the blankets--and used him with unapologetic recklessness. If it hurt, neither of them noticed. Spike came a minute later with his own fanfare, then slumped across Xander's back.
"G'off," Xander muttered.
Spike unpeeled himself and lit a cigarette.
Xander rolled onto his back--ouch--and stared sleepily at the ceiling. "Do you think I can still wear white at my wedding?" he mused. It was the last thing he said before he dozed off, and if Spike had an answer, he didn't hear it.
10 You Were a Boy Scout
Willow was pacing the room like a wind-up toy, just as jittery and plastic, like she might break if she dropped. "Tara said the Initiative guys took him right before she found me. What if they--what if they hurt him? Would they?" She stopped pacing and looked entreatingly at Buffy, who drew in a deep breath.
"They're not going to do anything to him," she said firmly, taking Willow's arms in a reassuring grip. "They won't have time."
"I'm so scared," Willow said in a creaky whisper. "I waited for Oz to come back and when he does, he's taken from me again before I have a chance to make things right."
"You'll have your chance, Will." Buffy let her go and Willow sank into a chair.
Giles cleared his throat as if that would clear the emotional mistiness from his living room. "Well, once again we're faced with a fairly daunting prospect of having to infiltrate the Initiative."
"Yeah," said Xander. "Too bad one of us isn't dating a man on the inside. Someone with connections. Oh, wait!" He glanced at Buffy as if struck by the coincidence.
Her see-no-evil expression was eroding, leaving worry and disappointment. All-American Boy wasn't earning any Buffy points tonight. "Something's wrong," she admitted. "Riley would have called back by now. We're going to have to do this without him. Xander, you and I are going in." She turned to Willow. "Will--can you and Giles hack into the city's electrical grid by the time we get there?"
Oh joy, thought Xander. They were going with plan number two, also known as the crazy plan. "Um." He raised his hand, and listening heads turned his way. "Hate to drag boring reality into a nifty plot, but the Initiative probably has back-up generators for those holding cells. Flipping a municipal breaker isn't going to power them down."
"Damn it," Buffy said.
Giles frowned thoughtfully. "Are you sure your clearance was revoked?"
"I don't have enough clearance for a Lowell House kegger, Giles, let alone the bat-cave."
"Okay," Xander said, raising his hands to pre-empt any argument. "I know this is going to sound crazy, but--what about Spike?" Who if you squinted at it a certain way in bad light, was the guy on the inside Xander was dating.
"You're right." Buffy folded her arms. "I'm thinking lithium."
"He did manage to escape the, er, bat-cave," Giles pointed out. "He may have insights of use to us."
"And of course he'd be so willing to help us and earn his rescue merit badge."
Giles tipped his head in bland acknowledgment of Buffy's sarcasm. "No doubt we would have to offer him money."
Unwittingly funding the future chipectomy, Xander thought in resignation. "I'll call him." As he stood up from the couch, three pairs of eyes fixed on him again, this time with unblinking amazement. "What?"
"You have his number?" Willow wondered, bemused.
"He has a phone?" Buffy followed up, skepticism too blunt to slay with but sharp enough to get under Xander's skin. Considering his own phoneless state, was it really so snarkworthy?
"He works," he said shortly, then raised a finger for pause. "Mock that thought. I'll be right back."
"Plague of frogs, hail of fire, Spike with a job," he heard Buffy say. "Does anyone else feel an apocalypse coming on?"
~*~*~*~*~
"I had to get someone to finish out my shift, you know," Spike said an hour later from his sprawl on the couch. "Losing tips while I sit here." He very deliberately wasn't looking at Xander, and somehow Xander could tell.
"Yes." Giles's voice was long-suffering, but held an edge of finely honed contempt. "I've said you'll be remunerated."
"Jobless fellow like yourself shouldn't take another bloke's livelihood lightly," Spike rejoined in dark, measured tones.
"Do they make you wear a little apron?" Buffy asked from a pointed distance halfway across the room. "Because I'd pay to see that."
"Speaks the miss who'll never break minimum wage." Spike drew out the words, his elegant vowels a taunt. "What are your job skills again? Prancing the streets at night in search of men, wearing tarty heels, handling wood? Come to think--"
Buffy started for him, and Giles caught her arm.
"Are you going to do this or not?" Willow broke in, commanding Spike's attention. "Because while you sit there playing mister-dead-hipster-guy, Oz could be getting his brain chipped. Is that what you want?"
Spike scowled, unmoved by her feisty challenge. "So your mongrel gets fixed. What's it to me, aside from a few less bob for the piggy bank?"
"Forget pay. Don't you want some payback?" Willow leaned forward in her chair, eyes hard, voice flat and strangely compelling. "You'd be thwarting them. Dishing out some hurt. It'd chafe their brass, a monster turning the tables, outsmarting them."
Surprised and a little disturbed, Xander met Giles's gaze across the top of Willow's head. The older man looked just as taken aback.
"Yeah," said Spike, sounding fired up. His face glowed, his eyes dipped under long lashes as he contemplated an internal picture of mayhem and retribution. "It would, wouldn't it." Squaring his shoulders suddenly, he nodded and clapped his hands together with smart enthusiasm. "Count me in, Red."
Well, that was easier than expected, but then again, Spike was just a bundle of whim strapped to a pair of long legs. Xander hunched forward to join the plot-cooking, resting his arms loosely on his knees. "So how do we get in?"
"Same way I got out. Back door. I can take you there." Spike paused. "Course, can't promise they haven't tightened security since then."
"We'll take our chances," said Buffy.
~*~*~*~*~
Their entrance had been unexpectedly simple, the violence minimal, and the reunions something to see. Willow and Oz, Buffy and Riley. It was hard to sustain unmixed feelings, though, with the girls looking bittersweet and the guys looking the worse for wear.
"Bit of an anti-climax," complained Spike, the only one of them unimpressed that the raid had gone off without a hitch. Not that he could have done anything if it had hitched, but Spike never did make sense. "Not exactly four-star, is it?" He tested a support beam dubiously, then kicked it with his boot.
Riley looked around the ruins of the high school. "If it hasn't caved in by now--"
"It's probably overdue," Oz finished mildly. He didn't look worried, but he didn't look happy either. It was funny, thought Xander, because you'd think with three expressions in his repertoire he'd just look Oz. But when his face held a shade of happy, you noticed the difference.
"I hate leaving you here." Willow hugged him, and Oz hugged her back carefully, hands barely skimming her surface, as if she were a china tea-pot his clumsiness might break.
"I'll be okay," he said quietly. "I've got Ho-Hos."
Willow drew back, and in her face was the candid fragility Oz must have sensed. "If you go wolfy again--"
"I won't." Even those brief words had to be pried off Oz's tongue. "I thought." He paused and seemed to become aware of their audience, without quite looking at anyone. "It doesn't matter what I thought." He touched Willow's cheek, stroked his thumb there and gave her an almost-smile. "My senses are out of whack." His casual gaze turned Xander's way. "I even thought Xander was sleeping with Spike." There was a collective, paralyzed silence, and after a beat, Oz's face subtly registered realization. "Oh. My bad."
Willow, thoroughly distracted from her own drama, gave Xander the big eyes. "You're sleeping with Spike?" she squeaked.
"Now wait," said Riley, hands up, instinctively trying to referee the situation. Or maybe just call a halt on the play so that his head could clear. He looked dazed. "I just made a whole werewolf exception in my worldview here. But vampires?" A dismissive excuse for a laugh escaped him. "I don't think so."
Spike directed an arch, disbelieving look at Buffy. "What, you've never told him, Slayer?"
Riley looked between them while Buffy's face froze. "Told me what?" Into the stretching, empty air, his question repeated itself: "Told me what?"
~*~*~*~*~
They walked to Giles's house without a word between them, Xander with his hands tucked awkwardly in his pockets, Spike chain-smoking moodily. When they reached Xander's car, he said, "Want a lift?"
Spike gave the matter serious thought, staring down the street, not meeting Xander's eyes. "Think I'll walk," he said after a moment.
"Look, I'm sorry--"
"You're sorry?" Spike made a noise of derision and pitched his cigarette away.
It stung, and Xander didn't know why. "What happened to 'a real man does as he likes'?"
Glaring fiercely across the width of the car, Spike spat out: "They think I'm soft on you!"
"What?" Xander laughed in real appreciation. "You're crazy."
"Exactly!" Spike's emphatic gestures were going wide. "You call and I come running, a proper little do-gooder. I'm a vampire and I'm holding down a bloody job--and I don't even take my sick days!" With a growl of ineloquent frustration, Spike punched a hole in the passenger-side window. The bomb of shattering glass broke the quiet night.
"Hey!"
But Spike was already sweeping off into the darkness, scattering glass from his bleeding hand in his wake. Irritated, Xander climbed in and surveyed the damage, then drove. The car's wheels carried him in the same direction Spike had stalked, and his lean, smoke-trailing figure under the streetlights was unmistakable for anyone else's. Xander curb-crawled.
"Get in," he called through the broken window, his view of Spike cut off at the denim-clad and highly attractive hips.
"Sod off."
Xander pulled his head back and drove the car onto the sidewalk, barring Spike's path. He heard the vampire curse, and his blond head appeared at window-level. "Not selling it tonight, mate. Look elsewhere." And then his head raised again. "Oh hell," Xander heard him say.
Out his unmolested windows, he belatedly noticed the vampires who'd joined them. Peccable timing. He rolled down his window and let them approach closer. "Evenin'," he said, feeling for his travel stake with one surreptitious hand. "How's it going? Hey, any of you guys know where the freeway is?" With that he shoved open his door and caught the nearest vamp right under its grinning, anticipatory jaw. The creature staggered back as Xander hopped out. He took it by surprise, and shook off its dust as he launched into the fray.
It was a beautiful fight, two against six, and the raggedy-assed gang didn't know what hit them. Unfortunately, they knew how to hit. "Ow!" cried Xander as a vamp in a poncho landed one on his nose. Broken for sure, but he didn't have time to worry about it. He swung a stake-gripping fist at the guy's throat and felt wood enter flesh and lodge there. Damn, he thought, yanking his weapon back wetly and stumbling into another vamp as it came free. Falling on a victim wasn't one of his best moves, but it worked, the vampire's skull impacting on concrete long enough to stun him, and long enough for Xander to punch the stake through his heart.
The best moment, though, was when Spike came sliding across the car hood, pitched by the gang's leader, and landed in a blinking, startled heap in front of Xander, who leaped over his body to dust the son of a bitch. "Don't--toss--my--boyfriend," he said grimly, punctuating each breathless word with a punch and then driving his stake home. At least, that was the plan, and it would have been a peach if the hulk hadn't grabbed his wrist and twisted, making him drop the stake.
In a moment he found himself yanked around, held tight against the vampire's body in a parody of intimacy he could have done without. Neck forced into a taut bow, his final gaze dropped to the ground--
Which was completely bare of Spike, because Spike was yanking the big goon's heart out from behind. "Oof," Xander exclaimed, falling back into a spray of dust and vampire-thin air, only to be caught by two strong arms. The imprint of fangs still tingled on Xander's neck as he turned to meet Spike's gaze. Game face was gone, leaving steady eyes in their human mask, and a black, reluctant amusement.
"Don't toss my boyfriend?" he echoed.
"You find yourself saying these things. Heat of the slay." Xander caught his breath, noticed that Spike was running his tongue over his lips. "You cannot lick my face," he said.
"Oh, come on. You're downright delectable." Spike tipped his head, turning on his soulful charm for a snack. "All battered and mussed and dripping." He drew Xander close, slid a hand into the back pocket of his jeans.
"You are so disturbing, my friend."
"Boyfriend," Spike corrected in a low sing-song, licking a ribbon of blood from his jaw.
Xander drew his head back abruptly, earned a questioning look. "That too," he said, and kissed him.
11 Manly Men Doing Manly Things
Xander heaved himself two inches over, but it was still the same couch, battered and lumpy and bristling with springs. There was no good spot. He turned his heavy head and glanced over at Spike, who looked perfectly comfortable, bare shoulders resting against duct-taped upholstery, blue-jeaned legs outstretched to rest his feet on the cinderblock-and-plywood coffee table. He had a beer bottle between his legs. Semi-erect. Foamy head. Xander's head lolled back into its divot, eyes fixing on the TV as he lazily adjusted his own beer bottle.
The commercial ended on the muted set, replaced by bad Japanese science-fiction. A man and woman stood on the street, trapped in some black-and-white city of the fifties, talking earnestly to one another, mouths moving without sound. Spike filled in helpfully.
"'Lo, love--cor, but you've got a pair on you, like ripe melons. Kiwis, maybe. Oranges, egg cups, fruity little ta-tas. You get my meaning. So, er, care for a shag? What, in the lab? Right, then. Oh, near-sighted duckling, aren't you--that's a microscope, not my pecker, love. Just as big around, though, not surprised you mistook--no, no, not the lab coat. Told you, makes you look pasty. Blokes don't make passes at bints who wear glasses. Now don't take it like that--not the end of the world. Oh. Sorry. Well, nothing like a good plague to whet a man's appetite."
"I am looking at you in a meaningful way," Xander parried, eyes never leaving the screen. "My eyes like pools of azure, my breasts like heaving torpedoes on the sea of my desire. You mock me with your tiny mustache, but I know what lurks beneath that sneering fringe. You're in love with Rhonda!"
"That's right, pet. Rhonda--there's a real woman. Not a man in women's clothing like you."
"Ahh!" Xander groaned affectedly, slapping a hand over his heart. "How did you guess my secret shame?"
"Spotted that copy of 'She Males' on your coffee table when I was shagging your sis."
"Damn it, Paul. I just had the couch reupholstered."
"No harm, no foul. I was tidy."
"You cad, with your shopworn suit and hairy lip!" Xander let himself get worked up. "To think I loved you and bore your children!"
"Those tasteless little brutes? Not a full meal among the lot of 'em."
"Animal! I crumple and weep! A thousand beakers could not contain my sea of tears!"
"There, there, love. Don't cry. I didn't eat all the kiddies."
They both fell silent, watching the set flicker into a scene of vibrator-shaped rocket ships flaming towards Earth.
"We really need to get out more," Xander said at last.
Spike sighed. "Yeah."
12 Change of Address
Demons did their thing, Adam eluded them, and classes ended. In the middle of it all, Xander got a new job and moved. Earlier, he'd revisited his parents' house to move his things, making the trip during the day when they were both out. Here, he just had three boxes of stuff, and not large boxes either. They didn't make a big going-away-now pile by the apartment door, but he was okay with that.
"Great couch," said Oz, staring at it with rapt fascination, communing maybe. Then suddenly he turned, face unlocked with curious enlightenment. "I think that used to be Devon's."
The door was bumped open by a booted foot, and Riley came through with a bag slung over his shoulder. He looked around, assessing the place expressionlessly.
"It's not much," Xander began to apologize.
Riley broke out a little smile. "Compared to where we've been living, it's a palace."
Oz, who'd taken a seat with loose-limbed ease, cemented his roommate's arrival by announcing, "I get the couch, man."
"No problem," said Riley. "That bed looks--" He hesitated. "Mighty comfortable."
Embarrassed, Xander covered his feeling with reflexive humor. "The handcuffs come with. No extra charge." He paused. "I, uh, lost the key." Accepting Riley's good-natured nod, he edged toward the door. "I'll be back in a minute to get my things. Oh, if a flabby demon comes around with a potted plant, don't worry. It's just your neighbor with a house-warming gift."
He'd meant to make the journey upstairs, but he didn't have to. Spike lurked in the hall outside his door, leaning against the crumbling plaster. He looked up when Xander appeared, cigarette raised halfway to his mouth, then glanced away nonchalantly and completed the move.
"You'd better watch out," Xander said. "Your smoke is almost overpowering the smell of mice and piss."
Spike removed his cigarette and considered it. "Public service, innit."
Xander let himself ease near, felt Spike tense. "Well, we both know you're very public-service oriented." That came out kind of funny, wrong by being right, because Spike had continued to be his new and improved, weirdly helpful self these past few weeks. Killing demons, killing his own kind, throwing his empties into Xander's recycle bin instead of out the window. And now he gave Xander a sharp, pinning look, as if to say, insult me, will you.
"I'm uh. I'm going now," Xander said.
There was a subtle shift of muscle against wall, but Spike contrived to sound unimpressed. "Yeah?"
"Go with?" He made the offer casual as hell, but he'd made it before, so he couldn't pretend it was meaningless.
"Nah." Spike shifted again. His body language said restless, and you're standing too close and a lot of other things. It said sex and independence, and that conflict was somehow written in the cocked angle of his hips. It was a pose, but that was about all the vampire had going for him these days, and though Xander wanted to be righteously annoyed, he knew he had to let Spike come to terms with...well, with Spike.
"Figure I'll stay here a while," Spike went on. "Good deal. No rent, no responsibility."
"Hot and cold running rats."
"Always wondered if you could make a vampire rat," said Spike thoughtfully. "Or maybe a cow, y'know? Tried it a couple times. Didn't take."
The undead comedian, ladies and gentlemen. "You have just guaranteed that flesh-eating cows with big teeth will haunt my dreams tonight." Spike tipped up one corner of his mouth, but as they say, the smile didn't reach his eyes. There was an awkward moment, and Xander had time to wonder if he'd been sincere enough in his invitations, if he'd honestly wanted Spike to move with him into his brand spanking new apartment with the hardwood floors and faux granite counters, and put blood in the fridge, boot scuffs on the tiles.
He stopped doing the manly, eye-contact avoidance thing, and let his gaze rise to search Spike's face, reminding himself that this was a killer whose preferred drink was humans, who'd toss aside their corpses as carelessly as empty bottles. It had grown harder to remember that--at least when Spike wasn't reminiscing--and Xander wasn't sure when that had happened.
Spike's face was white and set and smooth, like a stone. A stone that was looking at him. "You should go now," he said. And he sounded cold, beyond angry. His lips were tight. But Xander had been in his mouth, and it wasn't hard to remember that. It was hard to forget.
He left, but the words pricked him for the next several hours, as he walked around his new, spotlessly clean digs. Didn't prick his conscience, but somewhere else. Like needles setting a tattoo in his restless skin. His living room had sheer white curtains, covering white blinds. It was so fucking clean, and Spike would never come here. Too clean for him.
I'm too clean for him, thought Xander. He stood with his lights off, looking out the window into the night. There was one patch of sidewalk under a streetlight, and a breeze kept lifting one tree branch up and down, up and down, in front of the globe. Xander drank a beer and watched the leaves move. After a while, he had to admit he was waiting. But no one walked up the street.
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The knock on his door came at four a.m., after a handful of long days had passed. In his dream, the elephant was butting his shoulder, urging him toward the pit, in which Xander knew there were pointy stakes. I'd really rather not, he said diffidently, but he knew Buffy was at its bottom. She needed his help. I'm going to get you ice cream, he called down to her, and ran to the nearest tree. Her coconuts were up there, and when he shook the tree they knocked together.
Bonk, bonk...bang bang bang.
He flicked on his lamp and rubbed a hand across his eyes. "Someone had better be dead," he muttered, then came instantly awake, ice shooting through his veins at that very real possibility. Sick with anticipatory guilt, he stumbled toward the door in his boxers, calling, "Just a minute!"
Outside the door, it was someone dead. Xander stood with his hand on the door, alert but befuddled at Spike's unannounced visit. Spike himself looked impatient--if he hadn't been a vampire, he was exactly the kind of guy who'd push his way into your apartment at four a.m. without an invitation. "Well? Going to ask me in?" he said.
"And hello to you too." But he waved his hand inward, and that seemed to be enough, because Spike shoved past him.
Xander closed the door with a tired head shake and turned to find Spike staring askance at his toaster, which was shaped like a race-car. The harsh fluorescent lights made him cartoon vivid. He was all white skin, dark leather, sharp eyebrows. The hell he didn't wear eyeliner.
"If you're here to borrow a cup of sugar, I've only got instant." After a replay of that remark, he added, "Make no sense I do, this hour at. Talking like Yoda, I am." He sighed. Spike was just looking at him as if he were crazy. And then his irritated face softened and he smiled. Always so unexpected, that smile. That real smile, as if he were all of a sudden seeing Xander and liking him.
He strolled over--if you could stroll a mere three feet--and slid his hand between Xander's legs. "How about a cup of this?" he suggested instead.
"You know, a few years ago I used to dream of sex-o-grams. Now I dream of sleep." But Spike's hand was blatant, sliding into the split of his boxers, riling things up in there. "Okay, so maybe tomorrow, which in actual fact is today, I can daydream of sleep. Yeah. I'm thinking--oh yeah." His lips parted, his eyes fell half shut, and when Spike folded gracefully to his knees, he thought maybe he was dreaming.
Xander Harris hangin' with William the Bloody, he heard Faith-not-Buffy say. And yeah, what the hell was up with that, a notorious semi-retired vampire dropping in to give free blow-jobs to someone genetically destined for uncoolness, namely him? Why was Spike letting him disarray his rigidly gelled hair? Why was he making those satisfied Blow-Pop sounds with his tight, evil mouth? And his eyes closing, his hand fumbling his fly open, fumbling to jerk himself off on Xander's kitchen tiles, as if he couldn't help himself, as if this meant--
"Oh," he breathed, clutching Spike's head, knees locking and thighs trembling. "Oh, man, I missed you--"
Spike groaned around him and began to come, and that was all Xander needed to let go.
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They'd done a lot of damage to his sheets in a short time. A spare set of sheets might have been a good idea, he was realizing now. Willow had suggested that when they'd gone new-apartment shopping, but he'd pooh-poohed her. Sheets got dirty, you did laundry. What was the big?
Big wet spots.
He opened his eyes to see Spike slipping on his jeans, and he frowned, rolling over to look out the window. "It's almost dawn."
"I'm not hurrying to avoid the traffic, pet."
"Don't hurry," Xander said mildly. "Stay."
Spike paused in the act of pulling on his shirt. He was thinking about it, that was something, but Xander knew he wouldn't cave. And he didn't; after a moment, he got that look again, stubborn vampire tugging a familiar cloak of wannabe-evil around himself. Darth Spike, ultimate bad ass. "Better not. Wouldn't get to work on time."
"Oh, yeah." Oddly, Xander resented this practicality more than the idea of Spike wanting to go. "I forgot you have that tunnel to the bar." Too damn convenient, and why were vamp commuter alternatives suddenly occupying his thoughts?
"How goes your new gig?" Spike, conversational in his terse way, sat on the edge of the bed with his back turned and began lacing on his boots.
"The job? It's great. Got me a tool belt and one of those stylish yellow hats. Next week I come off probation. I'll be a fully recognized employee of Nash Construction. I understand I'm obliged to start wolf-whistling at the hot mamas who walk by the site."
"See, what'd I tell you? You're moving up in the world."
"Thanks to you." Xander shoved his bare foot at Spike's hip companionably and earned a dry, dismissive glance. "You found that ad, told me to get off my ass and go for it. I'd still be serving pizza to the stoners of Sunnydale if you hadn't given me a shove."
"Yeah, well. I was bored. Always give advice when I'm bored. Usually turns out tragic. Bit of a surprise, this." He stood, pulled on his coat. "I'm off then."
As sleep tugged him back into its embrace, Xander watched him go. "Bye," he said after the front door closed. "Good to see you too."
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Three days later, another neighbor-waking knock called him from sleep.
"Land shark?" Xander mused as the door reverberated in its frame. "Hold on, hold on." As he trudged across his carpet, it occurred to him that it might be someone else--say, a frantic Buffy out on patrol and pursued by a demon, ducking into his building for refuge. He hurried his steps to unlock the door, and Spike barged in as soon as it clicked open.
"Whoa!" The door had bumped his shoulder hard enough to send him staggering back a pace, and the zing of pain made Xander even more wakeful. "What's up? Is something aft--"
"You. Me. Sex." Spike tore off his coat and threw it at a chair; it missed and fell, but he didn't even notice. His face was fierce with determination. "Now." He disappeared into the bedroom, trailing clothes, and Xander gaped after him, unsure whether to be excited or offended. After a fuzzy moment of shock, he followed.
It couldn't have been ten seconds, but he found Spike already stripped down to the full monty. "Okay, wow. I'm thinking magical boot-removing spell, because--"
"Shut up!" Spike's expression was hard, cold. "On the bed."
Xander stiffened. "I don't think--"
"No," Spike said, covering the distance between them in a blur. "Don't think." A command not to be resisted, his erection like a gun at Xander's balls. Spike's mouth got busy everywhere. Sharp tongue, blunt teeth. The pain was a good pain, and the chip stayed quiet as their breathing grew loud. Vampiric sucking at his neck made Xander harder than he'd ever been. The deep, guttural growls had to be Spike's. When he palmed the muscles of Spike's back they jerked, as if he'd delivered a shock.
Spike wrestled him to the floor, though he wasn't fighting. He crouched astride Xander and began rubbing off on him. The friction was going to set a fire. There wasn't even any rental insurance yet. He tried to cry out, but Spike shoved the heel of his hand in Xander's mouth, between his teeth. Xander bit down and felt himself come helplessly.
"'S fantastic, isn't it, pet?" Spike settled back and regarded him with what it took Xander a moment to recognize as contempt. "Best you've ever had. Not that I'm up against much. Dunno how you ever got laid before I came on the scene. Look at you, you're--" His eyes searched Xander as if trying to find some insult on his flesh, and a muscle in his cheek jumped. "You're a natural-born loser. You're nothing, a nobody." His tone flattened; grew low and deliberate. "I've killed a thousand like you. Dinner on the hoof, don't need a name, just take a number. Order up. You could snuff it right now," he snapped his fingers, "and history wouldn't even blink. Just one less meat puppet taking up space."
It was impossible to look away from him. Xander understood black holes how, because he was staring into Spike's eyes. They sucked you in, held you right there on the event horizon.
He was not going to cry. Men got angry, got revenge, didn't cry. And he was going to get good and angry. Any second now. "What's the matter with you?" It felt strange, getting words out of his rough throat.
"That," Spike said, leaning down close, "is the stupidest question I've ever heard." His merciless eyes were only a few inches away now, glittering in orbit above Xander's. Beaten, hollowed out and paralyzed--that's how it felt, Xander decided, when someone turned on you.
"Evil," he whispered.
"That's right, precious." Spike propped himself on one hand and cupped the side of Xander's face with the other, thumb strong against his cheek.
"You got the chip out."
"Only wish that were the case."
Xander caught a jagged breath as this admission struck, and shoved Spike away. "Bastard! Bastard!" His voice made a keening, hitching sound that shamed him and he kicked Spike's shins, kicked out repeatedly, landing blow after blow. Spike grimaced--it was almost a bitter, twisted smile--and slumped back against his bed. Xander got up on his knees and hit him across the jaw, doing little damage. He shook out his aching fist and got hold of himself.
"Go on," Spike said in his cool, feathery way. "Do it again."
"That's all." Xander sucked one knuckle briefly, hating himself, hating Spike more. "You're not worth the pain of a beating."
"Yeah? Well..." This seemed to put Spike at a loss. "Expect you'll want to break up now."
Duh, Xander thought, whiplashed and agog at the change of tone. "What," he said aloud, "and miss out on future installments of rug burn and ego death? Because let me tell you, that was a treat. Break up. Gee, let me think." Sarcasm should have been followed immediately by a hearty yes, but as he stared in disgust at Spike's closed, chiseled expression, he realized in one bad wrong second that what he wanted wasn't that simple. It would have been that simple with Anya and maybe even with Cordelia. But he wanted Spike.
Really wanted Spike.
It wasn't just sex. It was something else, much bigger and heavier. The else was right there in the room with them, fucking Xander up.
"No," he heard himself say. "You don't get off that easy." Actually that was more like we don't get off that easy, but whatever.
Spike looked astonished, then recovered and hid it quickly. "Minute ago I wasn't worth beating. Now you want to stay hitched? Plenty of therapists in the phone book, you know. Might want to give one a ring."
"Right, and you're all about consistency, Mister Tilt-a-Whirl." Xander got up and readjusted his sweat pants, leaving Spike to brood nakedly on his rug.
"Look," Spike said after a minute. Xander looked down obediently, saw the tension in his cut-away lashes and cheekbones. Three-quarter profile, finding something on the carpet to gaze at, taking a deep breath. Still so angry he looked gutted. None of these good signs, and Xander knew he didn't want to hear what was coming. But what came wasn't anything he could have expected. "Your patchy demon paid me a visit."
"Adam?"
"Yeah. Salmagundi. Wanted to deal. Said if I did a job for him, he'd get this chip out of my head." Spike drew up a knee, rested his arm there and seemed to dwell on his bracelet. "Can't say I wasn't tempted. Different circumstances and I might have embraced him with open arms." He paused. "Well, not literally embraced, mind. The man has hygiene issues. But I'd have done anything to get this chip out." He caught Xander's eye then, heard his own words. "I will get it out," he revised fiercely. "But I can do it myself. Don't need some overgrown golem dangling promises all carrot and stick, like. Wasn't exactly feeling the trust there."
"Good call," Xander said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, careful not to get too close. "You were thinking about it though."
"Course I was." Spike's head moved slightly. He would have had to look over his shoulder to see Xander. He didn't. "Always an eye on the deal, that's me." Voice not quite self-deprecating; words falling some halfway place between honesty and lie.
It would have been so easy to call him on it. Say: Look at you, Spike, you couldn't go through with it, could you? You're as evil as a cupcake right now. You care about me. You're confused. It would have provoked him, though, and the thing was, Xander wasn't so sure how true all those things were, or if he just wanted them to be.
"Look out for number one," he said instead.
"Damn right," Spike asserted firmly, turning to glare at him, proving Xander's suspicions correct. His chip was on his shoulder tonight, and anything Xander said was going to get a rise.
"Well, there's nothing wrong with that." He touched Spike's hair, and Spike flinched away just a little. Reflex of the bad-ass. But his eyelashes were thick and heavy, and he was listening. Too bad Xander had nothing more to say. Maybe another time he'd try. Point out, hey, you can look out for number one without hurting numbers two and three and four-thousand-and-twelve. But right now--that would send Spike flying up a tree. He'd already talked himself down once. No need to go there again.
"He wanted me to get the slayer," Spike said. He stole a glance at Xander to see how he took this. "Think he's got some kind of gladiatorial scenario in mind, soldiers and demons mixing it up. Gets his jollies orchestrating that sort of thing. Has a whole evil dictator set-up back in the caves. Computers, flunkies, chair like Captain Kirk's."
Xander nodded, then said, "I'll tell Buffy."
And Spike's eyes darkened, lips compressed, but he let it go. His head was even with Xander's knee, and he turned it further and seemed to inhale. Xander allowed himself to smooth the crisp hair. When Spike rose to his knees between Xander's legs, it wasn't sudden or surprising, but it felt like a fish-hook catching his breath. Spike's hands rested on Xander's thighs; Xander's on his shoulders. Spike seemed to want to say something; there was that about-to-spill look caught on his face. But he didn't, or changed his mind. He did some other things with his mouth instead, too good to describe, did them in no hurry to Xander's chest and collarbones.
His head fell forward against Spike's, their hair tangling and brows touching. He just wanted him so badly. He hated vampires; knew the difference between right and wrong. They were kissing now, hot and wet and greedy, and that wasn't wrong. And then Spike was on the bed, lying on him, and their chests were bare and legs entwined heavily. Not wrong. Not when he could feel how badly Spike needed it; feel his hardness again, an urgent prod rucking up the material of the sweat pants separating them. His face wasn't like before. He was trying to be rough, but failing. It was good when he failed. Good when they kissed desperately like this, when Xander wound his arms around Spike's back, when Spike groaned and ground against him and lost his rhythm, and forgot he didn't need to breathe, and drew his head back sharply; when he wrenched his face to one side with his eyes closed; when he couldn't stop his hips but just kept humping wildly against Xander like a guy would, helpless. Just like a guy, not a vampire.
Sometimes when the lamp light was this low, you couldn't really tell the difference.
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