Affected

By Winter

Chapter One

What the hell am I doing here? Xander looked around the nightclub casually. Okay, trying to look casual, anyway, but just how possible was it to be all aloof and smooth when you were in a foreign country, miles from any place familiar, running out of money and no way back home? Sure, scraping up every bit of money you've got and buying a plane ticket to London seems like a good idea at the time, but afterward? Not so much.

The club's speakers pounded out the music all around him. The heavy beat and screaming guitars were soothing, in a way – familiar. London was the unquestionable home of punk, kind of like Mecca for anyone who listend to Xander's kind of music. The same sound that shook the walls at his house, the same words that Xander shouted in his basement, thousands of miles from here, were throbbing through this club, right now. So it, at least, was familiar.

Not like Sunnydale. There, Xander could barely get away with a Ramones t-shirt and ripped jeans. He tried chain bracelets once, but all he got for his trouble was laughed at. Nobody took punk seriously there... or maybe it was just that nobody took Xander seriously there. He dropped his eyes to the floor of the club, wondering if anyone could tell that tonight was the first time he'd worn eyeliner outside of his house. The black smudges around his eyes were all right, he thought. He'd practiced. He looked back up, trying to seem like he did this all the time, the wearing chains for jewelry and the clubbing way late on a school night. The dance floor was full of bodies and color, spiked hair and metal, everyone thrashing and shouting and grinding against each other, like the kind of place you could lose yourself, so Xander shrugged the thoughts of Sunnydale out of his head and headed straight for it.

He wasn't sure he knew how to dance, exactly, but this really looked more like fighting with a beat, and that he could do. He discovered it was easy, right away, to empty his mind in the pushing and shoving. It wasn't graceful, or polite, or pretty, you just threw in and thrashed. Nameless hips and heads and fists slammed against him, jostling him, hurting a little, but in a way that brought blood and adrenaline rushing through him, made him flushed and ready, for what? He didn't know. But everyone was screaming and chanting along with the songs on the speakers, and Xander chanted along with them.

Then the lights went out, and the crowd stopped thrashing and screamed. Xander was looking around in the dark, trying to see anything, when the lights came up on a stage. He hadn't even noticed it when he came on the floor, but he'd apparently managed to dance his way right in front of it. The instruments were all there, shining chrome and worn leather straps, but the band was nowhere in sight. All around him, people were staring at the stage, screaming their heads off. They shoved fists and fingers in the air, salutes and signs, chains and leather cuffs. The band members came onto the stage, the drummer, bassist and rhythm guitar, picking up their instruments and leering at the cround, flashing their symbols back at them and shouting just as loud as they. Sticks were picked up, guitars strapped on, a seat was taken. The bassist leaned into his mic. “Oi! Is there anybody out there?”

The crowd surged and hollered, clapping and stomping, making noise. Xander stomped and hollered with them.

“Fuck you! I asked if you were fuckin' OUT THERE!”

The noise, if possible, got louder. Xander felt his throat hurting as he screamed.

“Right! Yeah!” He drove his fist toward the crowd, then brought it down on his guitar, the chord way too loud on the speakers, but good. Then the drummer counted them in, and the three tore into a song. It was a throbbing, pounding base that almost made your hips move, and the brutal melody curled your lip, made you angry, closed your eyes. Xander had never seen live punk before, but if it was all half as good as this, he couldn't see why any other music existed. He danced with the crowd, pushing against them, a wild grin spreading over his face. A couple near him grinned back and threw themselves against him. He laughed and pushed them, nearly knocking them over, and some others got into the fun. For the first time in a long while, he felt like he belonged, happy. And then, as the band held a single screeching chord, the lights went out again. Xander screamed along with the crowd, turning toward the stage.

His eyes just so happened to be looking in just the right place when the lights came up again. There, on the stage, looking out over the audience with a smirk and a shining black guitar, was a fucking god. Big black combat boots. Torn, frayed jeans, with ink all over. Bare skin beneath. Black shirt, sleeves ripped off, covered in safety pins, Muscular arms and wrists cuffed in leather and metal, strong fingers poised over the strings of the guitar, a big silver ring around his thumb. Chains around his neck, with a little lock on one of them. Strong jaw, eyeliner, eyebrow ring. Cheekbones that could cut glass. And he was crowned, crowned, with a spiked head of platinum blond hair. His hips were pressed against his guitar, aggressive, and his lips almost touched his mic as he opened his mouth to sing.

The band came back in, backing him up, and as his hand came down on his guitar strings, his voice poured out of the speakers. It was like what would happen if you took white silk and spilled it over gravel. It was tearing, full of rage and rebellion, and there was also something beautiful in it. He was so caught up in the singer he forgot to dance.


Chapter Two

Everything melted away when Spike was on stage. Tension, stress, agents and contracts, the lot of them buggered off and he could finally breathe. He finished the song with a flourish, and the crowd screamed at him. He threw back his head, felt the heat of the stage lights on his face, let the cacophany bathe him, cleanse him. He smiled, lifted his head and scanned tonight's front row. Immediately, his eyes were drawn to one figure, the only one not pushing forward, just standing there, staring at him with lips slightly open, hands loose at his sides. He was absolutely, positively, bloody fucking gorgeous. Spike let his eyes rove over the boy, a smirk twisting his lips, taking him in. He let his lips part, let the glint of his tongue stud wink at the boy, then grinned wide and crashed into the next song.

He kept his eyes right on the figure in the front row, glued to him, making sure he knew Spike was aware of him, checking him out, speaking sex with every move. Hips ground against the back of the guitar, lips grazing the mic, bedroom eyes and sneer firmly on lips. The boy didn't move, didn't twitch, just stood there, looking stunned and lucious, following Spike's moves with his eyes.

Thirty minutes later, as the band ended their first set, Spike figured he had his choice for the night all picked out, right and proper. First few songs, the boy'd stood staring at him, but then Spike said to his bandmates, “fuck the set list, lads,” and led into one of their most vicious, cocky songs, and the boy had to dance. He'd been beautiful, cheeks all rosy and hair damp with sweat, brand-new silver chains sparkling. Seventeen if he was a day. He was fresh, Spike thought, not one of these jaded old bastards that prowled the bars trying to pick up whatever looked pretty. Spike smiled ruefully at that thought – not like him. As he went backstage, he caught the boy looking at him again, and flashed him the killer grin that never failed to make 'em weak in the knees.

When he'd done tuning and chatting with the band about the next set, Spike ducked out the black curtain and made for the bar. He scanned the people at it, but no sign of the boy. A slight frown on his face, he looked around the rest of the bar, and only barely caught sight of his quarry, headed for the door. Spike's long strides took him straight for the boy, and he had the look of a snagged rabbit when Spike caught him by the arm. “Not leaving, are you, pet?”

“Me?” he squeaked. Then, clearing his throat and going for a more manly tone, he said, “Yeah, I was just... I thought I'd, y'know... get outta here.” Spike pegged the accent straightaway – an American. Closer, he could see him better – shirt and slacks and all were brand new, probably from some store close by. New minted and trying to look cool. And he was definitely too young, besides.

How could Spike be expected to resist?

He leveled the Grin at him again and slid his eyes up and down the boy's solid frame. “This your first time in a punk bar, love? 'Cause the night's just getting started for most of us. Should stick around, maybe learn a thing or two, yeah?” He let the tip of his tongue slip through his lips, just a little, feeling the barbell click against his front teeth.

The boy blushed. Actually blushed. God, he was just fucking edible. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess it's a little early. I was just kidding about leaving, anyway.” He winced, even he understood how much of a ponce he sounded.

Spike laughed. “Good. Name's Spike.” Spike stuck out his hand.

The boy, still blushing, replied, “Xander. I loved your set, you guys were great.” He took Spike's hand, shook it enthusiastically. Little eager, but that wasn't bad. Good grip.

Spike raised his eyebrow, devil in his eyes. Let his fingers slide slowly along the boy's palm as he let go of the handshake. “You like that, pet, you should see me in the shower.” And he sauntered off to the bar for his Jack & coke, leaving the boy standing there stunned, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, with just that mental image for company.


Chapter Three

The crowd howled as the band left the stage, clapping and stomping. The Clash came up on the speakers, encouraging people to go to the bar and get more drinks. As they melted off the dance floor into the shadowed corners, Xander drifted to the bar; legs tired from dancing all night, his voice scratchy from the screaming and just a little drunk off the cocktails that had been steadily coming for him from the bar. When he'd protested that he hadn't ordered, the bartender just pointed at the stage and yelled “on him”. The punk rocker had flung no more than a casual glance at Xander since he'd effectively nailed Xander's feet to the floor earlier, and now the boy wasn't sure what to think.

He wandered over to the bar, listened to some girls talking about the band and sipped his drink. The bartender brought him another, but before he could touch it, a big musclebound gorilla in a black t-shirt came over and tapped him on the shoulder. “You. You wanna come backstage? Spike wants to meet you.”

“Yeah, sure, okay.” Xander followed the roadie, trying not to let his nervousness show. Trying to make it seem like he hadn't been waiting to see if something like this could possibly happen, like he got invited backstage by the band all the time. The roadie took him back through the black curtain, and Xander tripped once over the black cables all over the floor. “Sorry. You know, you should really pin those together, because, honestly, you gotta have accidents all the time and the insurance... alone...” He trailed off as he realized the guy was staring. “Sorry. Too much talking.” The roadie snorted and walked off, further into the labyrinth of gear and cables and narrow brick corridors.

It was tough to keep up with him, but when the they finally reached the green door with the fading silver star peeling off it, Xander was still with him, if a little out of breath. The guy pointed to the door, then turned around and took off, leaving Xander standing there, hand frozen halfway to the doorknob. He honestly had no idea what he was doing. If his parents knew he was here... he stopped, thought about it. They might come and haul him home, bitching at each other and at him, and in a week they'd forget it ever happened. Or they might just tell him to call now and again. Or they just might not give a shit. Xander set his jaw. Fuck them, he thought, and pushed open the door.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected to find, but it sure as hell wasn't this – the guy, Spike, was standing facing him, the only one in the small green room. He was glistening, hair wet, droplets sliding down his chest. He was very pale and powerfully built; it was easy to see, bare-chested as he was. And he was doing up the buttons on a pair of leather pants.

He paused, fingers at his fly, and looked up at Xander through dark lashes. “Oh. There you are. Wasn't expectin' you so soon. Xander, was it?”

“Yeah, Xander Harris, that's me,” he stumbled, embarassed already. “You guys were amazing, really. I mean, I love punk music, but I've never been to a live show before.” Spike finished doing up his leathers and pulled a plain black t-shirt over his head. “But, hey, if I'd ever wondered if live was as good as the real thing, put me down for 'Extremely Convinced', because that was really, really good. You kind of remind me of the Ramones in the bridges, and the Clash on some of the instrumental solos.” Spike shrugged on a studded leather jacket and stuffed his wallet and some keys into his pockets. “Of course, there are some modern influences in your instrumentation, and I think it's great that you have that classic format, you know, with your bassist and rhythm and drummer and you, and did I mention that the harmony was actually incredible? I hadn't expected that, and again, I'm rambling.”

Spike grabbed a pair of motorcycle helmets from the dressing table and shoved one into Xander's hands. “Yeah. But don't worry. I'm not payin' attention.” He smiled again, looking like a rock star, and for a moment, Xander couldn't move, could only stand there hugging the helmet and staring. Pretty people make Xander... something, something.

Then Spike rolled his eyes, still smiling, took Xander by the shoulder of his jacket, pulled him bodily through the room to the back, and shouldered open the fire door. The smell of rain, heavy on the warm summer air, hit them immedately, and Xander could hear the hiss of a heavy downpour outside. Spike cursed and let go of Xander, ran out the door and down the iron grate stairs to the shining Harley parked at the foot of them. He pulled a towel out of one of the saddlebags and scrubbed it over the leather of the seat, stuffed it back in and climbed on. Xander hovered in the doorway. “Where are we going?”

“Out of the bloody rain! Come on!” Xander looked at Spike. He sat on his motorcycle, looking at Xander expectantly, waiting for him. Okay, Xand-man, time for a split second decision. Xander the Loser From Sunnydale forever, or do something possibly a little bit dangerous.

Moving before that thought even finished, running down the stairs, shoving the helmet on his head as he went. Spike flashed him that grin before pulling his own helmet on and starting up the growling engine. Xander'd never been on a motorcycle before and was thus unprepared for the shivering tingle that shot through his thighs, straight up his spine and into his brain. Spike revved the bike, sending that tingle through Xander all over again. Then he grabbed Xander's wrists, pulled them forward to clasp around his waist, and yelled “Hold on!” as they shot out of the alley.


Chapter Four

Spike tore around the corners and leaned into the turns as the streetlights flashed by them. The boy clearly had never ridden a bike before, but that was fine by Spike, because ever since the first few blocks, he'd been plastered to Spike's back like he were painted on, holding on so tight there'd be bruises later. He was babbling something back there, though Spike couldn't hear him through the helmet. Unfortunate tendancy to talk, that one. Spike grinned. Have to do something about that. He gunned the motor again and sped up, thoughts of other uses for Xander's mouth filling his mind. Gloried in the feeling of the boy at his back, the warm rain on his shoulders and the rumbling beast beneath him as the darkened London streets sped by.

He pulled into his garage, cut the engine. The boy scrambled off, wrenched the helmet from his head and tried to put some distance between himself and the bike, but before he took two steps his knees gave underneath him. Spike had been expecting that, and caught him before he hit the ground. Suddenly, the air seemed to freeze. Spike, still seated on the bike, strong arms wrapped around Xander's torso. Xander, holding Spike's wrist and the helmet, leaning against the bike, back pressed to Spike's leg, breathing heavily, like he'd just run a race. The moment stretched, and Spike closed his eyes, feeling the heat coming from the boy, like the first licks of flame at the base of a pile of deadwood. And then, the boy dropped the helmet.

There was a loud crack as it hit the ground, and more as it bounced away, and the boy flew into action, going after it. Spike let him go and kicked the stand, casually swung his leg around and stood. The boy caught up to the helmet and picked it up, frantically dusting it off and babbling an apology in his crisp American accent. Shaking his head and smiling a little, Spike walked across the large garage, past the other tenants' cars, and up the little set of stairs that went to the lift of the old, converted townhouse. He pushed the button and turned to the boy, who was still talking.

“Don't mind that thing,” Spike interrupted, “I've got a dozen. People're always droppin 'em for some reason. Come on, then, Xander, keep up.” The boy's wide eyes fixed on Spike, and he nodded once, then licked his lips and came up the steps just as the lift arrived. Spike stepped in and thumbed the button for the third floor, the boy following behind.

“You're American,” Spike said, as the lift slowly pulled them skyward.

“Yeah. California.”

“L.A.?”

“No, um, a little town called Sunnydale, just up the coast. It's fantastic, like Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, except without the wealth or notoriety.”

“Ah.” The lift ground to a halt, and Spike pushed the grates open, pulling his keys from his pocket.

“This your house?”

“Yeah. My building, too, which means that no-one gets to complain about the noise.” He sent a smoldering look over his shoulder at Xander that had melted lesser men. The boy missed it entirely.

“So you practice here, huh? Must be nice. I get told to turn it down at my house... by the other tenants, I mean.”

Spike shook his head again. Still livin' with his parents, no less. He unlocked his door and flung it open, tossing his keys on a table. Pulled off his jacket, tossed it on a hook by the door. “Just put your stuff anywhere.”

When he got back from the kitchen with a bottle of water and a glass of scotch, he found the boy standing at the end of the hall, dripping water onto the floor, looking at his flat like it were on fucking fire. Spike snuck a peek, just your average flat, maybe a bit nicer than some. Nothing untoward lying about, nothing on fire that he could see. “What? Spot a bit of dust, you'll have to bloody live with it...”

“No, no, it's just...” There was awe in that voice, and Spike began to suss out what all that adorable tentativeness and naivety meant. He looked at the boy's open mouth, wide eyes. Not just new to this. Brand new. Never-done-this-before new. Probably-doesn't-even-know-what-he's-here-for new. Bloody hell. Spike considered. He liked his men wanting, needing him. Wasn't one to fuck about with someone who didn't know what he wanted. But all the same, the boy had stuck around all night and come to the flat of a complete stranger, so maybe there was something there. Maybe Spike had it wrong; boy couldn't be that naïve, could he?

Some part of his brain reminded him that he was never wrong about things like that, and that his kink for the sweet and innocent ones was probably causing some serious errors in judgment. With the ease and grace borne of years of practice, Spike told that part of his brain to fuck right off, and focused all his attention on the boy, who was now prattling on about the billiards table.

Billiards was one of Spike's favorite games. He'd been playing in low-rent dives since he was little more than a child, and he was very, very good. There was something about the feel of it – cool cue sliding between your fingers, click of the balls as they rolled smoothly over the table, someone behind you, showing you the angles,guiding your hand, pressing up against your back and ass...

“Fancy a game, pet?”

“Sure! I can promise much entertainment, but I warn you: I'm second only to my drunk uncle Rory in spatial relations and hand-eye co-ordination. Your chances are pretty good.” Xander laid the helmet and his jacket by the end of the hall and walked over to the pool table.


Chapter Five

Spike scowled as the 12 sunk in the corner. Xander stood, pool cue in hand, grinning. “Your turn, hot shot punk rocker... guy.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Spike picked up a shot glass of whatever it was they were drinking from a nearby table and slammed it back. Xander didn't know much about what was in the glass beyond that it tasted like hell and had built a very pleasant fire in his stomach.

At the start, the bet had been that they would take turns at the table, and whoever sunk the lesser amount of balls had to take a shot. They'd been pretty close so far, but the number of balls they'd been sinking had gotten lower and lower the more they drank, and Xander'd just won by sinking two in a row. He was warm, now, and tingling. And a little dizzy.

He'd drank before, but only at the ever-present Sunnydale bush parties. They were just kids, and the booze they had was always terrible, so the drunk part never lasted nearly so long as the nauseated badness part, and even being drunk on that stuff wasn't great. But when Spike had pulled the nondescript bottle from his cabinet and asked if Xander wanted to make it more interesting, he figured he probably ought to. It was a punk thing, definitely, and the last thing he wanted to seem was too young, or inexperienced. Because then, maybe Spike would decide he wasn't cool enough to hang out with, and kick him out. And then not only would he have fucked up his chance to hang out with a cool musician in his totally grown up apartment, but he'd be on the street and had no place to go. A bunch of armed, paranoid junkies for roomies were not so good for the sleeping, and that was what they had at the only hotel he could afford, so Xander'd checked out.

Thoughts of that place while drunk were making his head hurt, though, so he looked up at the blond Brit, who was still scowling, and grinned. He turned to the table and lined up his next shot. He missed it, and it was Spike's turn to grin. “Yeah! Give it over, then.” He motioned with his hand, c'mere. Xander walked over and handed him the cue, feeling the fingers brush over his skin, making it heat a little. He wondered what was in the bottle. Man, this being drunk thing, this is not sucking. Music was playing on Spike's stereo, and Xander focused on it, nodded his head in time.

Spike studied the table, wearing a determined look. He leaned over, concentrated, and took a shot that looked perfectly normal, but the cue ball actually rolled in a half-circle around the table to hit a ball on the far side. He stood up grinning, and Xander stared, awed. “Hey, how'd you do that?”

“Come over here and I'll show you.” Xander ran around the table and took the cue. Spike put a hand on his back and pushed him down, and he lined up. He saw Spike's hand, with black polish on his nails (should I be polishing my nails? Do I look like a dumb kid who doesn't know about punk basics like nail polish?) pick up the cue ball and set it down where it was. Then Spike leaned in behind him, mouth close to his ear, and thought vanished from Xander's mind.

Every sense became hyper-aware, and Xander wondered if this was some bizarre side effect of real alcohol. Xander could feel heat behind him, Spike's chest along his back. Spike's index finger pointed as he spoke low, hot breath in Xander's ear. His voice low and throaty, his accent strong, seemed way too loud, drowning out the music. “See, you want to hit it just there, to make it spin. Without the spin, it won't turn about when it gets there.” Xander felt Spike's other hand run along the arm Xander held the cue with, taking hold of the stick just behind Xander's own hand. Spike pushed the cue back and forth a few times, gently. “Very gently, now. Go too fast, and you're buggered.”

Xander blinked a few times at that. Stupid imagery-producing English slang. The tingles increased a little, prickling over his arms and down his legs, and Xander became a little worried. Listen, brain, that imagery makes shudders and revulsion! Got it? No more shivery, tingling things. I am the boss of me.

The Brit at his back lifted away, and Xander felt the cool air wash over him, making him shiver a little. For a crazy moment, he wanted the heat back. He pushed that from his mind with another sharp comment to his brain and shifted a little, trying to pay attention, to steady himself for the shot. He was pulling back his cue when he heard Spike, still behind him, say, “Wait.” Then the heat was back, this time at his hips, where strong hands took hold of him and pulled backward. “You need to be lower, pet, or you won't see it right.” Xander tried to shift back, the way Spike wanted, and felt heat ripple through him as his ass pressed directly into Spike's crotch.

Xander jumped and pulled away, mortified. “Sorry! Oh, my God, I, I didn't mean...”

Spike snorted and slapped a hand lightly against Xander's shoulder. “No worries, mate. Now, just concentrate.”

Xander breathed again. He focused on the game, studiously ignoring the heat still pulsing through him, the heavy swell in his jeans, the memory of Spike's slippery, leather-covered hips (that could not have been what I think it was) pressed against him.


Chapter Six

Not five minutes later, Spike threw the pool cue down on the table, scattering balls. “Hey,” the boy objected, “it's... um... someone's turn...”

“Bugger it. 'S turned boring, and I'm plenty drunk enough.” Spike strode over to his couch and sprawled down on it, kicking one foot over the arm. “Come on.”

Xander shrugged amiably, and made his way to the armchair. There he flopped onto it and lifted one of his hands to the light, studying it with his eyebrows furrowed, lips slightly apart. Boy was fucking beautiful, no doubt. Images kept dancing through Spike's head, those lips wrapped around his cock, fingers digging into his hips, the boy's own cock hungry and shivering, begging for a touch. But, he repeated to himself for the umpteenth time, I am a patient man, I will not rush this, and scare him off. I will wait for the proper time, I will give it foreplay and light touches, and when he's ready, I will fuck him straight into the bloody floor.

“My fingernails aren't painted.”

“What?” Spike's train of thought derailed as he dragged his eyes from the boy's mouth to his eyes. Where the hell had that come from?

Xander got off his armchair and went to Spike's couch, dropped to his knees beside it. Bloody hell. Took Spike's hand. Bloody buggering hell! Held Spike's own hand up so Spike could see it, and said, “Your fingernails are painted. Punks need black nail polish, don't they? But I don't have it.” Held up his own hand, the drunken fool, to show Spike the naked nails. Spike let a breath out, slowly. All right. That was, sadly, not the excuse I was looking for. Fucking leathers don't hide a damn thing. Spike shifted so the evidence of the effect that Xander on his knees had on him was not quite so evident. Bloody nail polish's as good an excuse as any other, so why not play along?

“Well, I simply won't have an improperly decorated punk in my house.” Spike stood up, twined the fingers of the hand Xander held through Xander's own, and pulled him toward the french doors that led to his bedroom. “Off to the pisser with us, and find you some nice black lacquer to make you a real punk boy. I'll paint you myself.”

Xander laughed, followed along. “Cool.” He was flushed with the scotch, and Spike could feel heat glowing off him, radiant. For just a moment, he marvelled at how innocent the boy really was. Allowed himself to imagine that tomorrow morning might be something other than rage at being queer, screaming and stomping off, and all that. Or, more likely, silence and awkwardness until Spike just showed him the door.

That part of his mind that always knew these things warned him, told him he was definitely right about this. Pointless to fantasize. Learned your bloody lesson, haven't you, William? And, because he always did, Spike listened to that. So he shrugged silly fantasies out of his mind and focused on the here and now, on the warm, willing body behind him and how to get it to become more willing yet. Spike was a fucking expert at getting what he wanted. And he wanted Xander.

Spike flung open the doors one-handed and flicked on the light, which shone off the rosewood and ebony four-poster just as it was meant to, brawny and imposing against the wall. Xander hesitated, wide eyes fixed on the bed, but Spike just tugged him along, past the bed, to a door on the right. “'S through here, pet.” Xander averted his eyes from the giant presence and followed Spike into the king size washroom. Spike tugged him through the door, and before he had a chance to look around, he threw his arms around Xander's waist and lifted him from the floor to set him on the counter.

The boy grunted in surprise, but laughed. “I could have done that, you know.”

“No way, you're drunk. Could've fallen off and cracked your skull. Can't be held responsible, you know.”

“Pshh. I defy you to find a drunker person in this bathroom than you.”

“Am not. Or... something. Now, shut it while I find the stuff.” Spike started pulling open drawers, and ended up at the drawer right between Xander's legs. He stayed there a moment longer than really necessary, head close to Xander's stomach, scent of sweat and boy and some sweet liquor in his nose, before fishing the nail polish out triumphantly. “There we are! Now, hold out your hand.” The boy did so. Spike twisted the brush from the bottle and brandished it at the boy. “Now. Do. Not. Move. This is very careful business, and you can't so much as twitch, right?” Xander nodded solemnly. “Good.” And Spike took Xander by the hand, dipped his brush and carefully painted one nail.


Chapter Seven

Xander stared at his hand. The black nail polish sparkled at the tips, and it didn't even look like his hand, anymore. Which, really, made sense, considering that it was tingling like someone had hooked it to an electric socket, and Xander's own hand wouldn't be tingly right now. Spike had painted both sets of fingernails, and the punk rocker had carefully held each finger, breathing over them to dry them, and looking into Xander's eyes while he did it, sending that weird, possibly-alcohol-induced heat racing through Xander's body. Thinking about it now, Xander was very glad he was seated on the countertop, because he was pretty sure his knees wouldn't hold him if he tried to stand. And also? They were loose jeans when Xander put them on this morning, but they weren't now, and Xander was fervently hoping that all that was to do with the fact that he was seventeen and hormones and touching and the lots and lots of alcohol, which he really didn't think had been enough to cause this.

Spike tossed the bottle in the drawer. “Come on down, then, pet. But be careful, cause you can't touch anything with those hands 'till they dry.” Xander nodded and carefully eased himself down. Spike was already on his way back into the bedroom, and Xander followed, waving his hands to dry his nails, not even bothering to justify it as punk behavior, not girly. He saw Spike's boot receding through the black French doors as he emerged into the bedroom, and stopped for a moment, looking around the enormous room. There was that monster of a bed in the middle, of course, and a bunch of wooden drawers and cabinets scattered around the walls. The most impressive part, though, was the floor-to-ceiling bay windows opposite the washroom, the floor beneath them covered in pillows. For a moment, Xander pictured Spike lying amongst them, moonlight painting his bare skin silver, eyes closed, ringed fingers drifting down his stomach...

Xander blinked once and squinted his eyes shut against the image, pressing a hand to his forehead. Wrong, wrong thoughts. Bad, not of the good, alcohol-hormone-induced thoughts.

“Got the cure for what ails, pet.” Spike's clipped cockney came from the french doors, and Xander looked up to find the Brit walking toward him, their half-full bottle and a shot glass dangling from his fingers. His eyes were lazy, half-closed, bedroom eyes. Because we're in a bedroom. Not because it's sexy. Not that it's sexy! Oh, God...

Spike pulled the cork from the bottle with his teeth, poured some golden liquor into the glass, recorked the bottle and tossed it to the bed, where it landed with a wet little sloshy sound. Xander's eyes followed the bottle, watching it bounce softly on the mattress, then swung his gaze around to Spike, who was still holding the shot and looking at him with concern. “All right, mate?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine, just... thinking about stuff.”

The concern evaporated. “Well, that's enough of that, then. Now, since you can't hold a shot, fingernails wet and all, I'll give this one to you myself.” Spike walked forward, slowly, until he was right in front of Xander. He crooked his finger, set it under Xander's chin, and pushed, just a little. “Tilt your head back,” he said softly, and Xander swallowed, and obeyed. “That's it. Now, open up.” Xander felt the cool shot glass nudging at his bottom lip, and again, he shivered, without really knowing why. Another breath, and he opened his mouth.

The amber liquid poured into his mouth, suddenly, surprisingly, and Xander gulped most of it down, only a lone trickle escaping one side of his mouth and running down his neck. Quickly, he pulled his head back up, moving his hand toward his neck, just in time to see Spike's blond head dip down toward him, and instantly his knees turned from solid bone and muscle into strawberry Jello as he felt Spike's warm tongue catch the drip at his collarbone and drag up his neck, gathering the alcohol in soft, hot strokes. His hand found itself on Spike's bare arm, and he felt Spike's hand, with its black nails, snake around his waist.

Xander's breathing sped up, coming hard and fast as Spike's tongue licked slowly over his jaw and towards his mouth, but he couldn't move, couldn't speak. Just the tip of the tongue, now, fluttering ever so faintly, inching toward his mouth, and it was impossible, and wrong, and stupid, and so, so good...

Xander's hand tightened on Spike's arm, his other hand swiftly coming up to match it on Spike's other side, as he turned his face toward that tongue and sucked it into his mouth. Dimly, his mind rebelled, supposed to turn away, or punch him, or something, but all Xander could feel was the pounding of the blood in his veins, the rush of heat, the heaviness in his eyes and lips and cock, and the lazy sweep of liquor through his body. Spike's tongue in his mouth, and hands around his waist, pulling his hips in, grinding against him, against his instantly rock-hard erection, inviting and oh, God, so hot. They were kissing, now, in earnest, Spike's mouth soft and hot, hot, everything about this was like standing inside a bonfire. He could feel Spike's teeth biting at his lips, tongue sweeping along his lips, sucking and some kind of growling, like a big cat, vibrating against his lips and tongue, sending little pulses straight to his cock.

He almost stumbled as Spike took a step, pulling Xander with him, and it faintly registered that Spike was heading for the bed. He tore his mouth away, gasped, “Wait, Spike, wait...”

The white silk had been ripped from Spike's voice, and it was all gravel now, low and rumbling and faintly dirty, but in an incredibly sexy way, and he was breathing just as hard as Xander. “No, pet, no waiting.” He brushed his lips over Xander's, lightly, just once, tingling. “Nothing wrong with it.” Again, the lightest of kisses. A hand trailing up his thigh, and Xander's spine and shoulders and cock immediately stiffened, so tense, all at once. He could hear the grin in Spike's voice. “Feels good, dunnit?” That tongue again, licking his neck, oh, God, oh, God... “It can feel better, love.” And the hand touching his thigh spread out, and when the thumb brushed the head of his cock through his jeans, he jumped like he'd been touched by a live wire. Xander's eyes snapped wide open, and he looked at Spike through lust-filled eyes, shoved the arrogant punk rocker back onto his own bed, climbed on top of him and fused their mouths together.


Chapter Eight

I knew it! Spike exulted. I saw him at the club, saw him dancing, moving, god, yes, I knew he'd be like this. The boy was liquid pleasure over him, cradled between Spike's legs, and what a surprise that was, to be pushed back and covered, the boy mashing his sweet lips down on Spike's, until Spike had taken him by the head and pulled back, just a little, nibbling at the corners of his mouth, brushing his lips over, plying tongue and teeth, showing the boy, teaching him about pressure and heat. It hadn't taken long for him to suss it out, and now his big hands were fisting in Spike's shirt as they kissed, and Spike could feel the boy's hard length pressing down into him. He could hear the safety pins ripping fabric. He smiled a little as he realized the bloody nail polish was ruined.

Spike pulled him back then, kissing him very gently, lightest of touches. Drew his fingertips over the boy's back, gentling him, calming him. The fists in his shirt unclenched, opened, and Spike felt the boy relax, go buttery and soft in his arms. That's right, pet.

No notice as he moved, one lightning motion. Grabbed Xander's wrists, hooked a heel into the bed frame and pushed, sending himself and the boy rolling over, so Xander was beneath him. Brought his arms up, pinned them above his head by the wrists he still held. Boy looking up at him, an electric current of fear and lust sparking deep in his eyes. Spike gave him the melting look again, eyes glazed with passion, and this time, the boy caught it full blast. Fear receded, and the boy pushed up, up, up with his hips, arching his head back, lips falling open, keeping his eyes glued to Spike's. God, if that's not the most beautiful fucking thing I've ever seen, I don't know what is. As he felt Xander grind against him, the boy let out a breathy little gasp, thick eyelashes falling against his cheeks. Oh. That was the most beautiful thing ever.

Spike's growl filled the room as he sat up, straddled atop the boy, fingers digging at the boy's t-shirt tucked into his waistband. Spike pushed it up to the boy's chin, revealing a cut, built, fully lickable torso. “Yeah...” He leaned down and bit gently at the boy's belly and ribs, feeling the black hairs tickle his nose and lips. The boy made sweet little whimpering sounds as Spike worked his way up, every one traveling directly from Spike's ears to his cock.

Needing to taste those sounds, Spike crawled up Xander's chest, latching onto his lips and pinching both nipples between his fingers. Xander gasped straight into Spike's mouth, arching his back, and Spike shivered, licking at the boy's mouth. Rolling the little nubs between his fingers made Xander moan, really moan, low and deep, and Spike dragged the stud in his tongue up the side of Xander's neck, feeling the moan through the metal.

He abruptly sat up, sliding down Xander's body a little, leaving the boy's cock to thrust at empty air. “Fuck me, boy. Do you know what you're doing to me?” He felt the boy's hands come to his sides, clutching at the pins and fabric there as he twisted and moaned, Spike's fingers still at his nipples, working them. “So hot for you, Xander. Feel my skin on fire for you, I can still taste you on my tongue.” Spike trailed the fingertips of one hand down Xander's torso, tickling the little trail of hair lower and lower. “Know what I'll do to you? Know how I'll lick up and down you, swirl my tongue around you, pull and suck at you, fuck, boy...” And his hand closed over the throbbing cock, squeezing gently.

Xander keened, once, high, then nothing, just tiny panting breaths, mouth open, eyes wide, staring at nothing, fixated on the hand dragging over his cock, cupping his balls through his jeans. Spike watched him, gauging his readiness, and when it seemed he couldn't take any more, Spike pulled his hands from the boy's body, left him heaving and shivering on the bed.

This was where the boy could calm down, know what he was turning down if here were going to, or choose to keep going. So far, not a single boy Spike had brought home had chosen to stop. Could stop, really, but all the same, it was important to give the choice. Avoid nastiness later on, that way. He thought of Xander screaming at him, hating him, sharp, ugly sunlight cutting across his face. Yeah. Definitely time to make sure of that.

As Xander fought to regain his breath, Spike found those chocolate eyes coming around to look at him, look over him. They dragged down his torso, settled on his cock, which throbbed, boy looking at it, looking hungry. Mmm, yeah, right here for you, baby. Then they flashed up to lock on Spike's own eyes, and Spike was suddenly, horribly terrified, to see tears slipping down those beautiful cheeks.


Chapter Ten

“What... what did I do?” Xander scrambled up from his prone position, reaching for Spike, frantic, skating his hands over his shoulders and chest, too fast, too light. “Tell me, and I'll stop...”

Spike caught his hands, stilled them. “What?” His voice was strained, eyes burning into Xander's own, so intense that Xander had to turn away.

“I shouldn't be here anyway... I'm not gay, and this isn't... I've never...” Xander's eyes looked anywhere but Spike, and he tried to move his hands, but Spike held them fast. Xander's voice dropped to a whisper. “You don't want a...” and the last word came out a mumble, he couldn't even form the syllables. What a coward. I've fucked up whatever the hell it is I'm doing here, and I can't even say why out loud.

Spike took him by the chin, turned his face up so he had to meet Spike's gaze. “I don't want a what?”

Xander twisted out of his grasp, indignant, almost shouting. “A virgin, okay? I'm a virgin. Happy?” He pushed at Spike's shoulder, trying to get the punk rocker off him. Had to get out of this place, away from this terrible embarrassment, before Spike started laughing, or worse. His cheeks burned with shame. He had to leave, shoved at the body that had only just been touching him, heating him, had to leave even though he had no place to go but back to that fucking hotel with it's junkies and their knives and hollow eyes. More tears spilled over his lashes, thinking of going back to that place.

But Spike wouldn't budge, took him by the shoulders and shoved him backward, making him lie down again. Humiliated and angry, Xander stared at the blond, into his eyes, blue like ice. “What? What do you want? I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry if I led you on, or... or made you think I was something I'm not. I'm not a punk, I'm not a supersexed dynamo of gayness. I'm not even old enough to be in the damn bar! Just let me go, I'll go...”

Spike's voice growling, tearing out of his throat, furious, authoritative and not at all tolerant of any disagreeing. “You will not!” Xander froze. Index finger. Black nail polish. Right in his face. “You will stay right where you are, you will not move, and you will let me think. Right?” Xander nodded miserably. “Right,” said Spike, nodding, taking his finger away. Spike looked like someone had just punched him in the face for bringing them pancakes. Pissed off, but still completely stunned about the whole thing. Deep in his mind, some part of him found that kinda funny.

Still straddling his hips, Spike brought his hand to his mouth, bit his knuckle, thinking. Xander wondered if he was deciding whether to kick him out or call the cops. Or, y'know, bobbies, or whatever. He let his head fall to one side, tears drying, looking at the quilt on the bed. Black, with embroidery. Nice. He sniffed, concentrating on that quilt, not thinking of the terrible pain in his chest, of feeling lost or alone, of being the unwanted, awkward, fool kid he was. Quilt. Black, with embroidery.

Then he felt Spike move, getting off him. He felt the immediate cold where warm Spike had been, felt his throat tighten. His eyes started to sting, and he blinked the tears away as he tried to get up. God, I've got to get out of here...

Instantly, he felt a hand in the center of his chest, shoving him back to the mattress. “Stay. There.”

He laid there, where Spike had put him, lips pressed together, determined not to feel, not to think of anything. “God, I wouldn't steal anything, y'know. You don't have to worry.”

“Just... just stay there.” Spike sounded exasperated, and a little sad. Weird. “Please? Just stay.” There was asking in that, despite the fact that he sounded like he was talking to a dog. Xander heard him hesitate, make sure Xander stayed where he was put, and then his footsteps as he walked out the French doors and into the living room.

Xander thought it over, lying on the bed as Spike had left him. Maybe the guy wouldn't call the cops after all. That was good of him. Xander was grateful for that, at least. Be the first good break he'd had in a while. Aside from meeting Spike, of course.

For the first time, he let himself think back over what he'd just done. Kissing, touching, licking, getting hot and bothered over another man. Any other time, he might have cringed, thinking of it. Might have freaked, ran or hid or maybe hit the guy. Now? Miles from home, miles from anyone who knew him, miles from who he used to be and what he had to do... all that mattered was that Xander had wanted it, and it felt good, and yeah, maybe it was weird, but he'd seen his share of weird, and this didn't hurt anyone. Which made it better than some people's fucking habits. So he'd taken it, because it was comforting and felt like love, and he needed that. Big time, fluffy blanket, Grandma's cookies and ice cream love. And he wasn't sorry. Not one fucking bit.

But he didn't want to have been bad at it. He still didn't know what he'd done to make Spike stop, and he knew he could fix it if only he knew how... and then an idea began to form.

Slowly, ever so faintly, Xander began to smile.


Chapter Eleven

Spike stalked his flat, furious with himself. Fuck. He's bloody underage, you raging idiot. And he thinks he did something wrong, something to make you stop. Pfft. Like that's even possible with him, bloody gorgeous boy. Probably fucked up his idea of sex good and proper, rest of his life. Should have your fucking balls revoked, Spike, you moron. Just a boy, and you made him cry. Proud of yourself? Christ.

In the corner by the door, he spied the boy's ratty knapsack. Hadn't even noticed it before. He walked over, knelt down by it and zipped it open. Little bit of food in plastic, change of clothes, toothbrush. Cheap penknife, couldn't stick a pig. Passport, tiny stub of eyeliner pencil, and... what's this? Business card for some hotel... terrible part of town, rates by the hour? Room number on the back. Jesus suffering fuck. These are his entire sodding worldly possessions. Christ! I've been seducing a runaway virgin! A runaway bloody virgin is in my bed! An abomination it was, terrible and bad and wrong, and certainly not the introduction to his fantasy life, no, absolutely not.

He ran a hand through his spiked hair, loosening it from the gel that held it in place, hoping to wipe the terribly X-rated images away. What the fuck, he thought, am I going to do with this kid? Can't call his bloody parents. Spike laughed, quietly, ruefully. That'd be fucking beautiful – hey, mom and pop, I've just brought your boy in for a shag, but he's gone and got weepy on me, thought you'd want to know. Spike looked back at the bedroom. Little sounds were coming from there, tiny little shuffling and moving about sounds. His heart slowed, sharp, bright pain in his chest, just to think of the boy, and what he'd done to him. Fucking monster, you are, Spike. He'd best get back in there. Least he could do for now was assure the boy he wasn't in any danger, and then maybe he'd have some idea where to go from here.

He got up, took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and headed for the French doors that led to his bedroom. Nothing on this earth could have prepared him for what he found there.

Spike stopped dead in the doorway, eyes like dinner plates, mouth dropping open. If the bloody Queen had been standing there, he could not have been more shocked. Except if it had been the Queen, every molecule of blood he possessed would not have shot directly to his groin.

Xander.

Stark naked.

Stretched out on top of his duvet.

Hand moving slowly, languidly, up and down his thick, hard cock.

Staring. Straight. At. Spike.

For a few long seconds, his brain would not make coherent words. He didn't even try to speak, only strangled sounds would have come out anyway. Then, suddenly, his mental engine turned over, and he blinked, and turned his face away, started looking for Xander's clothes and... well, babbling.

“Um, you should probably take these, because it's important that you have your clothes, you know. Growing lad, and all that.”

Jesus, he could feel himself blushing. Blushing. He hadn't blushed since he was fifteen. He grabbed clothes frantically, any clothes he laid eyes on, not even registering whether they were Xander's or not. He slung them over his shoulder in the direction of the bed, which he was most definitely not looking at. “I think you should know, um, Xander, that I didn't... I mean, I wasn't... put off, you know? It's just that you're too young... I mean, for me... not that I'm old, but you're just a kid, and, fuck me, I'm doing a right proper job of buggering this up, aren't I?”

Exasperated again, he turned around to face the bed, and there, suddenly, was Xander, standing right in front of him, filling his vision. Still naked.

Xander took him by the head and kissed him, eyes closing. The boy was moaning before their lips even touched. Spike felt the hot mouth close on his, and for just a moment, he had absolutely no idea what to do. Then, entirely without his permission, his body neatly diverted all blood from his brain, which promptly shut off, to his cock, which told him loudly and precisely what to do and how to do it.

The clothes Spike was holding hit the floor as he reached for Xander, finding incredibly soft hipbones and tracing lightly over them as he devoured the boy's mouth. Couldn't get enough of the taste of this boy, like sugar and coffee and male musk. Xander groaned and sagged against him, pressing chest and erection and lips into him, and Spike fought to turn his brain back on, only barely resisting the urge to tear his jeans open, free his cock and sink into the boy's hot body, pound into him until they both screamed in pleasure.

He took Xander by the arms, pushed him back a step, breathing like a marathon runner. “Wait, Xander, wait just a second, love...”

“No, Spike. You said no waiting.”

Xander's eyes burned into his, and he felt the boy's hand slide down his chest, over the bulge in his jeans, and squeeze. Spike's eyes closed tight. Sweet Christ, he learns fast. Spike began to sweat with the effort of holding back, of not taking the boy on the floor, not against the wall, not on the bed, now, now, now.

He never could resist the young, sweet ones, a little awkward, unsure of themselves, but lovely in their inexperience. Like he used to be before the world spit on his innocence and followed with a right hook for his naivety and a left for his arrogance in thinking he could just ask for what he wanted, just tell the boy he loved how he felt, and he might love him back. Never could resist boys like that. Boys like Xander. Asking for what he wanted. Naked and wanting, gazing at Spike with longing, eyeliner all ran from his tears. So beautiful.

No, no, no! He's too young, too inexperienced, can't know what he wants, didn't even want it 'till I brought him up here and made him want it, and fucking hell, I made him cry...

“Listen, Spike. I want this,” Xander said, deepened voice like liquid chocolate, sweet and dark, swirling through Spike's mind. That hand stroked him, squeezed him, and the other trailed up to Spike's nipple, rolling it gently as he had been shown. Spike felt electric shocks skittering over his nerves, hot blood flooding through him, felt the heat licking up him like flame. “I want you. Maybe I didn't before, but I do now. I don't know much about sex, let alone gay sex. Brand new, here. So I want you to be my first. Teach me, you know? I want that from you. I won't ask anything else, I swear, but this, just this. Show me what you want.”

Spike opened his eyes, couldn't believe what he was hearing, couldn't keep hearing it one more second and hold back.

Deep brown eyes looked into him, searching. Two words then, whispering into his ear like warm satin over skin. “Please, Spike?”

The boy touched his fingertips, ruined nails and all, to Spike's cheek, and Spike was lost.


Chapter Eleven

Those brilliant blue eyes blazed with lust, straight into Xander's own, intent perfectly clear. “Last chance, Xander. Stop me.”

As if! God, I hope this works. Please, God, let it work. I just want to be here, with this man, and do this, and not think about anything else. Okay? Please? Xander brushed his thumb over Spike's lips. “Please...”

The blond shuddered, eyes drifting closed just for a moment, before they opened again. It was just as if someone turned the sun on. Spike kept his eyes glued to Xander's as he flicked his tongue over his bottom lip, as he let that tongue slide over the pad of Xander's thumb, as he drew it into his mouth and slowly sucked on it, swirling his tongue around it. Xander felt his lips fall slightly open, felt the warmth slide through him all over again. His cock hardened deliciously, and it was okay, allowable, not shameful, and he shivered with the pleasure of it. And those eyes, searing him, scalding him, looking ravenous and meltingly hot as he sucked Xander's thumb in and out of his mouth. They were almost dangerous, those eyes.

The Brit's hand came up and took Xander by the wrist. He pulled his mouth from Xander's thumb and ran his tongue up the palm, from wrist to fingers. He nibbled the ends of Xander's fingertips, lips enveloping each digit, licking, sucking, eyes locked to Xander's every second, and Xander couldn't look away. Oh, god, this is what shock feels like, like hypothermia in reverse. Breathe, must breathe... sweet fancy moses, that's... that's so good...

“So... oh, God, Spike...”

The blond snarled, little flash of teeth, and then Xander was moving, Spike's hands on his shoulders, pushing him back, and he came up against one post of the huge bed hard. Before he could catch his breath, Spike was on him, devouring his mouth, and those hands were hard against him, drawing fingernails across his nipples and chest and back and ass, everywhere at once. Frissions of heat rose along every scratch mark, and Xander groped blindly for Spike's cock through his jeans, finding it thick and hard, hard like nothing else, and Xander squeezed, just a little. Spike pulled away from his lips, buried his head in Xander's neck and drew deep, shuddering breaths, hands moving soothingly along Xander's sides, making fists now and again. Xander worried, just for a moment.

“You okay, Spike?”

Eyes, sharp as they looked up at him. Voice, rough and ragged. “Get on the bed.”

That made Xander smile to himself, and he pulled gently away from Spike. He turned his back to the blond punk, looked over his shoulder at him with a small, knowing, teasing smile, then slowly crawled onto the mattress, hands and knees, displaying his curved backside to the man at the foot of the bed. He reached the pillows, flipped over and laid down amongst them, looking straight at Spike, stretching his naked body over the covers. Xander kissed the air, and crooked his finger. Now you come here. I might be new to this, but I know some stuff.

He had not, however, been expecting what came next. Spike's eyes, which hadn't left his face, went from deadly serious to devilish. A wicked smile began to curve his lips. His hands, fists at his sides, lost their white-knuckled edge, and Spike positively swaggered the two steps to the foot of the bed and placed those fists at the foot of them, making the muscles in his shoulders bunch and twist. God, he's so hot. “Arrogant little whelp, are you? Tsk, tsk, mate. That's my territory.” The grin stayed firmly in place as Spike lifted himself onto the bed, crawling as Xander had, but Xander instantly grasped that this was different. Spike wasn't arching his back, displaying himself. He was low down, moving slow but careful. He was stalking.

“Sweet thing like you, ought to know better than to challenge the older and wiser, yeah?” Xander could feel the heat radiating from Spike as he covered Xander's feet.

“Could be trouble.” The safety pins brushed over his shins, cold metal making Xander shiver.

“Could find out you aren't as tough as you think.” Pins trailed across his knees, and hot blue eyes were travelling along his body, savoring him.

“Could find out you're tender.” Xander could feel Spike's breath on his upper thighs now, the fine, soft hair moving slightly with the hot gusts. And he was still moving, up, so close, so close, and as Spike reached the crux, hovered over Xander's aching cock, the blue eyes flicked up to meet his. They looked almost sweet.

“Vulnerable.” The blond head decended, and Xander felt Spike's hot, wet tongue swipe up his cock in one long stroke, flicking at the head, and ecstasy flashed through him, sharp and bright. His right hand came up, rested lightly on the nape of the blond's neck, fingers tangling in white hair as his head dropped back into the pillows. “Spike...”

The smirk was audible in the coarse voice. “Careful, love. Someone could take advantage of that.”

And then Spike was on him, surrounding him, liquid heat melting every bone in his body and beautiful suction bringing him close. “Unh... oh, God... oh, so much... so good...” It seemed his entire being was concentrated in this one spot, caressed by a smooth tongue, worked by soft lips, fixed completely on Spike, and the magic he worked there. The tip of Xander's cock nudged the back of Spike's throat, and he felt a shock tear through him, setting his brain to buzzing. He began to talk, just syllables full of lust, barely aware of his own hand fisting in Spike's hair. “Please, please, Spike, don't stop, please, keep, oh, God, so good, Spike, please...”

He thought his ears rang, he thought his blood was too hot and his skin too cold, he thought he might burst or maybe implode, tongue flicking all around him, teeth lightly brushing him, teasing and promising. And then Spike thrust back, took him in deep, soft, throat rippling around him, and rushing bliss filled every corner of his body. Xander cried out, bucking, muscles locked as he came, sparkling bits of world falling all around him, Spike's name on his lips.


Chapter Twelve

Spike kept tonguing the roof of his mouth. Without Xander there, right there, hot and hard inside him, Spike felt a little angry, a little irritable. He wanted more of this boy, much more, but Xander was young, and Spike knew enough to take the edge off, 'cause otherwise he just wouldn't survive.

Hell, Spike thought, I'm not terribly far from that point myself. His cock still throbbed like mad, confined by his jeans, wanting out, wanting into Xander's body any way it could. Spike had promised himself he'd fuck this stunning creature, and he would not miss it for the fucking world and a pint.

He lightly trailed his fingers over Xander's legs. From his vantage point between Xander's thighs, he could see the boy begin to come round, come back to himself. The chocolate eyes opened, looked at him, hair falling over them. “That was, um... God. I don't have words for what that was. 'Good' doesn't begin to cover it.” The boy smiled, such a sweet smile, bliss-filled and sated.

“Liked that, did you?”

“I don't think yes is a strong enough word...”

“Good. Then you won't mind if we do it again.” Just as he'd known. Lips fell open, eyes widened. Bloody adorable, this one. Just a nudge, just a little push, and he's sweet as sugar, spreading over your tongue. The cock before him began to harden, and Spike smirked. Bloody teenage stamina. Nothing like it. “Now, don't fret, love. Just lie back and enjoy, right?”

Xander's adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, and more hair fell in his eyes as he nodded.

“There's a good lad,” Spike murmured as he leaned down to swipe at Xander's cock with his tongue. Just a few subtle licks near the base of the shaft, avoiding the head altogether, working lower, toward the balls. Xander groaned, voice already ragged from the first go, but twice as sweet for the pleasure it knew was coming. Don't know all, though, boy, not by half.

Spike dragged his tongue in long, broad, hot strokes over Xander's scrotum, and the boy writhed, feet making little toe-fists in the small of Spike's back. Boy clutched the covers, strangling them, shaking. So soon after, he's still so sensitive. And Spike kept licking, lower, lower, until he reached the tiny rosette below. He teased it, just once, with the tip of his tongue, and Xander nearly shot off the bed. “Whoooa, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait!” He paused, and Spike waited patiently for the boy to catch his bearings.

He was sitting up, and Spike was nestled between his legs, arms under thighs, looking up at him innocently. “I mentioned the newness of me, right? I mean...” He laid his hand against Spike's cheek, such a tender gesture. Spike's cock strained against his fly, insistently filling Spike's mind with images of Xander in all kinds of positions, all kinds of colors and bliss. The struggle was near unbearable, but he kept the careful, of-course-I'm-listening look plastered on his face.

“I guess I'm just nervous. And maybe a little... I don't know, weirded out? I mean, not that there's not hotness, b...” Spike placed a finger over his lips to halt the words.

“Not a problem, love.” He lifted himself up, rolled off the bed and held his hand out. “Come on, then.”

Xander fell back on the bed and looked at him meaningfully. “And just where are we going?”

Spike grinned. “You'll see. Now pick your sweet arse up and come with me.”

“I don't know...” Xander said, drawing it out, playing. “Maybe I shouldn't go anywhere with you. I mean, this whole thing is totally unfair.” He sat up and reached out for Spike, taking hold of his black shirt and pulling it slowly out of his waistband. Spike's train of thought derailed, jumped the ditch and exploded in flames as he tried to remember to breathe. Boy undressing me... first good look at another man's cock, and it's going to be mine. Mine. Bloody buggering hell... “Where's my strip show?” the boy asked, pulling at the shirt. You got the naked goodness of me, and I have to stare at clothes? So not fair!”

Oh, that was a good idea. A very good idea. Smirking, Spike pulled his shirt out of Xander's grip and pointed at him. “Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back.” Xander grinned cheekily at him and stretched out on the mattress, hands behind his head. “And I can do without the sass, young man. Take you over my knee.”

“Promise?"

“Push me and find out.” Spike tossed that over his shoulder as he strode out of his bedroom and into his living room. Once there, he poked a button on his stereo system, which had gone quiet sometime during the night. A few seconds and some grinding noises later, the CDs switched and one of the The Kinks' early songs poured out, lead guitar grinding from the speakers. The music was perfect for what he had in mind – vocals scratchy and loud, base and beat insistent and solid, guitar rough and ragged. Perfect.

He strolled back to the room, music all around him. Framing himself in the double doors, he eyed the boy lying on his bed. He ate him with his eyes, imagining what he'd be doing to that body in just a few minutes. Delectable.

Slowly, he turned around, cocking his hip and taking hold of his shirt. Inch by excruciating inch, he dragged it up his torso, feeling the slight chill in the air on the tender skin at his back, which made him shiver a little. As his shoulders felt the cool air on them, he ripped the shirt off in one smooth motion, ruffling his hair a little, only barely stopping himself from reaching up to fix it.

He heard the soft gasp behind him. Smirked. He looked over his shoulder and placed a hand on his chest, pointing his fingers toward his belt. Slid it downward, elbow out so the boy could see what he was doing, sinking his fingers into the front of his jeans. He took hold of his cock, pumped a little, and groaned loudly, obscenely, tilting his head back. The strangled exhale behind him told him he had it right.

Extracting his hand from his jeans, he turned around, stalking toward the bed. Behind him, from the speakers, Joan Jett took over, driving the tension up, voice deeply sexual, tonguing the lyrics like skin and salt. Again, the grinding guitars. Spike climbed up on the bed, crawled toward the boy until he was straddling him again, crotch right up in his face, looking down at him with a face that read 'sex', trailing fingers over the light hair at his belt. The boy was gaping, wide-eyed, filled with lust. Little strip tease was doing its work nicely.

He wrenched his belt open, using both hands, and pulled it slowly from the loops, letting the soft black leather brush against Xander's face. A bolt of lust hit him as Xander opened his mouth and let his tongue ride against the leather. Fuck me, I am the luckiest bloke in the whole of bloody London tonight. He dropped the belt and let his hands start edging toward his zip, but Xander laid his hands over Spike's, stopping them. For a moment, Spike was confused, and then Xander's fingers moved forward, and Spike smiled and let his hands fall to the side.


Chapter Thirteen

Xander's fingers touched cold metal, and his thoughts raced. Okay, this is it. Last chance to not be gay. Last chance to avoid looking at man parts, ever again. The sound was interesting – zzzzzzzzip. He'd never noticed it on his own pants. There was a long, hard bulge in these jeans, which Xander couldn't help staring at. After this, I will be a gay, gay man. Larry will be right about me, and all the moron jocks who ever gave me black eyes for wearing jewelry. The button popped easily, easing right through the eyelet like it was glad to be free. Bare flesh showed beneath – Xander guessed punks didn't believe in underwear. He'd have to remember later to find his boxers before Spike did and get rid of them.

Last chance, Harris. The jeans started shifting, sliding down, Xander's fingers hooked into the belt loops. Above him, Spike thrust fingers into his hair and hissed with pleasure, but Xander couldn't tear his eyes off the skin being exposed before him. It got closer, bigger, hip in extreme closeup, and suddenly he was pressing his lips there, sliding his tongue over that unbelievably soft, tight little spot just over the bone, feeling the fingers in his hair tighten, feeling the rumble through Spike's frame as he growled at the ceiling.

His eyes drifted shut as he fluttered his lips over that spot, and when he felt the jeans drop over the hips and down to Spike's knees, he froze, eyes closed, fingers hovering over Spike's skin, feeling the heat, mouth still pressed to him. Xander was aware, on some level, that Spike was frozen too. But that seemed impossible, given the sheer amount of fragrant heat that radiated off him, smelling of fresh sweat and spice, smoke and soap. Xander pulled back, eyes still closed. This is it. Open your eyes, and you're gay.

Fucking open your eyes, Xander!

And he did.

There it stood, his downfall, his weakness, thick and proud, red and twitching, ever so slightly, with every breath that Xander took. It was a moment before Xander realized that his breath was ghosting over the heated flesh, brushing it with the lightest of touches. He looked up at Spike, saw the blue eyes above him softer than he'd seen them yet. Kind of vulnerable. Helpless. He knew that feeling well, and was completely relieved that Spike wasn't looking at him expectantly, like Xander should know what he was doing, because he most emphatically did not.

He brought his eyes back to the appendage in front of him. He found himself running through words he knew for 'penis', trying them on Spike like clothes. Penis. No, too clinical. Dick. Dude, no way. Sounds like summer camp. I'm in London. Cock. It's a cock. And it wants me. Me. Yeah. That sounds right. He looked up at Spike, hesitantly, and took a breath. “You have a beautiful cock.” The blue eyes closed and Spike shuddered, then opened those eyes again, and it was like they'd gone from baby blue to red-hot-full-grown-man-that-wants-your-sex-right-the-fuck-now blue.

Xander shivered under that gaze, and dropped his head back to his target. Hesitantly, he licked at that cock, once, about in the middle of the shaft. It bobbed against Spike's stomach, trying to follow him. Xander smiled a little and did it again, a longer stroke, slower. Spike gave a tiny, high-pitched moan, and his fingers shoved through Xander's hair, staying busy, staying occupied. Xander guessed it was to keep them from trying to shove his head forward.

He took the shaft in his hand, stroked a couple of times, slicking his fingers with the precum all over Spike's cockhead and belly. (He felt a small surge of pride at that. Man, Spike'd been waiting for this.) The solid erection in his hand throbbed, Spike groaning above him, lots of “rrrrr” and “mmmm” and “unh!” Xander licked again, this time at the shining fluid, squeezing his hand around the base. It came away on his tongue, tasted like Spike's mouth, but fuller, almost dizzying.

Xander smiled, edged a tiny bit back and looked up. “Mmm. Spikeahol.”

Spike laughed at that, sort of strangled sounding, but a laugh, which trailed off into a moan when Xander leaned in again. Staying close now, Xander licked once, twice, three times, higher and higher, toward the wet head. With every swipe of his tongue, Spike keened, higher and higher, sounded almost in pain.

Then Xander's lips closed around the tip, softly, just softly, and Spike's voice dropped like a stone in water. “Fuuuuuuck, Xander...” The accent was so strong, Xander almost didn't recognize his own name. Sounded like 'Sanda', because Spike had hissed it through clenched teeth. Xander instinctively smiled, lips tightening around their prisoner, and Spike keened again, fingers locking in his hair. Xander descended, slowly, so as not to overwhelm himself. He felt his tastebuds pushed at by the flesh on his tongue, and remembered something Spike had done. He flicked his tongue, drawing along the skin, sliding in circles around the head, and Spike howled above him, back to inarticulate, intense vowels, random sounds.

Xander felt Spike's hands tighten in his hair, gripping his head, and was more than a little shocked to feel Spike pull back, out of his mouth, breathing like a drowning man. He fell back on his heels, rolled off the bed and stood there, hands wrapped around a post, teeth clenched, eyes shut tight, dragging air into his lungs.

“Okay, this is a little wierd. Are you actually physically capable of staying in the bed for more than two minutes?”

Spike mumbled something in Cockney (not English) which didn't make much sense, but one word sounded to Xander suspiciously like 'overwhelm'. He pushed himself off the bed, coming around to face Spike. He took hold of one of Spike's wrists and pulled gently, and the Brit let him ease the arm down, make him look at him. His face was a little desperate, and full of apology.

“Listen, if you're talking about what I think you're are, then we're clearly not communicating.” He took Spike's hand and drew it down to where his own hard-on rose from the apex of his thighs. “I want you. And maybe I'm new at this, but I'm not brittle or fragile. You can be with me, and I won't break, okay?” He took Spike by the shoulders and pulled and pushed at him until his back was to the carved post of the bed. “Just hush and let me do this.” Xander kissed him once, gently, as though Spike were the breakable one, and then sank to his knees.


Chapter Fourteen

Spike felt his heart, beating way too fast. Seemed like every part of his body was strained, tense, heat lightning tearing through him, arching toward the boy on his knees before him. Prickling, immediate awareness of the boy licking his lips, lips falling open, mouth coming for him, in slow motion. Hand closing about the base of his cock, making it stand still to be tended to.

Xander had kissed his lips as though Spike were made of fine bone china, delicate and precious. Spike wondered if a decade of drugs and booze, spit and come gathered in darkened back rooms might not come away on the sweet lips, staining them. He felt suddenly dirty, and remembered that he was supposed to be taking this boy to the big, open shower in his bathroom, supposed to be cleaning him all over, making him ready. He looked down at the boy, just inches from his cock, and realized that as of this moment there was no way he would wait for anything, not a shower, not innocence, not even if God and all his angels walked in the bloody door, threatening eternal torment.

Bugger the past, it was just a fuck. Nothing to get your knickers in a twist over. A hot, sweet, incredibly good fuck, some part of his brain whispered, who's been here for more than three hours so far, and you show no signs of throwing him out on his arse, which is better than we've had for years, you bloody ponce.

Sod off. Spike focused on Xander, on the wet little tongue, on the new flush in his cheeks. Just a fuck, and for now, it would do. God, yes, it'll bloody well do. He reached for Xander's tousled head, and when his fingers touched the soft hair, time instantly accelerated from slo-mo to fast forward, soft, wet, hot mouth kissing the tip of his cock, softly, feather-light. He felt his whole body twitch, jerk forward, wanting into Xander, into that sweetness and light.

Make me forget...

Sliding, sliding of wet lips, just touching the skin, sending electric shivers through his body. Spike curled his fingers through the hair at Xander's nape, soft silky waves caressing his fingers, and ever so slightly pulled him forward, letting his cock nudge against Xander's mouth, slide over the wet lips, feeling himself shake.

“God, you feel like heaven.” The whispered words flowed from Spike, just like a moan, just as involuntary.

“Mmmm...” Xander's little sound made his lips buzz, made just the tip of Spike's cock vibrate, and Spike groaned, shifting his hips, trying to push between those lips, sink into the heat waiting for him. Xander opened his lips just a little, just a little, enough to allow the tip of Spike's cock inside, and then closed his lips around it, sucking and swirling his tongue like Spike was a cherry lolly.

“Ohhhhh, bloody hell...” He took the boy by the head, tried to push gently, gently, mustn't startle him, and felt himself slide in at what felt like millimeters at a time. Xander made his lips tight, tight, allowing just the barest movement, and Spike carefully pushed past that resistance, feeling every inch, hot, tight, wet, so good, and finally the head of his cock touched the back of Xander's throat, and he stilled, every muscle tensed, every part of him straining to keep from going round the sodding bend, not moving, not thrusting.

And then, lots of things happened at once. Xander pulled back, swiftly, holding just the tip of Spike's cock between his lips, and flickered at it with the tip of his tongue. His fingers left Spike's cock, came round and dug into his arse cheeks, pulling him forward. And Spike went round the sodding bend.

He took Xander's head in his hands, set his feet and pressed back into the now-fully-open mouth, feeling the give, feeling the tongue welcoming him, fluttering around him, pulling out and in again, fucking that sweet mouth slowly, intently, little breaths and bruising fingers on his backside making his blood heat to boiling. Faster, faster, tighter, hotter, wetter, oh, fuck me, and then dark tendrils uncurled deep in his belly, spreading through his body as he shuddered and thrust, pouring his bliss into Xander, who clutched him close, holding him tightly as he came.

He trembled against the sturdy post as aftershocks rolled through his body, like deep thunder, unable to move or speak. He smelled the boy's hair, and realized he was sitting on the floor now, Xander wrapped around him, arms about his waist. Must've come down after. He lifted his hand, sifted his fingers through the boy's hair, pressing his face into it. Smelled of rainwater, of salt and lemons. The boy looked up at him, big chocolate eyes checking him, unsure. He smiled into them, completely sated, fingers still playing in the sable hair. “Never fear, love. Haven't died from it yet, though you did come close."

Xander grinned wide, a little bashful; beautiful. “Wanna do it again?”

At that, Spike laughed. “Maybe you've got the stamina of a bleedin' clydesdale, schoolboy that you are, but some of us ain't quite so young and strapping.” He scrubbed a hand over his chest, feeling weirdly refreshed. Normally he'd want to sleep now, but he found himself wanting some tea and biscuits with the boy. Maybe a little telly. And a shower. He looked back at the boy, tousled, head resting against his shoulder, hard cock still at the ready. Oh, yes, Spike grinned to himself, definitely a shower.


Chapter Fifteen

Xander watched Spike stand up and stretch his arms over his head. Twisting slightly, the blond growled a little sound and then dropped his arms and padded through the french doors. A slight bit of envy swelled in Xander as he eyed the beautiful body before him; Spike was completely comfortable in his own skin, like walking around in the buff was the most normal thing in the world. Xander knew that he himself didn't have a bad body, but still, being naked in front of someone else could sometimes be the stuff of very bad nightmares, and Xander had never been particularily keen on finding out if it was as bad in real life. Not that he'd had an opportunity, of course. It was just the principle of the thing. And Spike clearly did not have that principle.

Xander pulled on his jeans with lightning speed and followed Spike as he walked into the wood and chrome kitchen and started pulling things out of cabinets. The spiked, blond hair and smudged eyeliner, so distinctive under the club's lights earlier, left no doubt as to who exactly was parading around naked, and it almost seemed that Spike were being deliberately naked. Nakedness with intent to commit acts of further nakedness.

“One or two?” Spike looked at him expectantly.

“What?”

“Sugar, pet. How many sugars do you take in your tea?”

“Oh.” Xander could feel the blush crawling up his cheeks. “Um, one, I guess.” He noticed now that Spike was arraying a pair of coffee cups, creamer, sugar and spoons over a small silver tray, and a kettle, teapot and whole assortment of weird metal apparati lay by the side. He went over and picked up one of the metal things, examined it.

Spike looked him up and down and raised an eyebrow. “Little bashful, are we?”

“What in the name of all that's holy is this thing?” Xander held the little utensil, fine wire mesh in the shape of a ball and little steel tongs attached, in front of Spike's face, making it open and close like a wire-mesh-and-steel-tongs duck.

“'S a tea ball, innit?” Spike took the thing from Xander, pulled a small canister forward from the wall and took some loose, aromatic black leaves from it, sifting them through his fingers and into the waiting duck bill. “Don't they have tea in America?”

Xander eyed the thing suspiciously. “Sure, they have tea. Which comes in bags, with little strings, instead of weird wire duck things.”

Spike wrinked his nose. “Bloody things. Can't stand 'em.” He picked up a coffee cup, red and gold Manchester United symbol stenciled on it, and brandished it at Xander. “Might be a rebel, but I've got standards.” He plunked the coffee cup back on the tray and the tea ball in his teapot and folded his arms, nodding decisively.

Xander couldn't help himself. He burst out laughing.

Spike curled his lip and looked all scowly, which only made him cuter. That made Xander laugh harder, and he stumbled out of the kitchen and into the living room, giggling. His laughter died down as he sat himself on the sofa, grabbing the remote and flicking on the TV. He channel surfed with the practiced ease of a seventeen year old boy, and considered tea. “You know, Spike, if it's okay, I don't think I want any. I don't really drink tea.”

Spike poked his head out of the kitchen. “The hell you don't. I'm your sodding teacher in the ways of the world, young man, and the first thing you'll learn at my knee is that if possible, one always, always, has a cup of strong tea with lemon after a particularily good fuck.” He disappeared into the kitchen again, making sounds with the spoons.

Xander was a little set back by that. Firstly, Spike considered himself Xander's teacher. Okay, not hating that. Really am totally new to this, so there could seriously be worse things. He wondered briefly if all gay relationships were like this, and then decided that he was in no way prepared to handle the thought of gay relationship just yet. Because of the gay sex, and really, the gayness in general.

Bringing him to the second part: Spike said fuck. A fuck, as in, singular. As in over. The thought caused a little twinge in his stomach. For some reason (quite possibly to do with all the alcohol still buzzing around in his system) he hadn't thought much beyond the next second for the last several hours. Now, though, he again became vividly aware of his situation. No friends in London except Spike. No place to go come morning. And he had no plan, since he hadn't even thought about it. And Spike thought he was just a fuck, of course he would, gay guys are still guys, so Xander guessed he ought to be thinking about sunrise.

He felt something go cold inside him as he thought of that, thought of leaving this place, and going back into the harsh light of day and reality. He looked around the apartment, the huge TV, the pool table, the soft light and doors that lead back to the bedroom where so much had just irrevocably changed. Xander had the sudden sensation that none of this was real, that he was lying in that bug filled, stinking, suspiciously stained hotel room, dreaming that things were different.

He blinked, focused, brushing that thought aside. His eyes settled on the clock on Spike's wall. Quarter to two. Xander blinked a minute, hardly believed that. The band had finished their last set at midnight, though, so he guessed it could have all happened in two hours... still, it seemed like too much had happened for so short a time. Xander pushed all thoughts of planning out of his head, lurched to his feet and walked into the kitchen. Too soon, too early to think of those things, because they made him sick with fear, and it was easier by far to just shut them out. Besides, he'd been 'particularily good,' evidently worthy of post-coital beverage making. And that could mean... something. So screw thinking about it.

He picked up a little spoon that lay by Spike's elbow (naked) and began to fidget with it. He weighed it in his fingers, tapped the sink with it, tink tink, and generally made a nuisance of himself. Spike winced in his direction. “Think even my drummer might have a mild seizure if he heard that racket, love.”

“Hey! I'll have you know that I'm an excellent percussionist, mister. Wooden spoons from three years old!”

Spike stood there, smirk spreading across his face. “I stand corrected. Racket away.”

“Don't mess with me, man. I'm an artist.” Xander pointed the tiny spoon at him.

And then Spike's eyes went all deep and lustful again, looking straight at him in that want-to-eat-you way of his, and Xander felt the Jell-O return to his knees as Spike turned to him. “Look at that lip, all stiff and upper,” the brit said, voice sounding like rough silk again, rippling through Xander, up his spine. “Careful, mate. All that playing around, a fella might think you didn't have anything to do with your hands. Got a little stiff and upper for you if you're gettin' bored playin' with that.” He took the spoon from Xander's suddenly numb fingers, his eyes burning, too intense, too full of heat. Xander felt Spike closing in, felt the heat on his chest, in his cock...

And Spike's hand came crashing down on his ass, sharp slap shocking him, until he realized Spike's eyes were twinkling and he wore a gleeful smirk. Teasing bastard. “Never, mate, never interrupt an Englishman when e's makin' tea.”

Xander rubbed his stinging ass and glared at Spike, who was still grinning like he'd just won a free night of Xander Harris sexcapades. Spike gently took him by the shoulders and steered him out of the kitchen. You just sit, watch some telly.” He guided Xander to the couch, pressed the remote into his hand and returned to the tea, only to reappear a second later. “Don't take anything off my TiVo.” Gone again.

Hey, TiVo! Mild irritation at the critique of his musical skills completely gone, Xander thumbed through the buttons. He found a bunch of old shows, some of which he recognized and some of which he didn't. Cool. Knight Rider.


Chapter Sixteen

Spike heard the theme from the living room and smiled, waiting for the tea to steep. It was quiet in the flat, but for the soft murmuring of the telly, and all the light seemed muted to Spike, swallowed up in the warm darkness of night. He still felt the boy on him, sweat and spit, the small, warm bruises on his arse. This was the way a boy's first night should be, full of night and heat and safety.

Not the other.

~*~

He's exhausted. His body would shudder just to be touched with a fingertip, just to have a brush of air cross it. His fingers buzz with remembered sensation, his blood throbs through his veins, and his ears still hear his lover whisper his name, 'Yeah, Will, fuck, take it, take it just like that, boy, mo alainn*, William...'

He turns onto his side with effort, coppery curls falling over his face. He sees a blurred outline across the tiny apartment, in the kitchen, making tea. Even with fuzzy outlines, he knows the form his heart took – tall, dark and handsome. He smiles. Never had he imagined that he could love like this, and yet here he is. There'd been long looks and secret, stolen moments for so long, but it still feels like a whirlwind. I suppose I'm not in Kansas anymore, he thinks. If Oz had been like this, Dorothy never would have left.

He stands up, a little awkwardly, pulling the sheet with him and wrapping it around himself as he walks into the kitchen. He comes up behind his lover, smells his sweat and soap, the sweet dreamy scent of his hair. Buries his nose between his shoulder blades, inhaling deeply, smiling. Bliss.

Then he feels strong hands take him by the wrists, and the body before him turns in his arms. He turns his face up, smiles into the forbidding features. Others fear those dark, grim eyes, the set of the mouth. During class, he'll stand at the front of the room, writing on the board, all silence and gloom, pen squeaking across the white surface, spreading stark black across it in complex strings of words and spidery diagrams, dark spires and ominous curves. He glowers at people who talk, and most of William's classmates don't care for him.

But William knows different now. For days, since the day he stayed late after class for help on a paper and felt the warm body hovering over his back, there's been simmering tension, scalding looks directed at him after class. And then he'd finally gotten up the courage to suggest this, thank God, and now he's here. He knows the gentle side of the giant. He's felt careful fingers stroking him, parting him, making him ready. He's felt that thick, hard cock inside him, making him sigh and pant and keen and finally scream with pleasure and need. He's felt lava racing through his veins, fire dance in front of his eyes, the world melt away in their heat as his orgasm tears through him. He knows now, about love.

“Hey,” his lover sighs, tugging the curls away from William's eyes. “You're awake.”

“I am.” William smiles, tries to tuck his head beneath the strong jaw, to cuddle closer, but is caught by his chin, made to look up into intense black eyes.

“Listen. Get yourself together, have some tea, and then you need to go, okay?”

Wait. What? Stunned doesn't begin to describe this. He must have heard wrong. “Go? But we've only just...” He looks back to their rumpled bed, warm and inviting. (Or, distant and darkened.)

The black eyes look straight at him, piercing through him, cold. “What? I've had you, Will. It's time to go.” His voice is weirdly warm. William shoves himself away from the man's hands, drawing the sheet around him like a shield, and the bastard not only has the temerity to look surprised, but actually laughs a little. “Listen, don't get all... don't be like that. I don't have time. I've got another one of you that's going to be here in about... twenty minutes. So just leave. Don't make a scene.”

Searing pain tears through him, blinding him with welling tears. The bedroom receeds in his vision, black and ominous now. The sheet feels clammy around his legs and hips. His demon turns away from him, disappearing into the maw of the room, leaving William standing there, torn apart, tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. He looks around, desperate, and finds some of his clothes strewn over the floor. They'd dropped there hours ago, and as he struggles into them, twill and linen, he finds them faintly damp as the sheet felt, tainted with this place. A seam on his shirt rips, but he doesn't care. He doesn't bother with buttons, just pulls on his shoes and stumbles out of the apartment, blind with unshed tears, willing them not to come. Won't give that louse the satisfaction. William is blocks away before he realizes that he's left his glasses.

~*~

It's Spike, he reminded himself, as he always did when he thought of that night. It's Spike now. And you've boys aplently of your own to fuck away every trace of that bloody wanker, fuck it away with this boy and as many sweet lovelies as it takes until the memory is nothing more than fucking ashes.

He rubbed his eyes, just to clear them, of course, and focused on arranging the tea tray. For some reason, though, doing that now brought another, long-forgotten memory back to him – it hadn't been long after, in the lavatory of the dorm. He'd had a few mates at school, but it wasn't one of those that had come through the door, found him wrapped around a toilet, alternately crying and puking out the gin he'd swilled the instant he'd found a liquor store.

He'd been a faint acquaintance, Spike thought. Boy'd taken Latin with him, or sommat. Barely knew him, that was certain, but he'd unwound William from round the porcelain with the gentle, sympathetic touch of a kindred soul. Took him to the showers, cleaned him up, poured water down his throat. That boy had brought William his housecoat and boxers, tucked him into bed with asprin and water and a large bowl at his bedside. And when all that kindness made silent tears slip down William's cheeks all over again, tired, drunken, miserable and just incapable of stopping himself, the boy just held his hand, quietly, not asking anything, just offering that comfort until William drifted off.

And when he'd woken, the boy was nowhere to be seen. Hadn't asked for his things back, either, just disappeared into the hallways and libraries, and Spike had never seen him again. Huh, Spike mused, standing in his kitchen, bowl of sugar in hand. Wonder whatever happened to Wesley.

With the tea tray arranged before him, Spike shook the memories off. He picked up the tray and turned to walk into the living room. Xander was flipping through the TiVo listings, evidently having finished up with Knight Rider. Spike plunked the tray down on the coffee table and flopped onto his couch next to Xander, draping his leg over the boy's lap. Suddenly, staring at the telly, Xander's eyes widened and his voice became a little sick. “Oh, my God.”

A little concerned, Spike lifted his leg away from Xander. “What? What is it?"

Xander turned to him, aghast look still painted across his features. He spoke slowly and distinctly, as if incapable of believing what he was saying.

“You TiVo'd Passions.”

Spike only glanced at the screen long enough to register days of Passions on the TiVo menu. “Oh, that's bloody it.” Spike let a huge grin tilt his lips and lept at the boy, fingers like claws, digging into his ribs. Xander squealed like a little boy as he squirmed and giggled madly. “Little ticklish, are we?” Spike continued his attack, fingertips dancing over sensitive areas, and Xander howled with laughter, wriggling under Spike, trying to push all the hands away and failing miserably. Spike was an expert tickler.

Of course, all the moving around was not helping the conversation, and as blood began to rush southerly and eyes began to linger on each other, Spike spoke sternly to himself. There's to be tea and telly before the fucking, mate, which will bloody well include a shower this time, if you'll recall. Just leave off for now. Get him later. He smiled gently and stroked the boy's sides, and Xander tried to catch his breath and squirmed about some more.

In the interest of actually getting to drink his tea, Spike pulled away from him and began tending to his cup. “Come on, then. Drink up.” Spike assembled his tea quickly, then checked Xander. The boy sniffed experimentally at his coffee cup full of tea, and then began adding bits of sugar and milk, tasting it in tiny little bits. Spike tried to guide him, proper mixes of milk and sugar and lemon, but Xander waved him off, and Spike smiled and let him do it his way. He leaned back on the couch and watched the boy poke at his tea with the spoon, trying to get the sugar to dissolve. It was too gauche, too American, too adorable for words, really, and it struck Spike that this was the first time he could remember putting off having The Talk with a boy he'd brought home.

For years now, it'd been just like this. Give them a great fuck, teach them about sex, about how it should be, and then send them off happy. It was the way Spike wanted things, simple, easy. Which meant it was time to tell Xander that, time for The Talk. Without that, Spike was just leading them on, and he didn't do that. Only the worst kind of fuckup does that to someone, knowing what that is, knowing what it does to you. And Spike certainly wasn't that. He put his tea down.

"Listen, Xander. Under no circumstances am I letting you go back to that rat trap of a sodding hole in the ground that you've been passing off as a motel, you got me?"

Wait. What?


Chapter Seventeen

Xander stopped mid-poke and stared at the naked man opposite him on the couch. Questions raced through his mind, but the one that made it out his mouth was, “How do you know where I live?”

Spike looked nearly as surprised as Xander felt. He stared at nothing and blinked a lot. And he's naked, Xander's mind added. Very distracting. But Spike did sound surprisingly unruffled when he gestured vaguely in the direction of the door and said, “Oh. Looked through your bag. There was a card.”

“You looked through my backpack?” Xander was instantly both furious and horrified, and horrified was winning. Everything in there was from his old life, each item dead giveaway. Hula shirts and ordinary, unripped blue jeans. The eyeliner I “borrowed” from Mom before I left. My freaking Superman toothbrush, man! That stuff couldn't explain the geekdom of Xander Harris better if there'd been a scale model of the Millenium Falcon in there. (Apropos of nothing, he missed that grey and chrome monstrosity. It was on his bookshelf at home.)

He felt a surge of despair wash through him. What he'd been expecting, or even hoping for, he didn't know, but Xander did know that there was no way in hell he'd get it now. What'd happen to him if Spike turned him in to whatever authorities were in charge of American runaways? Visions of mandatory Dickensian orphanages and himself as Oliver Twist danced through his head in a ghoulish parade. Please sir, have ya got any cheesy chips? He wouldn't last two days.

Spike was making small gestures, still looking like he wasn't even paying attention to what he was saying. “In the bag. 'S a card.” He stared at the couch, eyes boring holes in the fabric. Probably working out who to call first. Well, Xander wouldn't give him the chance. He'd get dressed, get his stuff and get the hell out of British dodge. Just tell Spike not to worry about him and take off.

He began to stand up, but didn't even make it to the edge of the couch before Spike wrapped a hand firmly around Xander's wrist. Xander looked up, saw Spike's eyes fixed firmly on him now. The Brit spoke precisely, very low. “And just where, exactly, are you going?”

“Listen, I'll get out of your hair. You've seen my stuff and I guess you know everything you need to know about me. So just let me go, and I'll be out of here before you know it.”

Those beautiful blue eyes just stared at him, piercing, seeming to know far too much. Xander squirmed under those eyes, under the wrist pinning him. Then, slowly and clearly, Spike said, “No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Okay, kind of confused, here. No... what?”

Spike opened his mouth, but nothing came out for a second. He still looked shocked, or stunned, maybe. Kind of like he was solving a complex algebra equation in his head. Then he shook his head once, squinted his eyes shut, and stood up, started pacing the area rug in front of the sofa.

Xander just sat there, watching, fascinated despite himself with the sheer nervous energy, the hands waving around, the voice climbing and the words themselves. And, of course, the nakedness. Which was extremely distracting. Lithe, fluid movement. Pale, flawless skin. Spiked blond hair and kohl-smudged eyes, and could Spike not be bothered to put on some clothes, because listening to the words was becoming much, much more difficult...

“Listen, Xander. I didn't mean to say that. I was gonna spout some tripe about you having to leave, but I ended up sayin' something different, and that usually means I... Bugger.”

He took a breath, paced the other way. “I know I like you, and the thought of you in that rotten dive makes my teeth grate.” Spike glanced at Xander, saw the lust in his eyes and stopped pacing, held his gaze.

“And I damn well ain't finished with you tonight. There's a shower waiting yet, and more afterward, yeah?”

Xander's mouth went dry, and his lips moved without his brain's approval. “Yeah.”

“Yeah...” Spike stared for a moment, clearly seeing the same images that were flicking through Xander's head. His eyes hooded with lust, and Xander was suddenly very aware of the rapidly growing erection right in front of him.

“Fuck it,” Spike growled. “All this bollocks'll just have to wait 'til tomorrow, cause just now I want to see you naked and dripping and moaning and so hard for me I've got to hold you to the wall to keep you from falling.”

“Oh, God...” That sounded fine to Xander. Denial, thou art my good buddy. His eyes dropped to Spike's cock, straining in front of him, and he leaned in, hearing Spike breathe above him, seeing the hips push forward. Xander licked once, slowly, good and long, from base to tip. Spike twitched and groaned, shifting fast. Xander felt strong hands take him by the shoulders, pull him upright, and then Spike crushed his mouth to Xander's.

Spike's hands were in his hair and on his shoulders and Xander curled his fingers against Spike's back, blessedly, beautifully bare. Spike's breath warmed him, his tongue coaxed Xander's out to play, drove all thought away, and Xander held onto Spike's waist, chest to chest, denim-clad thighs to bare ones, locked together, Spike's fingers digging into Xander's ass under the jeans, lifting him, holding him up. The sweet pleasure shot through Xander, settling liquid and hot at his cock.

Spike tore away from him, lust burning in half-lidded eyes, and actually snarled, teeth bared, before taking Xander's wrist and making for the bedroom doors again. Xander stumbled a bit as he followed, but kept up. He could hear Spike talking. “God, boy, gonna fuck you till your knees get weak. Gonna suck your cock again, taste so good, warm and low, like sweet honey, yeah...”

They were going back into the bathroom, right past the bed, through the door, past the sink where there'd been finger holding and lifting onto counters and blowing, blowing on wet nails. Lips and hot breath and blue eyes staring into his, God, how could he have been so dense?

A surge of heat at the memory of those same lips wrapped around his cock, sucking at him, made him forget to pay attention, and then Spike stopped in front of him and they collided, skin sliding on skin, heat rising, nerves tingling where they slammed together. Spike growled again, low down, turned and grabbed the band of Xander's jeans where they rode on his hips, scraping his fingernails along the soft skin there. It hurt, a little, and Xander sucked in his breath, feeling the hot glow of the tracks down his legs as Spike peeled his jeans down. The blond head decended with them, hot tongue licking a damp trail down his chest. Xander moaned and let his head fall forward, taking hold of Spike's head. Just one swipe of the tongue at the tip of his cock, tasting him, and Spike mmmmm'd and stood up. Smirking, he nuzzled into Xander's neck, growled hot words into his ear, clutched at his ass.

“Into the bath with you, then. Gonna get you all soaped up and squeaky clean, gonna make sure you're shining in every little corner, yeah?” Xander felt one finger drift across his cleft cheeks, felt himself blush and tense. He curled his fingers lightly around Spike's biceps and pushed at him, just a little, holding on when Spike had gone far enough, and ducked his head against Spike's chest. He knew that there was something wrong with saying what he was about to say, something about trust and foolish questions. But he was worried, and Spike would be okay, he thought. Spike had been good, more than good, so far, about being careful with him, and making sure he was okay, so Xander figured that Spike would manage this.

But he definitely couldn't look him in the eye and ask. So he buried his face against Spike's neck and licked there, collarbone to earlobe, pleased when Spike groaned loud.

“Um, Spike? Will it... will it hurt?”

Spike pulled away from him, just a bit, hands on biceps like Xander'd done before. He looked at him, smiled a bit. “A little. It hurts a lot more if you don't take care and make yourself ready first. But that's not what we'll do, my lamb.” Spike began to push him gently, just gently, back into the shower. Xander moved, turning to look behind him. The shower was huge and open, sheer curtain around twenty square feet of sunken blue tiles and a single jet on one wall. Xander stepped into it, then looked back to Spike.

“First, we'll have water.” Spike smiled his bone-melting smile, looking up between his lashes. For a second, Xander felt like prey, like Spike was a predator, felt adrenaline rush through his body. Then Spike pulled on the metal tap, and tropically warm water rushed down over them. Spike reached for the soap, graceful, lithe as a cat. Xander couldn't stop looking at him, at the way he moved, the pale skin against the blue tile. It still was so new, and he was definitely surprised at how attractive it all suddenly was. He got caught up in watching Spike's hands with the soap, all slender and strong looking, silver rings sliding up and down with the white bubbles. Spike seemed to notice those too, and slid them off, dropping them in a little cup that was fixed to the wall with suction cups. The sight of the silver sliding along those fingers was enough to make his breath catch in his throat.


Chapter Eighteen

“Next, then, there'll be touching. You've got to have touching.” Spike brought his lathered hands to Xander's chest and smoothed the bar over the hard muscle there, working his fingers across the flesh before him, massaging and pinching and reveling in the sliding of skin on skin.

The boy was so dark in comparison, skin tanned golden brown in the sun. Where'd he say he was from, California? Figures. The sight of his own pale hands against that skin just made Spike harder, more eager to just fuck all the foreplay and drive into that warm, golden body. But that one question, 'Will it hurt, Spike', and it was certain – the boy would have to beg for it before Spike would take him. Couldn't chance hurting him, so slow and steady would have to be the way. But the boy would beg. Yes, Spike would allow himself that small pleasure, of making the words come tumbling from his boy's lips. Please, Spike, fuck me, please. God, that'll be sweet. And then...

No, no, no. Spike shivered. Mustn't think of it. Football. Taxes.

He felt the little moan before he heard it. Boy was leaning up against the wall, eyes closed, hands flat against the tile. Water sluicing down his chest, over his stomach, parting around his thick cock, racing down his legs. Complaining, because Spike's hands had stilled on his body. Bloody hell, this one had him on fucking fire.

Spike took Xander by the shoulder and pushed and pulled at him until he turned round, put his hands and face to the wall and stood with his feet apart, perfect arse turned to him, waiting for him. “Oh, yeah, baby.” Gonna fuck you so hard you'll feel me for days.

Spike soaped his fingers again, stepped forward and ran them across Xander's shoulders. Pleasure settled low in his stomach as he felt his cock nestle between Xander's soap-slick cheeks, head rubbing lightly against the small of his back, hot water racing over them both. Xander shivered and his fists balled up against the wall. Spike worked his fingers down, down, down, sometimes scratching, sometimes massaging, sometimes lightly brushing his fingertips over the skin. Xander moaned and twisted in Spike's grasp, arching into his hands. Spike pushed his hips into Xander's, feeling the lovely slide against his cock, the give of the boy's hips.

Abruptly, he pulled to the side. The fingers playing at the base of Xander's spine slid down, further, spreading thick lather over Xander's arse and between his cheeks. The boy gasped and Spike felt the muscles leap under his fingers as he drew closer to the little pucker of muscle. He reached it, brushed his finger over it, and felt the boy sigh and relax into his hand, feeling the pleasure of it.

“That's the way, love. God, but you're a treat, you know that?” Spike licked the boy's shoulder under the spray of water, and Xander looked straight at him, leaned forward, silently asking for a kiss. Spike smiled and moved closer, still moving his finger ever so lightly, in long, slow strokes between the boy's cheeks. “Want me? Want more?”

Xander sighed and nodded, still reaching for him with his lips.

“Have to ask for it, then, love. Can you do that?”

Spike saw it, saw the adam's apple work up and down as the boy steeled himself, saw him bite his bottom lip, just for a second. Sweet God, I'm with either the most naturally sexy virgin on the planet or I'm getting utterly taken by the best hustler in a county. Spike waited.

“S... Spike...”

“Yes, sweet,” Spike breathed, so close to the boy's lips he could almost taste them.

“Kiss me?”

Spike complied instantly, crushing their mouths together, Xander groaning into his mouth. Draped against the boy, water racing down both of them, Spike's soap slick fingers gently teased the boy's sensitive opening, circling it. Xander tensed and Spike pulled away, watched the boy's face as pleasure closed his eyes and furrowed his brow.

“That's right, love. Feel it. Feel my fingers on you. 'S good, yeah?”

Xander sucked in his bottom lip and nodded. Spike teased a little harder, allowing the barest bit of flesh to push through the boy's strong ring of muscle. God, he's so tight. The boy's chocolate eyes flew open, and he drew a deep breath. Spike held back, looked into the boy's eyes, making sure he was okay.

And Xander pushed back onto his finger, forcing a little more the tip of it inside. He threw his head back, groaning, and Spike nearly came right there. Got to get him to the bed, got to get him there now.

Spike pushed his finger in, then withdrew, back and forth, in and out, until Xander was shivering and rocking against him. Spike muttered in his ear, licking at his neck.

“Gonna take you, boy, gonna push my fingers in you, clean you up good and proper, and then we're gonna go back to my bed, and I'm gonna lay you down, and then we're gonna make a go at what we did before, you remember? Gonna lick your little hole, gonna make you squirm and scream and beg me. Hear that, love? You're gonna beg for me before the end.”

The boy opened those lovely eyes, luminescent in the hot mist, and grinned at him. “I get that you think that.” He pushed back against Spike's fingers and wiggled a little, that grin still wide on his face. “But you wanna know what I think, Spike?” Xander leaned in and kissed him, and Spike was so surprised he just let it happen, kissing Xander back by instinct. When he broke away, he was smirking right into Spike's eyes. “I think you might just want to fuck me too bad to wait.”

Spike had to tear his eyes away. In this contest of wills, he was going to win. Xander would beg before he'd get the thorough fucking he needed, would shake and moan and plead, and it would be the sweetest thing this night would know. But the boy's cocky arrogance was just on the verge of making him right after all, and Spike had to look away for a moment, 'cause he was just on the verge of shoving that smirk up against the shower wall and thrusting deep into that tight arse, to hell with the bloody consequenses.

His voice shook a little with wanting. “Playing with fire, you are.” Spike slid his finger from the boy, rinsed and soaped his hands again. “Looking to get burned, Xander?” He slicked up his whole hand, making sure to have plenty of lather. “'Cause I'm the one lookin' to burn you, baby. Better be careful.” And he slid the tips of two fingers into Xander's hot little bottom.

Xander keened, and Spike thrust, readying the boy, taking care to clean and rinse him properly while he was at it. “Tell me what you're feeling, Xander. Tell me.”

“Uhhhh... your... your fingers.”

“Yeah. More. Talk.”

“They're... they're moving in me...”

“Yeah, that's good.”

“It's good. It's hot and kind of... unh... kind of tingling...”

“Good. Now, tell me, love... how do you feel?” Spike stroked his thumb across the soft little perenium. “How do I make you feel?”

“Oh, God... Spike, ohhh, God, you... you feel so good.”

Spike hissed in a breath, added a third finger, stretching Xander wide. “That's right. Tell me. Tell me what I do to you.” Xander keened and slammed his hands against the wall, curling his fingers. Spike stilled, and tried to ask if Xander were all right, if he were hurt, but the boy whimpered and pushed back against him.

“More, Spike, God, don't stop, more...”

A happy smirk lit Spike's lips. I am definitely gonna win this bet.

He pulled himself back, made Xander lean over so he could rinse him off, thrusting fingers in him all the while, Xander moaning and clenching around him. When the boy was squeaky clean, Spike pulled his fingers from him and leaned in from behind, letting his cock come to rest between those burning hot cheeks. He brought his lips close enough to Xander's ear that they grazed the lobes and whispered, “Come on, love. We're going to bed.”

Spike shoved the tap to 'off' and pulled the curtain around. Xander stood shivering in the shower, and Spike couldn't wait the seconds it would take to towel off. He took the boy by the wrist and walked into the bedroom, Xander running behind him. He reached the bed and threw the sheet and cover back, ushering the boy up onto the bed. He heard a sloshing sound – the bottle they'd had earlier, Spike guessed. Boy must be moving it. He himself opened his bedside table, withdrawing a couple of very necessary items and placing them in easy reach for later. For a moment, Spike guessed he was lucky to have the forethought for that, since he was carefully avoiding thinking of anything else. Like the word underage. Like the word morning.

Spike crawled up on the bed and settled himself between the boy's legs, low down, and lifted one of those strong, muscled legs over his shoulder. He lay the boy back on the bed, noticed him dripping and shivering from the cold. He smiled. Theyd warm up soon enough. Beside him was a little sparkling auburn bottle, which he grabbed. Flicking the cap of the lube open, he gathered a little bit of it on his finger and smoothed it over Xander's puckered hole. The boy squirmed and moaned. The stuff Spike used made the skin warm and tingly when you put it on. The scent of cinnamon and honey teased him, so much better than that fake fruity shite.

“Gonna do it now, love. Ready?”

Xander nodded frantically, closing a hand on his head. Spike leaned in close, took a deep scenting of the freshly washed skin – soap and cinnamon and honey – and swiped his tongue along it, feeling little tingles on his tongue. The boy nearly shot off the bed. Spike smirked.

“How's that, love?”

“G... good.” The boy's voice was shaking, and his fingernails scraped Spike's scalp, trying to push without pushing. But Spike could tell he was holding back, could see his teeth gritted together. Trying to keep from asking, from begging. Spike wasn't about to let him off that easy.

“You want more, then?”

“Oh, God, yeah...”

Ah well, that'd do, for now, because the combination of cinnamon, honey and Xander was working some kind of magic on him. Spike decended again and traced his tongue around the opening. He took more lube in his fingers and spread it around, soaking Xander in it, working it into the skin. He'd smell like cinnamon and Spike tomorrow. That thought brought blood rushing to Spike's cock. He attacked the little hole, tongue finding every crevice, every bit of the honey flavor, his lips kissing at it, teeth gently nudging. Xander began to pant, to writhe. When Spike felt the boy's heel begin to dig at his back, he set the tip of his tongue to the opening and gently pushed.

Xander let out an long moan, “Ohhhhhh...”

That little sound shot straight down Spike's spine and jolted his cock. He pulled away for a moment and looked up the broad expanse of Xander above him. “God, boy, you know what you do to me?”

Breathless, Xander raised his head, looking down his body at Spike. “If it's anything like what you do to me, I don't know why you aren't fucking me right now.”

Jesus! Spike snarled, bared his teeth, and attacked the little spot again, licking and biting, flicking at it, pushing into Xander over and over, hearing the boy writhe and moan, tasting the warm, tingling lubricant, scenting the precum all over Xander's cock, just above him.

“Oh, God, Spike... please! Please, okay, please, just touch me, fuck me, Spike! I beg you, okay, just please fuck me, fuck me, God, fuck me...”

It rolled off his tongue like a litany, and Spike felt his blood boil, felt his cock urgent against his belly, and could not wait another second. He reared up and grabbed the condom beside him, shaking, and tore it open, rolled it on faster than he could remember ever doing. “Shhh, pet, just relax,” he muttered. “You've got to relax, love.”

Xander's eyes locked onto his, and he raised his legs to Spike's shoulders. Didn't stop talking for a second. “Come on, Spike, I can't... I need you to... come on, please, please, fuck me...”

“Say 'I want you', baby. Say 'I want you inside me, Spike.'”

He blushed so pretty with the words, but he said them anyway, panting them out on ragged breaths. “I want you inside me, Spike!” Boy couldn't look away, couldn't stop himself begging with his eyes, his hands dancing over Spike's chest, legs pulling at him. Jesus, God, he will be the death of me. Too beautiful, too hot, too much.

Spike slathered his sheathed cock with the lubricant, then set the tip to that quivering opening, all hot and ready for him. It was all he could do, every ounce of restraint he had he used to push in just a little, just the tip, not even the whole head, just the barest edge...

And Xander surged upward, impaling himself, pushing the head of Spike's cock inside him, and up the shaft, and he was so tight and hot and good, and he wailed. His fingers dug into Spike's back, his mouth opened and he let out a wail, keening out the pleasure, the words coming quick on the tail of the sound, “fuckmefuckmefuckmefuckme” and Spike lost what control he had.

He surged forward, burying himself to the hilt inside the boy. “God, it's so good, so hot, so tight, I won't, I can't, you've, oh, Christ, boy...” He reached between them, wrapped his fingers around Xander's cock and squeezed, tugging just a little as he reared back and crowded into the boy again. Xander's eyes opened wide a saucers and he clearly couldn't talk anymore, and Spike didn't care, just drove back and forth, stroking Xander's cock, and it was only seconds before the orgasm crashed over them both, their bodies spasming and straining together, ecstasy, their mingled cries filling the room.


Chapter Nineteen

The curtains on the bed were closed when Xander opened his eyes, but light filtered through the little places where they weren't pulled flush. He had that moment of panic, when you wake up in a strange place and can't remember how you got there. Then, everything began to come back.

Spike.

Images flooded through his mind, liquid, dark and intense. The spiked blond hair, the pierced tongue, the burning blue eyes. Strong, fine hands holding Xander's calves, that pretty mouth open and gasping, eyes squinted shut with pleasure. Blood blush in his ivory-pale chest, his soft stomach, his cock.

Xander sat up in the bed, quickly, crazily running his hands over himself, as though checking to see that he still had everything. The first thing he noticed was that some things were definitely sore. He winced and pushed cautious fingers toward the warm ache, surprised, when he brushed delicate fingers over it, that it wasn't really painful so much as a reminder, a quiet yet persistent voice in his body, telling him in no uncertain terms what he'd been doing last night. Sex. I had sex. With Spike.

He turned to look at the lump on the other side of the bed. Spike was curled completely under the blankets, blond, soft, de-gelled wisps of hair poking up onto the pillow. Xander opened his mouth to ask if he were awake, but decided at the last second against it. I should probably let him sleep. After all, the minute he wakes up is the minute I have to face the fact that I, Alexander Lavelle Harris, am just as gay as singing 'Three Little Maids' in the shower.

Xander rubbed at his eyes and found himself needing to pee, so he kicked back the covers and threw his legs over the side of the bed. The light, though it was dim enough that it had to be around dawn, hit him like a Mack truck. Ooookay, that hurts. He dropped his face in his palms, trying to rub the throbbing hangover out of his temples. Beside him, Spike made a protesting sound and burrowed further under the covers, away from the light. This, at least, was something he was used to. Small town California didn't often have a lot of options for entertainment, and the few crowds who would permit Xander in their midst did a fair amount of drinking. Gay? Huge, massive issue. Hangovers? Not so much.

He stumbled out of bed, taking care to close the curtains behind him, and made for the bathroom. He relieved himself (Black toilet? Why didn't I notice that earlier? Who the hell's got a black toilet?) and climbed in the shower, lathering away the sweat and incredibly confusing stickiness. With the steam and soap around him, Xander felt calmer. He did most of his best Thinking About Life in the shower.

Okay. Gay. This isn't so big. I can deal with this. Sure, the guys at high school were right about me, but, statistically speaking, it had to have happened at least once in their lives. So it's this. Big deal. I'm gay.

Growing up in America had taught Xander a thing or two about being gay, and those images now poured through his mind with himself in starring roles. On his knees, like with Spike last night, sucking and licking at the treat before him. Face pressed into a pillow, being thrust into, gasping in pleasure, Spike kneeling behind him. The Village People. Xander was the construction worker.

And, that's pretty much all I know about that. Huh. Xander wondered for a moment if there were other parts to gay life, like punk life, things he ought to know and didn't. Probably. What if I screw them up? What if it's just as much rejection and pain being gay as being straight, or worse, more? What if... He felt himself start to hyperventilate and cut those thoughts off before he could worry too much.

Turning off the shower, he grabbed a blue towel off the rack and gave himself a once-over with it before tucking it around his waist. He was careful not to disturb the near-inanimate Spike as he headed for his knapsack in the living room, pulling a change of clothes and his toothbrush out of it. He brushed his teeth, pulled on his jeans, fought briefly with himself on where to stash his forbidden boxers, and decided on the knapsack. Just in case.

In the kitchen, Xander decided to make tea, since Spike was so fond of it. He held a full mug of tea (my complex formula involves much milk and much sugar) and stood near the pool table, looking out the window into the silent streets, washed in the gray light of dawn. He thought about home, about Sunnydale, and about the terrible morning he'd decided to leave town.

Willow. God, Willow. I miss you so much.

The light had been the same color then as now, when he'd walked out into it from Sunnydale Memorial, the sound of her vital monitor still humming that flat tone in his ear that meant his best friend was gone. Lots of people thought Sunnydale was a pretty little Californian town, with pretty little people living pretty little lives. They didn't see what went on after dark; the addictions, the users, the people feeding off one another. Willow, sweet girl that she'd been, had gotten into that life as one of the few hapless souls trying to fix it, trying to make a difference - and it had cost her her life. Some asshole put her in a coma one night, and she hadn't woken up.

Willow was the one thing Xander'd had going for him in life. His best friend from as far back as he could remember, the only one who could be trusted with his deepest secrets, his most humiliating moments, and never try to hurt him, never use him the way others could. When she died, Xander would have gladly followed her.

Instead, not knowing where he was going or why, he packed what few things he'd need and scoured his parents' wallets as they slept off their latest drunken binge upstairs. Somehow, he had made it onto a train and arrived intact at LAX. When he looked up at the destinations boards, he'd seen London, United Kingdom scroll across in glowing red lights, and it seemed like another world. London. A place he'd always heard about but never been to, where he could sink into the world, let it swallow him up and disappear. So he booked himself on a redeye flight to Heathrow, and... now he was here. Recently fucked, standing in jeans and ruined nail polish in the apartment of a punk rock star, holding a cup of tea and thinking of his dead best friend.

Would you think less of me, Will? No way, huh? I'm stupid for even thinking it. You'd just get all flustered and stutter and then tell me that I'm your best friend, and if it makes me happy, you're happy for me. He felt a tear slip down his cheek. You always were the first girl up for the underdog. Or the Xanderdog. He looked up at the sky, and wondered if she were up there. Maybe she could see him, in Spike's huge windows, light all around him. He pulled a hand away from his tea and waved, just once, at her. Just in case.

He took a sip of the warm brew and let the herbal, sweet taste soothe him. It'd been a long time since he had tea. Willow's mom liked it and was always feeding it to him when he came to Willow's house. Said it was some kind of blend of the great Mother spirit from Timbuktu, or something. As much as Willow had a wierd relationship with her parents, they'd always seemed like heaven to Xander. Compared to his parents, he thought, Ted Bundy might have been a step up. He remembered spending hours in the kitchen with Willow, her mom teaching them both to cook. Willow's mom was happy to teach Xander, said it was important that men spend time in the kitchen, communing with the food they consumed. Feminist stuff like that. He always ended up with a plate full of real food out of the deal, so he never argued. Better than he ever got at home - snacks and TV dinners. Willow and he would play games in the kitchen, as they cooked, screwing around, just having fun. Xander smiled, thinking of it.

He suddenly felt the urge to make breakfast.

Back in the kitchen, Xander raided the fridge for fixings. Hangovers require breakfast, preferably bacon-y and served after noon. He found eggs and potatos (have to make the hashbrowns from scratch) but there was a criminal lack of bacon. Xander was near to giving up when some heavy mining in the ice fields of Spike's freezer yielded some sausages. He began to enjoy himself as he hunted for spices and pans in Spike's kitchen, wresting the necessities of life from the harsh terrain, epic goal of hangover breakfast food ever nearer in his sight. He heated the stove (rivers of lava) set about frying the sausages (alchemist's laboratory) and began chopping potatos for the hashbrowns (Back! Back, vile fiend of wierdly aligned and many eyes!). When he finally sat down with his fork, he felt almost good.

Shortly afterward, Xander was well-fed for the first time in days, and a full plate for Spike was in the oven, staying warm. He wandered around the apartment, idly looking around. Mustn't turn on the TV. Might wake up the boyfriend sleeping in the bedroom. Xander mentally chuckled at the Ozzie and Harriet picture he painted in his mind. Then, something caught his eye.

Why didn't I notice this last night? You'd think, playing pool right next to huge oriental screens all night, I'd notice. Stupid alcohol. I don't even know what we were drinking. But they're the same color as the wall, so I guess it's meant to fool you a bit. Look, they're set into the floor. They must roll back... where's the end? He followed the screen around the corner it made, noticing that it went all the way back to the wall on each side. It's set right into the corner... there's a room in there. Xander nearly missed it when he passed it - one of the black lacquered joints in the screen had a latch on it, small enough that you wouldn't really see it unless you were looking for it. He debated for a half-second before twisting the latch, which opened easily. See? Not locked. If I wasn't supposed to go in, it'd be locked.

He drew the screen back and was confronted with a dim but open space. The windows here came only to the waist, and the wall below them was lined with dark objects that Xander couldn't make out in the lack of light. He looked around for a lamp and spotted one just inside, so he stepped in and flicked it on.

The light spilled over canvases. Lots of them. Brilliant colors splashed across the surfaces, little table, stool and easel in one corner, a table stained with clay and water on another, shelf full of statues and objets d'art.

This is Spike's studio. But there's no musical equipment. Why would he lock this away? Xander edged into the room, eyes roaming over the paintings. Almost all were of men. Some were obviously studies in form, but many were of a particular person, a darkly handsome man, sometimes nude in blatantly sexual attitudes, sometimes crisply dressed, behind a desk, but always, always looking straight at the viewer, malevolance in his eyes.

As Xander carefully moved paintings aside to see the ones underneath, one canvas caught his eye. It was unfinished, only the top portion painted, and the bottom covered in vague sketch marks. The same man, but this time, he was depticted as an angel. White wings spread out at the top of the painting, darkness all around him, white robes trailed over the rest of him. This time, he wasn't looking at the viewer, but rather at the sketched figure at the bottom. Another man, it seemed, laid out on a funereal bier. Xander was no art critic, but even he could feel the emotion in the painting. It was all about sadness. That, Xander understood very, very well. Spike painted this. I don't know who this guy is, but I do know that I probably shouldn't. I probably shouldn't even...

The voice from the doorway was vibrant with anger, and at the same time perfectly calm.

"What in the hell are you doing?"


Chapter Twenty

The boy's head snapped up guiltily, paintings all around him. Spike felt his lips pulling back from his teeth in a soundless snarl.

“I was... I was just... I wanted to...”

Spike stepped aside and the boy immediately took the hint, scrambling to his feet and almost running out of the room. As soon as he stood outside the screen, Spike fixed him to the floor with a glare and pointed a finger in the studio.

“You never, never come in here. Got it?” Spike stabbed the air in front of Xander's face with his finger, emphasizing the next words, teeth clenched. “Or I'll be very. Very. Put. Out.”

Xander nodded frantically. “I'm sorry. I... I won't...”

“Good.” Spike stepped inside, flicked off the lamp, came back out and shut the door, latching it. The boy trembled beside him. Nothing for it, really. He bloody ought to be frightened to go in there. Nosy little bastard. But Spike wasn't a monster, so he gestured to the mug in Xander's hand and forced his tone into an offhand comment, only a smidge of the seething posessiveness making it into his voice.

“See you've been taking some good advice, pet.”

Xander seemed stunned for a moment, then pointed at his own tea. Spike felt the urge to smile, and some of the anger started to fade. “Oh... tea! Yeah! I made some. Tea. Do you want some? I made enough for both of us.”

“All right, pet, that'd be nice. Be a good lad and fetch us some.”

Xander nodded, tendrils of chestnut hair falling in his eyes, and rushed into the kitchen. Spike watched him go, feeling more of the anger fading, transmuting itself into lazy morning lust. He shook his head and padded over to his couch, rubbing a hand along his belly where his hastily-donned black jeans lay open. He tossed himself down on the couch, kicking his feet up.

He couldn't imagine what had woken him so early, but here it was, sun barely over the horizon, and he'd sat up in bed, unable to sleep. There hadn't been any noise in the flat, but he'd realized immediately what was missing – his bed was short one pretty, dark eyed boy. Spike had rolled out of bed and walked into his living room, sure somehow that the boy would be there, and he'd been right. But he wasn't expecting to find his studio screen open. Nobody had been in that room since he'd set it up, though bandmates and friends had asked.

That space was reserved for his best and worst moments. It was very nearly a part of his brain; never in the rest of the world he inhabited was he so brutally honest with himself. Others weren't permitted in that private space. Now that Xander had been in, Spike wasn't really sure what to do with him. His thoughts were muddled – Xander'd seen things nobody else ever had. But Spike wasn't offended at the thought. Instead, he'd seen the paintings stare at the boy, assessing him, appraising him. Stripping him. Wanting him for their own. And he'd been furious.

Xander walked carefully in from the kitchen, holding a mug of tea with two hands, watching closely to make sure he didn't spill. Spike felt the posessiveness surge in him again, the heat close on its heels. Beautiful boy, not gonna let anything hurt you.

“Set that down.”

The boy did so, obediently. Lust rolled through Spike's body like thunder, far away, when dark clouds are on the horizon. Distant and beautiful... but faintly threatening.

Spike patted the cushion beside him. “Come sit here.” Xander did that. He'd stopped trembling, but he was tense, and his eyes flicked up at Spike and then down to his lap. He fiddled with his hands.

“Didn't mean to frighten you, earlier.” The boy relaxed a little. “But if that's what it takes to keep you goin' in that room, I'll scare the life out of you thrice over.”

Chocolate eyes widened, pink lips fell open with a quick breath. “Oh, yeah! I get that. Scout's honor. Which, by the way, I wasn't. A scout. But there's the honor part, anyway, and I definitely will not be going in there again.” He looked into Spike's eyes, sincerity all over him.

“Best not, love.” Spike kept his tone low and level, speaking each word precisely. His eyes stayed locked to Xander's as he leaned forward to take the tea. He sipped it carefully. “A bit too hot, yet, love. We'll leave it to cool. Wouldn't want to burn.” He set it down again.

A range of emotions played through Xander's chocolate eyes; fear, caution, want, lust. Spike stood up and extended his hand, palm down. “Come on.”

Xander took the hand.

Spike grasped it firmly, backing through the room toward the french doors, pulling Xander after him, eyes still on his. Xander followed after him, and Spike let his eyes rove over the well-muscled body. He was hungry for the boy now, felt it low in his gut like an animal. His tongue came between his teeth, and Spike let his head drop a little, still staring into the boy's eyes, like a snake with its prey.

Get back. Spike hurled the thought at the dark emotions and memories swirling around in his skull, in the studio behind them, lurking so close. He had thoughts he couldn't remember thinking, felt emotions too strong; his guard was down. It was dangerous. Volatile. Boy won't be touched. Won't be taken. Won't be hurt.

Xander's breath sped up, and his bare feet hurried to keep up with Spike as they walked through the french doors. Spike brought the boy around to the foot of the bed and slid one hand around the back of Xander's neck, pulling his head close up to the boy so their foreheads were near touching. Spike rolled his head back and forth, swayed slightly in the grip. He wanted to speak, but at the same time couldn't imagine what he would say.

He drew one hand down the boy's chest, and the solid body he held shivered. He felt the boy's breath ghosting over his skin, hot and humid, felt himself respond, everything in his body hardening, muscles tensing. He looked up at the boy, not moving his head, through his lashes, pinned him with a glance. He thought the word so loudly he was sure it echoed in the room around them.

Mine.

Chapter Twenty-One

Oookaaay, Xander's brain said as he backed into the bed, easy, there, crazy. Nice british guy... Xander took a moment to thank his mouth for not saying that out loud. Spike's eyes bore into him, looking for something, almost. They were angry, Spike's eyes, but Xander had the feeling that those emotions weren't directed at him.

When the furious blond had appeared in the doorway, Xander had been sure he was about to find out just how much damage that lithe, wiry body could do, but almost all the rage had drained right out of him the moment Xander'd left the studio. Not to say all the tension wasn't still there. Xander could feel tension curling off of Spike like steam off a mountain hot spring – lazy, slow, but forceful and insistant, with the very real potential to burn you.

Yes, he is of the hotness. Xander darted his eyes down Spike's washboard abs, into the vee of tanned flesh where his jeans spread apart. Oh, man. One night gay and I'm a freaking groupie.

Xander tried to keep his voice even and level. And not squeaking. “Okay, Spike, what...”

"Shh." The punk gently put his index finger to Xander's lips. “No talking. Remember last night? All that time wasted... talking.” His hand crept along Xander's hip, ringed fingers curling in, settling on his hipbone and squeezing a little there, cool metal thrilling his heated skin. “'Less, of course, it's the other. The good kind.” The finger on his lips traveled along his cheekbone, back into his hair, where other fingers joined it to splay along his head, pulling at his hair just a little, just right. He couldn't stop staring at Spike's lush mouth, watching it whisper to him.

"The way you told me how you felt. How you wanted me. How good it felt to have me around you... inside you.” Xander's breath caught. “You want to talk, love... let me hear that.” Spike was walking forward, just an inch at a time, and Xander hadn't noticed, until his hips pushed into Xander's own, back into the bed frame, hard cocks nudging up against each other.

Just the tip of Spike's tongue snuck out of his mouth and touched the corner of his mouth, and Xander couldn't help himself. He leaned in and kissed him.

It was hot and liquid, just as he remembered it, but in a mere second, Spike made it different. Now there were firm lips pushing against his own, wanting in, nimble tongue opening his mouth and licking at him. Spike's hands on him were electric, now at his neck, holding his head, then at his waist, clutching him closer. Xander felt himself being pushed backward, onto the bed, and let himself fall onto it. Spike had his knees up on the bed, straddling Xander's legs, without even moving his hands from their deathgrip on Xander's shoulders, now. And still, he kissed into Xander's mouth, pulling and sucking at him like he could only breathe Xander's breath.

Xander was torn. Part of him was really into it, felt his body take Spike's tension in, make it his own, felt it spiral through him and stoke a fire low in his belly. Part of him, though, was just a little afraid of this wild thing on top of him, holding him so tight, needing him so badly. He tore his mouth away from Spike's with some difficulty.

"Spike! Spike... wait.” He pushed gently at Spike's shoulders.

Spike sat up, cheeks flushed, hair tousled, a wicked smirk on his face. “Taking a page from my book, love? Thought you said I needed to set my mind, stay in the bed for five seconds, wasn't it?” Spike moved in again, but Xander dodged him.

"Okay, touche, but again I say wait.”

Spike blew out a breath and leaned over on one elbow, not budging his lower half one inch. He looked at Xander askance and said, “Right... what is it?”

Xander looked at the ceiling a little self consciously and gestured with his free hand. “It's not that I don't find you attractive. You're definitely on the smokin' side of the hotness line.” Spike smirked. Xander resisted the urge to kiss the smirk off his face. “And I'm also happy about the whole not-killing-me-for-entering-the-Fortress-of-Solitude thing.”

Spike's eyebrow twitched up, as did the corner of his mouth. His gaze started to drift down Xander's bare chest, along with one finger. “You're downright lickable, you know that?”

"Hey, one track mind guy. Focus?” Xander waved two fingers in front of Spike's eyes and drew them toward his own. Spike pulled his gaze lazily up Xander's torso, letting his eyes settle on Xander's intently. His tongue curled under his teeth, and Xander suddenly had trouble breathing.

This time, his voice squeaked a little. “So...”

"So...?” Spike's voice was in the low registers, smooth and silky again, the kind of voice made to slide right into your ears and stoke the fire raging in your belly, harden your cock, make it jerk and twitch to be touched by... Okay. Not helping.

"So I think you're acting a little weird, and I guess I'm just wondering, y'know, what's that all about? Because, sexy as it really, really is, you're kinda freakin' me out here.” There. A whole two sentences. Check me out.

Spike's whole demeanor changed instantly. His eyes widened a little, and then he pulled back, climbing off the bed. Xander sat up and looked at him.

Spike was pacing. “I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...” He made an exasperated sound and rolled his eyes. Then he dragged a hand through his hair and turned to look at Xander. “Okay, look. I went a bit mad when I found you in there, because it's just mine, all right? Nobody but me's been in there, ever, and it's not the kind of thing I show to just anyone who wanders by. Fuck, even my best mates don't know I paint.” Spike pointed a finger at him and went back to pacing. “And you, y' wanker, shouldn't have been in there to soddin' start with! I mean, it's closed up, and locked and clearly private...”

"It wasn't locked.”

"Not the bloody point! It was closed, and how'm I to know you're not in there torchin' the place?” Spike walked over to his dresser and took a cigarette from the pack there, sticking it in his mouth while he searched around. “Where's my bloody lighter...?”

"You put it on the coffee table.” Xander tipped a finger toward the living room, just a small motion so as not to startle the crazy man. Spike left the room, grumbling, and Xander followed after at a discreet distance.

Finding his lighter on the table, Spike flicked it open and lit his cigarette, taking a deep drag. He stood there, fuming, and Xander walked up to him.

"Listen, I'm sorry for going in there. I didn't know, and the paintings were beautiful, so I just figured it was art, y'know, like your music. See-able.” Xander moved closer, took Spike by the hips the way he had earlier. “I didn't mean to mess you up. But I like you, and I get the impression you like me, so can we maybe start over?”

Spike raised an eyebrow at him, still grumpy-looking, but Xander had his attention. Xander smiled, a little wickedly, and leaned in. He kissed Spike's mouth, slowly, leisurely, feathering the tip of his tongue over Spike's lips. The body against him relaxed, and he felt Spike's free hand sneak back up into his hair. When Spike started grinding their erections together again, Xander pulled away and looked up at him from beneath his eyelashes, little smile playing over his lips.

"Good morning, Spike.”


Chapter Twenty-Two

Spike felt the weird thoughts slip from his mind and let them go, glad just to focus on the boy in front of him. He smirked at the boy, wicked gleam in his eyes, tipping his hips toward Xander's. “Oh, no you don't. This morning started in bed, if you recall. I, for one, don't particularily fancy it starting anywhere else.”

His eyebrows raised then as he felt Xander's hands grab his hips and pull them in, strong and forceful, grinding them together. “Got that right.”

Spike grinned and kissed the boy, nipping at his lips, gently, sweetly, just out of reach. Xander got more forceful, and Spike kept at it, until the boy growled a little and pulled at his hips again. Spike pulled away, still smiling, and spun out of Xander's grasp. With a look over his shoulder, he strutted away, toward the french doors, and the second he was through, shimmied out of his jeans and tossed them through the doorway. Then he sprinted for the bed, hurling himself onto it like a kid. Fuck it all, anyway. That whole ugly thing is past now, long past, dead and buried and gonna stay that way. So fuck it. I'm gonna have me some fun.

Xander was quick to join him, but as Spike arrayed himself among the pillows, he caught sight of the boy coming round the corner. He prowled along the floor, every move full of tightly controlled energy, eyes finding Spike and pinning him to one spot. He really has been takin' lessons. Spike felt surprise and heat jet through him as he watched Xander stalk toward the bed. The boy's dark curls fell into his eyes, his head tipped forward. At the foot of the bed, he shucked his jeans off, eyes never leaving Spike's for a second.

Spike just sprawled and crooked a finger at the boy, letting a slow, sinuous smile touch his lips.

It took only a moment for Xander to crawl up on the bed, eyes locked to Spike, thick cock riding along his belly. His eyes were meaningful, it was a Look. Spike had seen that particular Look a few times before, and every time it preceeded some of the best sex he'd ever had. This had to be encouraged. Spike unleashed the full power of his sexy smile on him; a seductive, come-hither twist of the lips. Xander didn't even flinch, just covered him, moving up close, along his legs, belly, chest, just letting his breath ghost over flushed skin. Spike reminded himself to breathe. Jesus, he learns fast.

Xander let his lips hover just over Spike's, breath almost seeming like contact as it warmed Spike's mouth.

Spike felt the anticipation screaming through his veins. Not quite, barely there, feeling the boy all around him but not touching, not really. Xander just waited there, moving his head, letting the warming breath paint itself across Spike's skin, until Spike couldn't stay still anymore and lifted one hand to trail it down Xander's body. He took gentle hold of the boy's cock and reveled in the barely audible gasp, the flutter of the boy's eyelashes as they closed, the press of the lips as he struggled to stay in control instead of leaning back and enjoying himself. “God, boy, you're so beautiful the fucking saints would crawl to get to you.” He stroked, once, twice, and still the boy was still as a statue. Didn't move. Not really. “Come on, then,” Spike growled, stroking again. “Touch me.”

As if those words had released him, Xander crushed his lips to Spike's, hard and wanting, and the blond exulted. The suckling, the nibbling, the tongue flicking all around, he'd expected, and the rising of his heart in his chest, and the catching of his breath as Xander forced his way in. When Xander rolled his hips on Spike's, when he glided cocks on bellies, stroking into their own slick, that was unexpected, but not out of the realm. Oh, fuck, yeah... the heat he makes...

What shocked Spike, what he'd never have predicted, was that the sweet cherry boy he'd only just plucked would take him firmly by the hair at his nape and pull, just gently, just right, so he'd tip his head back and let Xander have his way. Oh, God, boy. Keep this up, you'll be the death of me.

Spike writhed, kissing and thrusting against Xander, drawing his hands down the thickly muscled back, slick with sweat already. Spike had the fleeting thought that the boy might be some kind of human furnace, set him down in Antarctica and watch the glaciers sizzle. Then Xander tore away from Spike's mouth and kissed down him – cheek, jaw, neck, throat, chest – and all capacity for rational thought was utterly gone.

Spike shivered beneath the boy, just reveling in the feeling of the soft lips tracing his skin, tongue sneaking little licks, pressure building in his cock as he thrust against Xander's flesh. He felt the boy's warm tongue glide over his skin, dragging upward, the same path his lips had traced earlier, fist still clenched tightly in the white-blond hair. When he reached the jaw, Xander reared back, rested on his side, and took Spike's straining cock between his fingers, squeezing hard and stroking upward. Pleasure blasted through Spike and his head fell back as he drew in a shaky breath and let it out on a deep moan.

"Fuck, yes, boy. Do me just like that, come on...” Spike could hear the shaking in his voice, the raw scratch in his throat. He pushed his hips up, set his hands on the boy's shoulder and head and pushed gently, made a fist in his hair. Xander moved slowly, so slowly, and Spike was near ready to roar when he felt the hot, wet tongue brush across his cock. Every muscle tensed at once, back arching, and all at once he felt the boy's mouth slide down his length, hand in the center of his chest, pushing him back down onto the mattress with surprising strength. The fist Spike held in the boy's hair tightened as he pushed up into the wet heat, but Xander shook him off, using his free hand to flick Spike's away, never once breaking the smooth, sucking pressure of his lips, never missing a flick of the tongue. Spike's skin tingled, buzzed. The little bastard's topping me! But fuck if I'm complaining... He groaned and forced himself to relax into it, don't buck, don't fight. It was meltingly hot, Xander's tongue flicking over him, sucking strong at him, pulling and twisting and him shaking and groaning, and he managed a couple of words broken up with gasping. “Okay... love... you do... what you like... unh!”

Xander made a satisfied humming noise, the sound vibrating straight through his cock, hand never letting up the pressure on Spike's chest, the pressure that said mine, you're mine, you'll be where I say you'll be, do what I want you to do, and Spike was lost, thrusting up into Xander's mouth, every inch of skin on fire, stars blazing behind his eyes, roaring in his ears as he came.


Chapter Twenty-Three

As Spike panted above him, recovering, Xander felt a wave of relief. Okay. That went well. He'd been desperately afraid that Spike wouldn't like him turning the tables, taking the lead, but evidently he shouldn't have worried. He lifted his head, glanced at Spike's face, still slack-lipped and flushed and full of bliss. All right! The irresistable wiles of the Xand-man strike again! He was grinning when Spike opened his eyes.

He thought he'd almost gotten used to it, the vertigo that hit him whenever Spike looked at him like that, like he was Spike's worst enemy and a sex machine and a twelve-course meal all at once. The grin slid off Xander's face, lost as he was in just that look, just those eyes. Pink little tip of tongue licking at the top lip, teeth bared, Spike began to sit up, wrapped his strong fingers around Xander's wrist...

And the phone rang.

Spike rolled his eyes and let go of Xander, reached over to the bedside table and grabbed the little cell phone, which was chirping at them merrily, oblivious to the thunderous looks both of them sent at it. Thumbing one of the buttons, Spike slapped it to the side of his head and growled into it.

"Make it fast, cause you better believe I am busy. ... What? Oh, no, don't think so...”

Xander ducked his head, looked around the room, trying not to eavesdrop. It was only polite. Look, windows.

"Oh, no. No, no, no, Lorne, you have got to be fucking joking."

Xander studied the posts on the bed, trying to keep his mind from thinking out possible other sides of the conversation, trying to keep from asking his mind who Lorne was. It wasn't going well. This is out of control. I have known Spike for a day. Less. And I've been gay less time than that. And now when I picture this Lorne guy, I turn green. What is that about?

From the corner of his roving eye, he noticed Spike looking at him as he listened to the voice on the phone. Xander shifted his gaze, and immediately the vertigo returned, and every bit of Xander's attention was firmly back on Spike. In bed. Naked.

"Listen, I don't do those things. I pay you to do those things. Tell them I'm sick. Tell them I'm doin' artist things, yoga or zen or some such shite. You're my bloody agent, handle it!"

Agent. Right. Of course. I am not smug. Xander's reverie cut short as Spike looked straight at Xander and lifted one finger to his lips in the international sign for shush. Xander nodded, a little confused. Then, Spike dragged his tongue up his palm and wrapped it around Xander's cock. Oh God. I take it back. I am very, very smug.

Spike jacked him, slowly, torturously. Xander's gasp strangled off with a weird choking sound. Right, on the phone, can't make a sound, gotta stay quiet. Spike watched him intently, and Xander could almost hear him think. Don't you come, his eyes said. This isn't so you come. This is so when I get away from this wanker and come back to you, you can't hold yourself back.

"Fuck. Fuck, Lorne! I hate these things, you know that. Christ."

Spike's eyes roved away from Xander's face as he ranted, but he kept pulling lazily at Xander's aching cock. Xander'd been wanting Spike for near an hour now, and when Spike added a cruel little twist of the wrist, it made the slide and friction and tension build and mount too fast, much too fast. Spike cradled the phone between his cheek and shoulder and reached for the table with his free hand, retrieving a pen and notepad. Xander was near choking trying to stay quiet, to get Spike's attention. News flash, blondie! Not made of steel here, fortress of solitude notwithstanding, okay?

"Right. Where is it?" Spike scratched at the paper with the pen in his hand. “Uh-huh...” His other fist kept moving up and down on Xander.

Xander felt his blood boiling and he tried to hold on, trembling, balling his fists, biting his lip and squinting his eyes shut so he couldn't see Spike's platinum hair, his icy eyes, his pale hand with black smudges stroking his cock. So hot, Spike talking like he wasn't even there, clever fingers pulling at him, slick with the precum dripping from the slit, scratching away at that paper. Had he cared what Spike was talking about? It could be plans to kill the President, or how his name was really Napoleon Boneapart and he had to get back to his kingdom, Xander could not have cared less, just so long as his hand kept doing that, kept moving and pulling, more, more, more...

Xander thrust, just once, against Spike's grip, and Spike slid his fingers to the base of Xander's straining erection and circled him tight, clinching there, making the orgasm crest against them, and roll back. Xander groaned, loud, and blue eyes flicked up at him, laughing silently.

"Right, then. I'll be there, you right bastard, but you bloody owe me, understand? Ciao.”

And with that he clicked off the phone.

Xander knelt between Spike's legs, glaring down at him. His voice shook. “Spike...”

Lightning fast, Spike was up and had Xander by the shoulders, twisting him around and down to the bed. Xander groaned, his head thrown back against the pillows. Spike straddled him and ground down, their hard lengths sliding together, and kissed him hard. Xander could only kiss back, pushing up against the lean body, scraping fingernails across Spike's back, try to get him closer.

Spike pulled away from his mouth, still thrusting slowly against him. “Got a party I gotta go to tonight.” He licked along Xander's neck, biting at the muscle there, and Xander moaned high, curving his neck toward the sensation.

"Some bloody promotion thing for the band," Spike growled into his shoulder. Licking down his chest, his lips wrapped around Xander's nipple, pulling and biting, and Xander keened, trying desperately to get more friction, almost throwing his hips at Spike's. Why in the name of all that's holy is he still talking?

Spike stopped everything then, looked up at him in his most adorable, fuckable way; almost shyly. “Come with me?”

Xander could not believe his ears. “What? Yes, fine, whatever, yes, just... please, Spike, oh, God...”

Spike grinned then, bad boy image right back in place. “Told you you'd beg.” He leaned over, spreading his pale body over Xander's, and Xander lifted his hands, slid his fingers over the hard muscles and ridges there, fingertips zinging across heated skin. When he returned, he had the little bottle and packet in his hand, and Xander knew what came next, and completely forgot to be cool.

"Oh, yes, Spike, please..." Xander lifted his legs up, held his own thighs so Spike could reach.

Spike looked almost awed as he rolled the condom on, drizzled lube on himself and on Xander and put a finger up to the little hole. "Look at you, pet. So fuckin' pretty, you are, holding yourself wide for me. Want me, then? Want me fillin you up, fuckin' you deep, kiss that sweet mouth while I do?"

Xander moaned, lifted his hips. Spike pressed one finger in, and the pleasure splintered through Xander's whole being. "Spike, Spike, Spike, Spike..." A prayer, a plea. His teeth clenched, his head thrashed, and he rocked his hips up, trying to get more.

"Christ, you're so ready. So hot for me, you know that? You're burnin' hot, on my finger.” Xander would have done anything, anything to get him inside. Spike added another two fingers, stretching him wide, and it hurt a little, but Xander barely noticed.

"Spike, please, please..."

"Say it for me, love. Say it."

Xander looked up at him, tried to find him through the haze. He swallowed, licked his lips. "Please... fuck me. I need you, Spike, please, please..."

Spike shivered and pulled his fingers from Xander, positioned himself at the entrance and pushed, just a little. Xander pushed back, and Spike came forward, between Xander's legs, and took his mouth as he thrust forward full tilt.

Xander came, screaming, trying to kiss Spike and claw at his shoulders, legs wrapped around his back and thrusting up as Spike pounded into him.


Chapter Twenty-Four

"You can't pay me enough to come out.”

"Don't be such a ninny. I'm sure it's fine.” Spike lit a cigarette and leaned against one of the bedposts, looking at the closed bathroom door.

"Fine. But if there's laughter of any kind, I will throw a long and loud tantrum. Just so you're aware.”

The door opened, and Xander stepped out, looking awkward and shy, and crossed his arms over his chest. There were great, heavy black boots on his feet, laced right up the calf. Spike's loosest, beat up, broke in leathers clung to Xander's thighs, and as with all of Spike's garb, they slung low on the boy's hips. Just above, the smooth skin was draped by a clinging, sheer, v-necked t-shirt, a kind of rich sepia tone Spike had chosen to draw attention to the chocolate eyes. The boy's nipples were darkened just so by the dusky fabric, indistinct but very there. His wrists were cuffed in black leather, nails retouched, eyes expertly smudged with kohl, and his hair was done up in snarls and spikes and wild curls that made the fingers itch to touch it. The boy looked like a demon, like a god. The effect was astonishing.

"I'm a bloody genius,” Spike breathed.

The boy grinned, unfolded his arms and dipped his head shyly, putting one hand to his nape to play with the hair there. He was absolutely beautiful.

Shaking himself from his reverie, Spike reached out to take the boy's hand. “Come on then, pet. Just one more thing you need, and we're ready to go.”

Xander allowed himself to be dragged out the bedroom door and over to the lobby. “Where is this place again? And tell me again why I'm going there?”

Spike shoved Xander's helmet into his hands and went over to the armoire that held the jackets. “You're going because you said you would. I clearly remember you saying you'd go. It was just between 'please' and 'fuck me harder, Spike'. I have an excellent memory.” He pulled a black jacket from the armoire and shook it out. It'd never really suited Spike himself, but he thought it might be exactly the thing to finish the look he'd been going for with Xander tonight. Turning, he held it out for Xander's arms.

The boy was blushing prettily at Spike's rude comments, but he lay the helmet on the ground and slid into the black fabric. Smoothing it, he turned to Spike for approval. The coarse, heavy cloth of the knee-length coat skimmed down Xander's body, showcasing the slim but strong build. The mandarin collar perfectly framed his throat, the rich color in the shirt a vivid stripe down his body. The wide cuffs of the sleeves drew attention to the leather bracelets and the fresh-painted nails.

All eyes would be on this boy tonight, and Spike would be the one taking him home. Perfect. Exactly what was called for at a party like this.

Xander looked up at him, holding his arms out at his sides. “So? Am I dolled up enough for your crazy shindig?”

Spike chuckled and rolled his eyes as he grabbed his helmet off the table. “Americans!” he drawled, and made for the door.

This time, as they drove through town, it was much earlier, and the streets were filled with cars and people. In this part of town, they honked and shouted and waved and got as rude as they could. Spike felt Xander's arms around his waist, his warm body pressed against his back, and felt almost dizzy. He thought of the other bodies that had pressed against him, riding on the back of his bike, how there'd been something missing when he was with them. How they'd all been there and gone in no time. Used him as he'd used them, and a swift handshake later, they'd been done.

That's what you are, isn't it? You're here now because you've nowhere to go, nowhere to turn but me. I've seen it. Just hanging around because you need me for now. And when you don't, then you'll be gone. Well. I've been in worse. And you're easily the best ripe bit of boy to soak my sheets in I don't know how long. Spike felt his lip curl in its trademark sneer. So for now, you're staying. And you'll be the sweet thing on my arm tonight, that everyone can dribble over, and tonight I'll take you home and fuck you right and proper. As it should be. Maybe you'll be here a few days, maybe a few more. And at the end, we shake hands and that's that.

Spike shivered a little – it was cold out tonight. The chill seeped through the black bomber jacket he wore, soaked through his battered jeans.

*~*

They pulled up in front of the darkened front of the club. One red neon block letter, an R, on the brick wall, and the huge line to get in were the only things that indicated a club here. Spike stopped the bike at the curb, directly in front of a no parking sign, and ripped the key from the ignition. He dismounted the bike, took off his helmet and strode up the steps with arrogant confidence, not even bothering to check and see if Xander was following. He could feel the boy's heat at his back, sense him distracted by the line of angry faces they passed by. At the door, he grinned, greeted and slapped the hand of the bouncer, who knew him, taking Xander's hand to show they were together. And to keep the boy close. It was near time for the grand entrance, and the boy had to be exactly placed.

They went to the coat check and Spike gave his sexy smile to the black-haired girl behind the counter. He'd known Faith since she moved here from America, years ago. She was tough and street smart, but she'd needed some lay of the land in jolly old England, and when she'd caught Spike's act, they'd ended up getting very drunk together afterward and were soon the best of mates. He'd showed her the streets and gotten her this job, which was pretty cushy. “Well, if it isn't my best girl.”

"Don't take much for you, baby.” Faith smirked at him, then let her eyes rove appreciatively over Xander. “Well, gimme the goods.”

Xander smiled at her politely and held his helmet out over the counter.

Faith burst out laughing, and Spike sent a grin at Xander. “She was talkin' to me, pet.” He put a hand on Xander's helmet and set his own beside it.

"Oh.” Xander was clearly mortified, searching through the pockets of the jacket for something to fiddle with.

Spike turned back to Faith, who was tagging the helmets, still chuckling. “Faith, this is Xander. Xander, this is Faith. She's a friend.”

Faith held out her hand, dark eyes laughing. “No offense, there.” Xander nodded and shook her hand, tried for a smile which ended up a little sickly. “Don't take it too hard,” Faith continued in her whiskey voice. “I'm rough, but I grow on ya.” She turned to Spike. “Got a full house in there. Lorne's been chatting up the brass since nine, and Oz is in prime groove in his booth. Give me a few, and I'll cue you.”

"You're a peach, love.” Spike chucked her under the chin, and she grinned wickedly at him.

"More than you'll ever know.” She swung around with a grin, hair sliding over her shoulders, and disappeared into the darkened wall of fabric and shining plastic.

Spike turned to Xander then. Straightened his collar, checked that the jeans were riding low as they should, that the shirt was properly draped over the smooth chest. “Well. Ready, are you?”

Xander smiled shakily. “Why not? I mean, I've already blundered socially and had someone laugh at me. Just like home.”

Spike tilted his head and let his lips assume a pouty moue. “Aww, poor love.” Spike edged closer to Xander, pushing against him, backing him up to the counter. “Little insecure tonight? No reason you should be.” Spike let the thoughts he'd been having all night, thoughts of dragging the leathers off Xander and fucking him in the alley, of biting his nipples through the sheer fabric, of digging his fingers into the wild hair while Xander sucked him, dance through his mind as he looked into the boy's eyes. As he crowded against him, pushing hips to hips. Xander's breath quickened, eyes darkened as he licked his lips and ground back against Spike.

"No, no reason to worry for you. You're the sweetest flesh in this dive tonight, done up so lovely. Nobody's gonna see you that doesn't want you. They're all gonna want you, pet. But the rub is... nobody gets you. You're mine.” Spike curled his fingers around Xander's rapidly growing erection. “All mine. When I take you home, I'm gonna suck you till you pop like the cherry I took last night, and you're gonna scream for me, and beg so pretty. And every last wanker in that room's gonna wish they were me when they leave.” He slid his fingers up Xander's torso as the boy trembled under his words. He looked fucking stunning in the darkened light, and for the millionth time, Spike felt on the verge of turning right around, taking the boy home and screwing him blind; fuck Lorne and his swank party.

A bright voice interrupted his one-track thought. “Okay, it's time.” Faith grinned as she said it, all excitement. Spike grinned back at her and led Xander to the big mahogany double doors, stopped there for a moment. He could hear the song starting inside the club, one of his band's better, he thought. Started slow, and then launched into the killer bit in a few bars. Have to kill a couple of seconds somehow. I wonder, just idly, what the best way to do that might be?

He spun toward Xander, took him by the nape of the neck and kissed him hard, prying surprised lips apart with tongue and teeth. Xander quickly turned eager, clever fingers working inside his jacket, clutching at his arse. With a careful ear, Spike dragged the kiss out until just the right moment, and when it came, he tore away from Xander and flung the doors open with a crash, just as the music went silent. All eyes turned to him, and some of the lights, too, and the entire floor hushed, taking in the view of the aggressively snarling punk rocker and the beautiful, lustful boy draped across him.

In that split second, he heard Faith's quiet voice behind him, audible to nobody but Spike and Xander.

"Drama queen.”


Chapter Twenty-Five

Xander lounged against the bar, sipping his cocktail. All around him, men were moving. They hollered drink orders to the slick bartenders and danced on the huge dance floor, bumping and sliding against one another. Some were gorgeous, dressed to kill, and some were just average guys, smoking and trying to look at least moderately cool. Xander was pretty sure that somewhere close, somebody was doing a lot of drugs. He didn’t care. He felt great.

When they’d stopped in those wide double doors, Xander had totally frozen, brain screaming at him. Gay bar! Oh, my god, it’s a gay bar! And absolutely everybody is staring at us! Oh, good, because life wasn’t stressful enough! There hadn't even been time to wish the earth would open beneath him before Spike had pulled him into the club, onto the dance floor. Everybody had started dancing again, but still they stared. God, he'd thought, blush heating his cheeks, skin near crawling with the feel of eyes on him why don’t we just stand at the front of the class naked, doing Ricky Martin impressions?

Then the catcalls had started. People around them stopped staring and started calling out, whistling and grinning at him and Spike, nodding and casting their eyes as if to say, yeah, you belong here. You're one of us. Even dancing with one another, the men on the floor had flirted with the two in the center. Xander hadn't believed, couldn't possibly have believed that they were looking at him, until Spike backed up off him and the eyes stayed, random strangers grinning at him, letting shoulders and hands and hips brush him as though by accident. He’d felt the smile starting to curl his lips, and started playing to them, raising his arms above his head and swiveling his leather-painted hips. The catcalls ratcheted up in decibels to at least double.

Then Spike was with him again, pushed up against him, and Xander forgot about everyone else. Beautiful, dangerous, demanding-all-attention Spike, with his eyes closed and lips parted, forehead touching Xander's, hips glued to him, rocking against him. Now and again, Spike opened his eyes and dragged them all over Xander's body, practically eating him alive right there on the dance floor. The look in his eyes said mine. All mine. He fisted his hands in Xander's shirt, squeezed his ass, pinched his nipples, hips writhing against him, owning him, in front of everyone.

That, by the way? Still very weird to have done at all, let alone in public, and with people watching... and to have it still be so hot. It was very weird. And fucking great. Xander relaxed against the bar and took a sip of his drink. Something fruity and sweet, it and others just like it had been coming for him, courtesy of guys at the club, ever since he’d stepped up to the bar.

Spike was across the room, chatting up some suits - Lindsey McDonald, the owner of the club, and Gavin Park, a big time record exec. He looked amazing, a sneering punk god with everyone looking at him, wanting him, playing to the swelling music. Xander felt a little smug about that. Okay, very smug. Hella smug, even. That guy, that beautiful, thousand-kinds-of-cool guy... Xander was with him. Everyone wanted him, but Xander was the one who'd go home with him later, who'd get to kiss those lips, see the blue fire in his eyes, pull the shirt from his belt, lick underneath...

Xander shook his head and focused again, smiling at the images dancing through his mind. Spike was talking at the moment, and as Xander watched, he pulled that shy little smile, where he looked up under his eyelashes. As the crowd near him began to still, Xander thought that whoever that little smile was directed at was the poorest sucker in the world, because they'd never be able to resist that.

"And you know what the rub of it is, honey? He didn't even introduce me."

Surprised, Xander jerked around to look at the speaker. He was absolutely floored by what confronted him.

Standing at Xander's elbow was a woman. Kind of. She was very tall and muscular, but elegant and even regal at the same time. She wore a floor-length strapless evening gown that trailed just a little on the ground behind her. She had on long opera gloves and glittered with more sparkling rhinestones than Xander'd ever seen on one person. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, and she even wore a tiara. But the most striking thing about her, the thing that made her stand out among the crowd like a rose in a daisy field, was that with the exception of her lips and toenails, both of which were painted a brilliant red, every stitch of clothing she wore was a rich, vibrant green.

"I'm Lorne, honey, Spike's agent. And you must be the new boy toy." She held out her hand, pinky extended, palm down. Xander was utterly incapable of intelligent speech. He dimly realized that he was supposed to take her hand, so he did that, bending over it as he knew, from old movies, that he should.

Lorne smiled at him, just like a star from one of those movies. "Oh, I like you. The boys he usually brings home wouldn't know a courtly bow from falling over a couch." She tapped her index finger on his cheek, just once. He noticed that her perfume was light and flowery, and that her voice was deep and rich.

"Enrique!" she called. A young man appeared at her side, looking flushed and a little guilty. She leaned toward Xander and spoke conspiratorially. "He's a sweet boy, but I think he doesn't understand a word I say." She turned back to him. "Can you get me a sea breeze, sugar muffin? Sea... breeze!" The little guy nodded, grinned and scampered off.

Lorne spoke once again to Xander. "I swear, whatever he comes back with, it'll look about as much like a sea breeze as I do. So hard to find good boyfriends these days." She laughed at that, seeming to barely need Xander to carry on a conversation. Which was good. Because Xander was still struggling with coming to grips with the adam's apple just above that plunging neckline.

"So, tall, dark and leather pants,” Lorne said, looking him up and down, “where are you from?"

"Uh... Sunnydale. Sunnydale, California."

"Oh, you're American!"

Xander nodded, then looked generally as agreeable as possible as Lorne began to talk animatedly about American fashion. She gathered a circle of admirers and fashion gurus shortly, and Enrique brought her a White Russian. Xander alternated between pretending to listen to them and ogling Spike across the room. He was still in conversation with the suits, and it looked like he was winning over the owner of the club, but the record exec still looked stiffly formal. Ah, there's no need to worry. He can't resist the charm of Spike. Spike is the Godzilla of charm, record exec. You are Japan! Xander entertained himself with that imagery for a while, and then Lorne interrupted his thoughts with a gasp and a flick of the wrist.

"Is that the time? I'm on, I'm on..."

The crowd wished her luck and drifted off as she fluttered around, checking her clothes and hair with light touches. She took a step to leave, then seemed to think better of it and turned back to Xander.

"Listen, dear boy. I know you couldn't tell me if were talking Liz Claiborne or Prada or WD-40 a minute ago." She waved away his protest. "No, sweetheart, that's fine. I saw you watching him. Just... just be careful, okay? He's a darling, and one of the best acts I have on my roster, sure, but... well, historically speaking, he's not the best example of healthy relationship material. Just try not to get too burned, okay, sugar? Like I said, I like you, even if you haven't said more than three words to me tonight. Hell, especially because you let me talk. I'm just an eensy bit fond of the sound of my own voice, if you hadn't noticed. But do you blame me?" And with a grin, she swanned off to do whatever it is that drag queens do before their acts start.

Fuck. Suddenly sullen, Xander took his drink over to the deep couches in the shadowed corners. He lowered himself into one, sipping at the fruity concoction the bartender had placed in front of him. Well, what does she know? Healthy relationship material. Who has healthy relationships these days? They're so passe, with all the talking and emotions and stable maturity. Let's have some crazy, madcap thrills! Because, hey, London and gay is more than enough to deal with for one day. Or, two days. Well, it's really only been 24 hours. Xander drained off his drink and watched the lights come up on the stage.

About a half hour later, he'd had a few more drinks, courtesy of several impressively pretty guys, and a drag queen in a bandanna was doing a pretty decent job of ‘When You’re A Jet'. The record exec took off about 10 minutes previous - gave Spike a card - and Spike had been chatting with the owner since, sending glances Xander's way that said just a few more minutes. Xander just smiled and waved at him. It's no big, do your thing. He was really beginning to like these fruity drinks, and he felt much better about the whole night. He was smiling at the performance, actually starting to really get into it, when someone lightly tapped his shoulder.

The man standing there was tall and broad, the kind of tall and broad that make poets compare legs and tree trunks. He loomed above Xander like a mountain. Xander had to bend his neck back to look at the guy's face, which was handsome, but very dark. He had an aura about him, this guy, like he was unstoppable, unmovable. Powerful. It came off him in waves, and Xander was instantly both wary and a little scared.

“I saw you dancing with Spike,” the guy said quietly.

“Yeah, I’m here with him,” Xander replied, a little belligerently. Mine, some part of him growled.

The guy's expression got, if possible, even more forbidding. His voice was hushed. Even... sympathetic? “In that case, I think there are some things you should know.”


Chapter Twenty-Six

Xander squinted warily. "You know Spike?"

The guy shifted uneasily. "I know him. You could sort of say I'm responsible for him." He held out his hand. "I'm Angel."

What the hell kind of a name is 'Angel'? Even in a gay bar? He shook the guy's hand. "Xander."

Angel fidgeted for a second, as though he was reaching for the next word to say, and Xander had a moment of sympathy for him. Man, this guy's almost as bad at mingling as I am.

"Uh... could we maybe sit down? I can get us some drinks..."

"Sure." Xander found himself agreeing. Hey, it can't hurt to talk with the guy. The socially disfunctional need to cut each other some slack. And if he's a crazy Spike-hating freak, I'll just challenge him to a duel for Spike's honor, get shot, spend a month in the hospital healing up, and then probably poison him.

Angel went to get the drinks and Xander climbed up on a high stool at one of the absurdly small tables. He looked out over the crowd for Spike and caught a glimpse of him showing Mr. McDonald the sexy grin. He giggled in his own head, Jesus, my boyfriend is hot. You better book him, mister!

When Angel returned, he carried two heavy glasses with ice and amber liquid. "I hope scotch is okay. I forgot to ask what you wanted." Xander waved that off and took the drink, setting it on the table between his hands and looking at Angel expectantly.

Angel cleared his throat. "From what you said earlier, I guess you're... with Spike. I wanted to talk to you because I don't want you to get hurt."

Xander's suspicion grew. "What do you mean, hurt?"

Angel glared into his glass. His voice was low and resentful. "Spike is... violent, I guess is the best way to put it. He seems fine for a while, but no matter how he comes across, he'll turn on you. That's the way he is." Angel looked up at Xander. His voice was full of bitter mockery, at least some of which seemed to Xander to be aimed inward. "I've seen it happen too many times to count. He'll find some young, pretty thing and decide to be their 'teacher', and then when he's done with them, they're gone. And that's if they're lucky."

Xander felt cold inside. He didn't want to hear any more, wanted to shut Angel's words out of his mind, but he couldn't stop listening.

"He's dangerous, Xander. You have to believe me." Angel glanced up from his drink at the crowded dance floor. Xander looked up at him, stricken. "You'll make your own choice," he said, looking out at the grinding bodies and the neon strobe lights with some distaste. "I won't push you. But everyone deserves the truth. I just wanted to make sure you had it."

Xander glanced at the dance floor himself and saw Spike moving toward the table. Every muscle, every movement, from the expression on his face to the clench of his fists said the same thing: Spike was livid.

When Xander looked again, Angel was gone.

---

"Yeah, we've got bookings all over." Spike wasn't really trying anymore. He'd had Lindsey practically eating out of his hand for a while, but something had happened about twenty minutes ago and he'd lost him. Spike felt like shite about leaving Xander all alone in the bar, not to mention a little jealous, considering the pile of glowing, umbrella'd glasses starting to litter the table in front of the boy. All in all, it was going downhill for Spike, and it was starting to grate.

Lindsey made a little agreeing noise, not even looking at Spike. He was looking into the crowd by the bar, glaring at someone or something that way. Spike fumed. Christ, mate, God knows I love the sound of my own voice, but this is a bit much. The glare turned into a full-fledged sneer as Lindsey sipped at his bourbon. What in the hell's he looking at? Spike followed his gaze.

And his blood froze in his veins.

Spike slammed his glass down on the table and started off through the crowd, pushing and shoving bodies out of his way. Boys shouted and glared at him, but all he could see was Xander, and that fucking monster over his shoulder, whispering in his ear. His vision swam in red and black and white. He could feel pinpricks of pain as his fingernails dug into his palms. All through his body pulsed the powerful urge to cause damage.

---

Lorne stood backstage, looking out at the club from behind the red velvet curtain. The crowd rippled in Spike's wake as people turned to look at the furious punk pushing his way through them. Surprised, they turned to curse at him, but quailed at the look on his face.

Across the dance floor, Spike's new boy sat at his table, looking more than a little disturbed and upset, watching Spike storm toward him.

At the back of the club, a door swung shut, swirl of elegant black coat sliding past the window. Lorne dropped her elegantly manicured hands to her sides, tilting her head to one side sadly.

“Well, fuck.”

---

Spike felt his teeth grate as he drove between the crowds, zeroed perfectly in on his boy. Mine, his mind roared. I'll find him and tear his fucking tonsils out with my nails. I'll wear out the soles of my boots stomping his fucking head in. Can't have gone far.

By the time he reached Xander's table, people were melting out of his path. First things first. Spike stopped in front of Xander, put his hand to the back of his boy's head and pushed a fierce kiss to his lips. Their teeth clicked as Spike bit at Xander's lips and tangled his hand in the soft locks at the back of the boy's neck, pulling at it soflty. Xander made a tiny sound under him, and that was enough.

Spike pulled back, satisfied, and flicked his eyes around the bar, searching for his prey. “Where'd he go, love?” Spike asked, voice low and angry.

Xander went still beneath his hands.

Spike turned back to him instantly. “What? He say something to you?”

Xander paused. A thousand possible meanings for that poured through Spike's head, but he clamped down on all of them. He'll tell me. No reason not to. Doesn't know Angel from Adam, no reason to trust him over me.

“No. Not really.”

Spike looked at him. “Right.” He'd tell me. Great ponce must have seen me coming and taken off before he could... That thought trailed off before it finished, because Spike was looking at the table.

Sitting in front of Xander were two empty glasses with melting ice in the bottom. Spike picked one up and tasted the melt. Scotch coated his tongue, and he made a face - he hated scotch. Only ever knew one person who liked it.

"Come on," he said to Xander. "We're leaving." Spike turned on his heel and walked out of the bar, Xander hurrying after him, leaving the two empty glasses on the table like some incredibly cruel metaphor.


Chapter Twenty-Seven

Spike pushed past the crowd angrily. Some people glared as he shoved through them, and some flung ugly words at his back. They rolled off the duster's shoulders, not even slowing him down. Xander struggled to keep up.

Man, he is really beyond pissed, Xander thought. Who was that guy? Looked almost familiar...

He stumbled along behind Spike, mumbling ignored apologies and ducking his head to people who weren't even looking at him. They burst out into the night air, and Spike stalked directly to the motorcycle. Xander tried to get in a breath of fresh air, but Spike thrust the helmet toward him as soon as he'd put his own on, and Xander took that for a slightly violent hint. Cramming the thing on his head, he climbed on behind Spike.

Cool hands clamped around his wrists and locked his hands around Spike's waist. No argument here. Xander smiled - a little shyly, even hidden behind his helmet - and tried to snug his chest up against Spike's back, but Spike's hands surprised him by letting go of his wrists, grabbing his leather-clad knees and hauling him forward, so his whole body was wrapped around Spike's like a second skin. Spike gunned the motor and peeled away from the front of the club.

He was showing off, which made Xander grin, but the carefree attitude soon faded. Spike was racing down the London streets, not deigning to acknowledge a single traffic law that Xander could see. He sped through red lights, and when he could not go through, he swerved into turns in blatantly illegal ways that no sane person would attempt. Of course, the bike still made vibrations shoot through Xander's body, and since he was so firmly pressed up against Spike... everywhere... it wasn't long before the leathers he wore became a little uncomfortable. Between that and the completely rational terror brought about by Spike's graduation from the Evel Knievel School of Driving, when they reached the apartment, Xander was practically painted onto Spike's back.

Spike grabbed at the keys, but he was too vicious with them, and they dropped out of his hand. He tore off his helmet, cursing, and dropped it on the floor, where it let out a sharp crack. Xander carefully let go of him as he leaned down to swipe the keys off the floor, feeling the cool air where he'd been warmed by Spike's body. Spike muttered to himself, and Xander chose not to attract his attention. I should be scared, he thought, feeling totally calm. I should be worried. But there was no stink of too much shitty booze on Spike. The curses were crisp and sharp, instead of the terrifying slurring that meant that whoever was usually inside a certain skin wasn't there anymore, and the thing that had taken it over was doing a piss-poor job of impersonating them. It was still Spike. And as much as I can't say I know the guy, I do know this: Spike babbles when he's nervous, he likes Knight Rider, and he'd rather cut off his own dick than hurt me. So... so I guess that means I'm not afraid of him.

Xander picked the helmet up off the floor as Spike stalked over to the elevator and slammed the cage open, still cursing to himself. He ran in after the raging punk, clutching the cracked headgear to his chest. He might not be afraid of Spike, but he realized that he really wasn't sure what Spike would do next. Could be anything, there was just no telling. He might break some dishes in the apartment, or he might watch TV. He might decide to lock himself in his studio or he might... well...

To ease the nervousness, he did what he always did. Cracked jokes. Only this time in his head, to avoid pissing Spike off further. Avast ye, helmet. We'll weather the Storm Of Ye Olde Punk Star like old hands. Yaar.

As the elevator lifted them slowly, ponderously into the air, Spike grew still. He stopped cursing and just stared at the wall sliding by for a moment. Then, he glanced over his shoulder at Xander.

His eyes burned. The burning cobalt slits raked over him, still angry, but Xander could tell Spike wasn't mad at him. They may, however, have actually set fire to his clothes. His borrowed, weirdly fitting clothing clung to him, and Spike's gaze was hot, leaving no uncertainty as to what he was looking at. Suddenly, his jacket and thin, golden brown shirt, his leathers and his boots didn't seem like very adequate coverage. Part of him wanted to pull the jacket closed and huddle in. Another part, very new to the world of Xander, wanted to pull the jacket open and send Spike's scorching look right back at him.

Xander did neither, instead just petting the helmet in a vaguely comforting way.

Spike faced the front of the elevator again, still in a snarly, growly stance. Finally, they reached the top, and Spike slid the doors open and prowled up to his front door. He whipped the keys out, unlocked the door and went in. Xander lingered behind. not really sure of himself. What do I do now? Do I go in? Of course I go in. But... am I supposed to talk with him? Am I supposed to pretend nothing’s wrong? He really should come with instructions.

He walked hesitantly through the front door, into the small, dim hallway-like space that led into Spike's apartment. He laid the helmets on the floor, gently, and walked into the larger space of the apartment in tiny steps.

"Spike?" he called, softly. Spike was nowhere to be seen. Must be in the bedroom.

Xander crossed carefully to the french doors. The house was weirdly silent. Xander thought he'd hear Spike at least cursing or slamming doors, but… nothing. "Spike?"

Rounding the corner, Xander peeked into Spike's bedroom. "Are you in he... hey!" A blur of black fabric passed in front of his eyes just seconds before Spike's body crowded up against him, pushing him away from the bedroom, toward the pool table. Xander thought, for a split second, that his heart would stop. Then he realized that Spike's hands were all over him, that Spike was licking and biting at his neck, growling his little panthery-growly sounds, and that Spike's erection was grinding into his own, sliding over the slippery fabric. It was an all-out assault.

Xander stumbled back, Spike pushing into him, until his ass slammed into the side of the pool table. Ow! But Spike was still on him, pulling the long black coat from his shoulders, trapping his arms at his sides. The hot mouth at his neck bit along his jaw line, and then Spike pulled back with a growl and closed on Xander’s lips.

Xander’s knees nearly gave out. Spike held the back of his head and thrust up against him as he devoured Xander’s mouth, constant pressure everywhere, like Spike was trying to push himself into Xander’s whole being. It was overwhelming, and he couldn’t think – just Spike, only Spike, all around him.

He felt Spike’s free hand pulling at the jacket and managed to get his hands out of the sleeves. Spike mmm’d, pleased, against his mouth, and then grabbed his wrists. He pulled Xander’s hands to rest against the pool table, bending Xander over backwards, breaking the kiss. Their hips pressed harder together. As he pulled his head back, Xander caught a glimpse of Spike’s face – he was drawn with lust, but he was snarling a little. Xander didn’t think Spike was angry with him, but still… he looked really, really pissed.

He didn’t have time to worry about that before Spike’s mouth traveled down his chest, biting his skin through the shirt. When he reached Xander’s nipple, he dragged his teeth over it roughly. Xander moaned loud as Spike licked him, sucked at him through the light fabric of the shirt. There was no soothing, no light touch, just Spike taking – hungry, desperate – and, oh, God, it was good, so good, and Xander wouldn’t have stopped him for the keys to Fort Knox.

He pushed his hips against Spike’s, made some kind of sound, though he didn’t know what. Xander want more. Spike snarled against his nipple, the vibration of it shocking right through him, and let Xander’s wrists go so he could tear the shirt open. Xander heard fabric rip and buttons tick-tick-ticking away on the floor, and then Spike pulled the remains of the shirt off of him and spun him around by the shoulders, pushed him down over the table. The green felt scratched lightly at his chest and cheek, but he closed his eyes and stretched his hands out over his head.

“Ohhh, God, Xander…” Behind him, above him, around him, Spike groaned his name and crushed his denim-covered erection against Xander’s ass, grinding against him, hands gripping Xander’s hips tightly. “So hot, so perfect, so beautiful, boy, and you’re mine, mine…”

“Yours,” Xander agreed, just spouting out words, hoping, wanting, needing them to get Spike to move.

There was sound behind him, more ripping, the tiny ping of metal hitting the ground in the otherwise silent apartment, and then Spike’s skin against his, the Brit’s chest tight against his back. Spike’s hands reached around and pulled roughly at the leathers, moving fast, opening and unfastening and getting underneath as Spike talked against his back, words all the more obscene and lurid for the silence all around them.

“Want you, Xander, fuck you right here on my table. God, gonna take you, make you all mine…” His hand closed around Xander’s achingly hard cock, and this time, if there hadn’t been a table under him, he would have fallen. Spike squeezed him, stroked roughly over the sensitive skin, making Xander squirm and whimper, trying to hold back.

“Spike,” Xander breathed. Spike’s words affected him almost more than the hand around his cock, and it was fast, so fast, all at once, but he couldn’t stop. He could see it in his head, see Spike’s pale body behind him as he lay spread out over the pool table, and it made him harder, made him feel too hot and like Spike was definitely not touching him enough. “Yeah, Spike, please…”

Spike bit along his back then, and pulled at the leather covering Xander until it slid down his legs. “Yeah, baby, say ‘please’ to me. Ask me nice.”

“Please, Spike,” Xander said, feeling Spike stand up away from him, feeling Spike’s hands on his bared ass, spreading the cheeks, baring him to the air. He shivered a little in the cool air, and all he wanted was Spike, barely even caring how. And then he felt Spike’s tongue licking at his tender opening, and a full-body shiver ran through him. Once, he would have cared about the possible icky factor of this. Now? Oh, now it’s good, oh, God, more… “Please, Spike, more, oh, God…”

Just as soon as he said it, Spike’s wet, hot tongue was pushing into him, slicking him, and Xander knew why, knew what it was for, and he could only writhe on the table, panting and groaning. Again and again, Spike pushed into him, wetting him down, until every part of Xander screamed with need, his cock throbbing, limbs heavy with it.

And then Spike stood up, pulled away, and Xander pushed back into him, wanting it so badly he could almost taste Spike in his mouth. The blunt head of Spike’s cock pushed at him and Xander cried out. “Yeah, Spike, oh, please…”

Spike eased in, gentle even now, one hand on the small of Xander’s back, just a little at a time, letting Xander adjust. “God, boy… God. So hot, tight around me.” His voice growled out of him, gravelly and deep with lust. He pushed more, pushed himself in, and it did hurt, hurt just enough, but it was so good, stretching and fullness, and Xander wanted it, wanted him. He reached blindly behind him, trying to take Spike’s wrist, needing it on his cock, but Spike was way ahead of him. One hand closed around him, the heat of Spike’s other still warm on his back, and Xander sighed into the table. Spike stroked him once, twice, Xander moaning higher and higher, and then Spike pressed his thumb just behind the glans of Xander’s cock as he slid in, full. Xander screamed, and Spike growled, and then there was pushing and thrusting and pulling all over, everywhere, the table thumping across the floor as Spike ground into him and stroked him all at once, and it was too much, too much…

They came together, Xander spilling into Spike’s tight hand, shuddering and gasping, Spike roaring behind him as he slammed home.

Minutes or hours later, they groggily pulled themselves up from where they’d collapsed. They stumbled into the bedroom, leaning on each other, crawled into bed and closed the bed curtains, drifting into sleep curled in each other’s arms.

Neither of them noticed the light blinking on the answering machine.


Chapter Twenty-Eight

It was late. Wesley hunched over the sink and stared into the mirror in his bathroom, wide and expensive, light dimmed low, long shadows obscuring his features. He desperately hoped he hadn’t made a terrible mistake. There were shadows under his eyes, stubble on his chin that he really should take care of, and a permanent crease in his forehead from the near-constant worry of the last year - he was exhausted.

Setting his shoulders and looking himself in the eye, he mentally told himself all the things he’d said a hundred times before. Something was bothering the man in the next room, no matter what he said, and all other possibilities had been examined and dismissed as probable cause. Wesley was nothing if not methodical. Regardless of objection, he was convinced he was right. It was time – past time – to deal with this, and better for everyone involved.

Hell, Wes mentally cursed, leaning his head against the glass. He’s going to kill me.

---

Downtown, in the big mahogany four-poster bed, Spike woke to the smell of bacon, greasy and good. He stretched languorously, enjoying the pull of the sore muscles, taut and unkinking. Dim gray light filtered in, a sure sign that it was raining out, but it was London, so that was hardly a surprise, and Spike didn’t let it dampen his mood – or his stretch.

When he let himself relax, it was to a pleasant soreness in his calves and arms, mute reminder of what – who – he’d been up all night doing. Xander over the pool table, moaning and clawing at the felt. In bed, claimed again with Spike’s growled ‘mine, mine, mine’, crying out ‘yes, yes, yes’ in spot-on rhythm as Spike pounded into him. Finally, losing it completely and shredding a perfectly good pillow sham when Spike coaxed another orgasm out of him with lips and tongue. Spike grinned, wondering if he’d be greeted by tea and lemon this morning. It was unquestionably deserved.

He rolled out of bed and padded naked into the bathroom, scratching his belly, the pleasant memory following him like an energetic puppy, frisking at the edges of his mind. The mirror showed him bleary-yet-happy eyes and tousled curls, the latter of which he scowled at before scrubbing a hand over them and climbing into the shower. The electric blue tiles shone bright as he washed, and he thought back to the flashing neon in the club.

Seeing… him… next to Xander, the completely unstoppable fury that had crashed into Spike’s brain and caused the hours of intense fucking that followed. He remembered the empty glass of whiskey at Xander’s table. Told me the bastard showed up and took off, simple as that. Hardly any time at all, certainly not enough for conversation. ‘Sides, Xander wouldn’t lie to me. Too much invested. Barely bloody knows the man, so why would he…? Nah. No way. Git must’ve finished his whiskey already, just set down the glass when he arrived, and Xander didn’t think anything of it. Yeah.

He nodded to himself in the mirror. Having made sense of that, Spike completed his morning toilette (the taming of his hair most definitely included) and went back to the bedroom to find some clothes. Shouldn’t worry, he told himself, amused and grinning once more, ain’t like bein’ a great lump of wanker is contagious. With that in mind, Spike pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and headed for the kitchen.

Spike barely caught himself, as he exited the French doors, before laughing out loud at Xander’s breakfast-making garb. He wore only Spike's apron, a gag gift from Charlie, stuffed in the broom closet and forgotten until this moment. Long and white, it featured a gritty black and white picture of Sid & Nancy, with red text splashed across it: "Punks Do It Vicious".

The bacon spit at him, and Spike saw him pull his hand back with a curse – or, evidently, a word that, in the Language of Xander, was a curse, as it was uttered with the same vehemence that one would use a word like ‘fuck’, but otherwise made not even a trace of sense. Spike smiled at it, Xander making no sense, and vowed to learn the indigenous tongue, as opportunity presented itself. Warily, Xander reached the fork back toward the pan and lifted out the remaining strips, put them on the plate and turned around to take them to the kitchen island.

Spike’s attention immediately drifted downward to the tight, muscular vision that was exposed by the gaping apron. Curved and beautiful, Xander’s luscious arse drew Spike like a count in draws a power chord, and he drifted up on silent feet, drawing in a deep breath as he got close up behind Xander’s bare back, smelling boy and soap and breakfast.

“Morning, love.”

Xander leapt at least three inches off the ground. “In the name of Almighty Jeebus, Spike!” He glared, and Spike grinned. “Gonna get you a gong,” he muttered, smiling, as he turned back to puttering with the bacon, but stopped short as Spike pushed impressive morning wood under the apron.

“Can think of much better toys for you to play with, baby,” he crooned into Xander’s ear, grinding slowly, hands holding Xander’s hips tight to his own. Groaning, the boy laid his hands on the island and braced himself there. Spike saw, grinned and crept clever fingers over one hipbone and straight toward…

“Whoa!” There was a flurry of flailing hands and jumping feet, and Spike looked on, amused. Xander leveled a dire finger in his direction. “Okay, Mister Touchy Fingers! I have undergone to a great deal of half-assed labor to make us breakfast, and we will eat it with no monkey business, or so help me, I will sing.”

Spike laughed and nicked a slice of bacon. “Perish the thought.” Xander slapped his hands away (which Spike deftly dodged) and brought the two plates to Spike’s infrequently used dining table.

Nonplussed, Spike raised an eyebrow. “We eating in here, then?”

Xander carefully pronounced small, easy-to-understand words. “Dining tables are for dining.”

“Cheek!” Spike rushed him, fingers finding ticklish spots, sending the offender into fits of giggles. “I provide the bloody food he cooks, and the table he wants to eat it on, and I’m the one called to task? You’d think being the breadwinner of this household would earn me a little respect. All I get is sass!”

Xander broke away, still giggling. “Yeah,” he joked, “I’m the little woman. I cook, I look pretty for your business parties and I get to sleep in the wet spot.” Still chuckling, he took a seat at the table and started to eat, oblivious to Spike’s sudden stillness. “Tell me when I get to start bringing you a beer after a long day at the office. Do you even have an office?”

“Xander.”

“I could start cross-dressing. I bet I’d look great in an off-the-shoulder number.”

“Xander.”

“We could get a…”

“Xander!” Spike felt sick, deep in his gut, like a sucker punch. Like a sucker punch when you’re drunk.

“What?” Xander turned to look at him, and immediately lost interest in breakfast, his face growing serious. “Spike, what?”

Spike saw everything strangely – the light was too bright, gray-white. It flashed slightly. Hospital light, when you were waiting for news on your mum’s surgery. Xander’s face looked pallid, colorless.

“Last night,” he started. “When we were… when I…”

Xander stood up from the table and came over to where Spike stood, shell-shocked. “What is it?” He reached out to take Spike’s hand, but Spike felt his touch and jumped, jerked his hand away.

“You said wet spot.”

“Yeah… I was just joking, Spike. Calm down.” Xander hovered, looking torn between hurt and concerned, but Spike couldn’t worry about that now. The truth hit him with a cold certainty, inescapable, no matter how Spike twisted and turned. He tried, he really did, but there it was, heavy and ominous, in front of his eyes.

“I didn’t use a condom.”

He was desolate, miserable. He may as well have been saying, ‘I ran over your dog,’ or ‘I hit my wife,’ voice ripe with regret, confessing an unforgivable, irreversible act.

A long pause stretched between them.

“Oh,” said Xander.

Spike sat heavily on a chair, staring emptily at his kitchen floor, feeling like the worst kind of shit. “I am dirt. I am pond life. I’m the sort of fuckwit I used to beat the hell out of five years ago for doing exactly this. God.”

Xander approached, and Spike looked up into concerned eyes. “Hey, easy. No need for the big freak-out. I was a virgin – I mean,” he paused, then quietly continued,” an every-kind-of-virgin. It’s okay.”

“But I wasn’t!” Spike yelled, his eyes drawn to Xander’s uncomprehending face, seeing only dirty hotel rooms and mornings awoke to discover missing memories. He paced over and took the boy roughly by the shoulders. “Don’t you understand, Xander? I’ve put you at a terrible risk! You should fucking hate me!”

Xander winced, his shoulders shrinking away from Spike’s grip, and Spike realized how hard he was holding on and let go, inwardly cursing himself. “I don’t hate you.”

Spinning, Spike turned and paced, lost in his own head. “Well, start! I’ve had more boys than you’ve had t-shirts, and condoms are not infallible. I get tested regularly, but it’s two months ‘til the next, and I haven’t…”

“Spike,” Xander broke in softly, Spike hearing the sweet voice, feeling the light touch on his shoulder as he shivered in rage and self-recrimination. He turned and saw Xander up close; calm, determined face peering into his own. Sun-bronzed fingers took his shoulders now, holding on tight, and Spike felt his throat close, his eyes burn. “I trust you.”

Spike was shaking. No, no, no. Xander had to learn to be careful, never to leave himself open like that. Never be left bruised and alone, cleaning himself up after a stupid night of too much gin, praying he hadn’t caught something. Praying he hadn’t caught the something. Not knowing until a week later, when the overworked free clinic finally got the results back, that he was clean, and vowing never, ever to do something that stupid again.

And then doing it again.

And again.

And again. Over and over until the shock wore down into a numb cavalier attitude, maybe I’ve got it, maybe I don’t. Who bloody cares, mate? Better to die young and pretty, anyway, like the greats. Fuck ‘em. Always hiding it, pretending it didn’t hurt, that it was all part of the plan, until he finally, finally wised up. A well-deserved punch in the mouth did it, from the right person at the right time. And having lost something, finally, even if he did come out clean and strong on the other side, by some surely undeserved miracle.

“Don’t,” Spike pleaded, voice a broken whisper. “Don’t trust me. Don’t trust anyone. Never let them get you, Xander, don’t give them the chance.” His arms came around Xander’s waist and he pulled the newly familiar body close, tucked the dark head under his chin, and prayed that this boy should be safe. Xander hugged him, too, holding tight. “Don’t trust them.”

“I won’t.”

“Never do it again, I promise.”

“Okay.”

“And we’re going to get tested today.”

“All right. It’s okay.”

“If I try, you hit me. Hard as you can.”

“Spike, it’s okay.”

“Promise me!”

“I promise.”

“Okay.”

Finally, Spike realized he was the one being held, Xander stroking his back and murmuring soothing noises. Ordinary, gray London light streamed in the windows, steady and rainy. Wearily, he raised his head, and Xander looked down at him. “What if we had a nap before we go to the clinic,” Xander suggested, hesitantly. “You look like maybe you could use one.”

“Yeah,” Spike agreed. “Sure.”

He let Xander lead him into the bedroom, arms around each other’s waists. Together, they crawled into bed, and Xander wrapped Spike up in his arms and held him until they both fell asleep.

Out in the main room, breakfast got cold, and a blinking red light waited.


Chapter Twenty-Nine

"It was just a boil, love." Spike tossed his keys on the end table as they entered the apartment with a baffled yet affectionate smile.

"It was a tumor, Spike!" Xander insisted for the sixth time since they'd left the free clinic. The bulbous object they were discussing had been on the arm of a man Xander had been near-crawling into Spike's lap to avoid when they'd been waiting for the doctor. Spike hadn't minded, but insisted on knowing the cause, and had burst out laughing when Xander told him. Xander had shushed but, alas, to no avail.

"You're mental, you know that?" Spike's voice drifted into the hall as he walked into the kitchen, and Xander snorted derisively at the obvious hypocrisy.

"Excuse me, but who was the one that stared down that big guy who was eyeballing us in the lobby?" He peeled off his jacket, boots and helmet and set them in their usual places, then hung up Spike's keys.

"Starin' at you in the hall, you mean. He fancied you and you know it, you incorrigible flirt!"

Xander just smiled to himself and followed Spike into the kitchen. Really, he was thankful for the banter. Spike's spirits were looking up, and after this morning... well, let's just say the road to happiness is paved in latex.

Once more, in a long line of similar decisions, Xander elected not to think about this morning. Spike had been very weird, and very scary, and generally not in control at all, which led to much more frightening thoughts of mental instability and what else might set him off. What he might do, if he should happen to be set. Try as he might, Xander could not stop his mind from replaying Angel's dire warnings about Spike's capacity for violence, and even though he didn't trust the ominous man, the faint aura of familiarity about him seemed somehow to lend credence to his claim. Xander was sure that, if he thought about it, he could pin it down, but there never seemed to be a quiet time to do so, and he wasn't sure he really wanted to anyway.

Yes, preferable by far to submerge himself in the very real understanding that Spike had been absolutely right. They had not been safe, and safety was right up there with puppies and Christmas on the list of Good Things To Have. Condoms were an absolute must from now on, and if using them with nerd-like diligence just so happened to make Spike happy, then use them he would.

So what if he had fingerprint shaped bruises on his arms? Only Spike would ever see. And they'd be gone soon. And Spike was only ever worried about his safety.

The bone-deep weirdness of his situation – living with a guy he barely knew in a foreign country, newly gay and creeped out by strangers bearing portents – gnawed at his mind. He felt the strong urge to talk with someone about it, to pour all his thoughts out of his mind until they made some kind of sense, so he knew if he was being stupid or reckless. Someone who would sit him down and point out gently, but clearly, where his mistakes were being made, someone he felt comfortable with.

Someone, his mind sighed, with red hair, the ability to help me pass math, and more adorableness than a thousand baby birds.

God, I miss her.

Walking into the kitchen, Xander saw something that allowed him, with great relief, to push his dark thoughts into a corner of his mind, lock them in there and barricade the door.

Eggs, flour and a large bowl littered the counter, and a giant waffle iron was taking up much too much space on the kitchen island. Spike poured milk into a measuring cup, held it at eye level and looked at it critically, then dumped it into the bowl. Spike had evidently, despite it being dusk, decided to make breakfast.

"Hey, waffly goodness," Xander pointed out approvingly. Breakfast was good anytime, in the world of Xander. He walked up to Spike, took the milk bottle out of his hand and drank some before returning it to the fridge.

"Hey," Spike protested mildly. "Dirty little bugger."

"You drank out of it this morning."

"Hardly the point."

"You have a point?"

"Yeah. Wanna see?"

Spike smirked and Xander laughed, then left Spike to curse at the metal measurers for being too metal-y while he went to the living room to hunt for something good to put on the stereo. His sneakers squeaked on the red-varnished hardwood, and he approached the tall, black cabinet with a fun-creepy sense of foreboding. He was about to open a rock star's music stash. It was like opening Capone's glove compartment. The well-oiled hinges swung smoothly open, and Xander was faced with piles upon piles of completely disorganized music.

Skimming the sides, he noted more than a few surprising titles. Shoved among the haphazard stacks of plastic cases were Beethoven, Wagner and Vivaldi. Under them, The Clash, The Cure, and The Verve. Xander noted strong music with deep baselines, thumping, gut-deep, all hips and tongue, and those weren't a shock. Punk, rock, grunge, and the impressive selection of early Beatles, those seemed to fit the Spike he knew. The occasional interspersion of light strings, emo and trip hop, however... those were something that set him back on his rubber heels, and made him consider.

This man with whom he had fallen into some weird, smudged domesticity was very complex. He had depth, much more than the brash exterior would seem to suggest, more than the little bit of pop psychology would draw from that. Sure, Xander would guess that on some level he was insecure, and donned this punk persona to escape that, but he was also the kind of guy who unabashedly watched soap operas, who made breakfast at five in the afternoon, who – and Xander blushed to think of this – had sex with his whole being, not afraid to show his heart, even to a total stranger. Spike, Xander realized, was probably the most fearless man he'd ever met. So, insecure? Not so much.

Xander knew something about insecure. Ten minutes he'd spent staring at these stacks of CD's, and even though Spike had bought every single one, and therefore probably wouldn't object to anything he chose, he could easily come up with reasons why each one revealed his inner lameness. But Xander was used to feeling insecure, and had a tried and tested method of dealing with it – avoidance. Purposefully, he let his gaze wander, until he noticed a small black box near the phone, blinking at him.

"Hey, Spike?" he called.

"What?" came his disembodied voice from the kitchen, distracted.

"You've got a message on your answering machine. Want me to play it?"

"Yeah, fine." A pause, and then, in a sarcastic tone, "If it's from my fuckwit of an agent, erase it!"

Xander, amused, flashed a wide smile in the empty room and pushed the big, round play button.

Beep

This is Spike. If you're Charlie, leave a message. If you're anyone else, especially my ex-agent-who-dragged-me-and-mine-to-that-stupid-bloody-club, sod off.

Beep

Er, hello. This message is for William Bennett, graduated of Eton, 1974. My name is Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, and I'm with Lucid Galleries of Sussex. We've come into possession of a number of works attributed to Mr. Bennett, and I'd very much like to contact him so that we can discuss a possible showing.

Xander's pen flicked excitedly as he wrote down the contact information Mr. Pryce's polished accent delivered, and ripped it off the pad. "Spike," he called, as he turned and hurried into the kitchen.

"What?" came Spike's irritated voice. "Bloody hot waffle iron!"

Xander entered the kitchen to find Spike shaking his finger and then sucking it into his mouth, easing the burn. He was very nearly distracted by that, but the excitement bubbling in him quickly overwhelmed it. "Is your name William Bennett? Your real name, I mean?"

Spike stilled, pulled his finger from his mouth. "Why do you ask?" he said, in a quiet, careful tone. "Who was that?"

Xander continued, excited. "It was some guy from a studio in Essex. They say they want to show your work, if you're William Bennett, anyway, and... what?" Spike's face had gone carefully blank. It was a look Xander'd never seen on his face before, and it was just a little frightening. Considering what had happened this morning, and the night before, that was saying something. Cautiously, he walked toward the still man, reached out and tentatively touched his hand.

Spike started, almost like he was surprised, which was impossible, since Xander'd been standing right in front of him. Okay. Very worried now. The blank look disappeared, and Spike smiled. "Sorry, love. Don't know where I went just there."

Xander nodded cautiously, and Spike continued. "Can't, in point of fact. I've never given any of m... well, nobody's got any of my stuff, 'cept what's in that room, so they can't mean me. 'S probably some other bloke. I'll call 'em and tell 'em they've got the wrong man." Disappointed, Xander nodded again, but, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was... off. Spike just smiled. "Gonna help me with these, then?"

"The big bad waffles kickin' your bum?" Xander smirked, and Spike swatted his ass and grinned at him. Xand tucked the slip of paper with Mr. Pryce's information into his pocket and went about cracking eggs and trying to throw puffs of flour at the shock of bright blond hair, to see if Spike would notice. Of course, Spike did, and got most of it out in the shower – when he wasn't busy being distracted by clever hands and dark eyes.

To Be Continued...