Sometimes you live with people, roommates from college, friends of friends, or that weird ex-boyfriend of your cousin who takes over part of the lease, and you never really know them. Their dreams play out only a wall away in the bedroom that abuts yours, their dead skin cells float around you in the dusty air when both of you forget to clean, but you don't know much about their families. You don't really care about their jobs, and you hope they won't confide in you about their agonizingly mundane relationships, even as you try not to hear them jack off early on the weekend and grouse at them under your breath when you realize they've eaten all the bananas Monday morning. Maybe you share CDs and listen to the radio together when the coffee is brewing, but you still smack your hand over your mouth when they burst into the kitchen unexpectedly as you're belting out "Girls on Film." Sometimes you share the same space for years, but never venture further, never share anything else.

Then again, sometimes you live with someone, and you know him without even knowing it. Sometimes better than you know yourself.

“Cheeto?” Xander asked earnestly, holding the bag up and back behind his head. It was Saturday, he was slumped comfortably on the couch, and he kept his eyes on the TV, not on the vampire puttering around in the kitchenette behind him.

“Thought they were cheet-os,” Spike said gruffly as he leaned over the back of the couch and pulled out a messy handful. *Ping!* went the microwave.

“Singular versus plural. Like, you know, biscotto versus biscotti.”

“Well, aren't we cosmopolitan, nummy,” Spike said sarcastically as he tried to balance the large orange pile in one hand as he returned to leaning on the back of the couch, steaming mug in hand. Most of the cheese flavoring on the cheetos in Spike's hand fell into Xander's dark hair.

“What, I can't know grammar?” Xander pulled the bag back and tossed it on the coffee table in front of him between his upraised feet. He shook his head mournfully at Spike's negative assessment of his compositional training, unknowingly shaking orange powder all over the cushions. “I know all kind of things about singular versions of generally plural nouns. You should see my noun-verb agreements. And I can splice commas like — wait, no, that’s a wrong thing.”

Spike wasn't really paying attention. He crumbled one cheeto, then half of the remaining cheetos into his blood, then cocked his head to the side as he considered whether to add the rest all at once. “ ’s like oyster crackers," he mumbled. "Don't want them to get too soggy all at once. Then again, don't want them completely crisp, dry. Better starting out with really crispy things that absorb, but not all the way. But not so crispy that they don’t absorb—stupid bloody grape nuts.”

“It is truly a fine line you walk in your choice of snack foods, Spike. Forgive me when I say that I don't envy you.”

Spike peered pensively into his mug of blood. “Seems a bit early for those things — don't your sort eat cereal or something in the morning?”

“Only thing left in the house,” Xander said absently. Then he turned around. “What, why do humans have to have variation from meal to meal? With you, it's all blood, all the time. Doesn't it get dull? Or do you do Oneg in the am, ABpos for a snack, then maybe try to get blood that still has bits of flesh in it for variety for Sunday brunch?”

“Eat human food too, don't I? Texture's nice, gives variety. Like to try almost anything edible. But don't get sick of blood. Every source tastes different. Some sweet and light, some deep and oaky, some…chalky.”

“Hmm. I never thought I'd know so much about different types of…wait, are we talking about wine or blood? And-chalky? That's disgoosting.”

“Oh, I'm not one for complaining,” Spike continued cheerfully. “All kinds of tastes for all kinds of moods.” It was a bit hard for Xander to understand him though the bloody cheetos he chomped on, but after years of following Willow's crazy tonalities, he could figure out what almost anyone said.

Xander shifted, holding his hand to his chest and scratched carelessly. Spike slid around almost noiselessly in the kitchen. Nouns. Verbs. Verby nouns. “A noun's a special kind of word/It's any name you've ever heard/I find it-quite interesting/A noun's a person, place, or thing” Xander sang quietly. It was a testament to how used the two roommates were to one another that Spike didn't even need to ask the provenance of the Schoolhouse Rock ditty.

Spike turned back to the sink and filled his mucky mug with hot water. He couldn't bring himself to wash anything, but Xander had started him on the minimal chore of soaking his plasma-stained glasses, bowls, and teacups. “Oh, and it was Courtney Love. You were wrong.”

Xander turned and stared blankly for a second before he scowled at his live-in vamp. “Could've sworn it was Madonna who played Big Pink,” he began.

“Please, like you are the only one who knows cinema references. I'll bet you didn't even see ‘Basquiat.’ ”

“Why would I see that artsy crap? I'll have you know I saw the trailer, and I could've sworn…”

Spike narrowed his eyes. Xander rolled his own. An elegant white hand unfurled, and a warm calloused one shoved a fiver into it. “What does Willow always say? Never make a bet with a vampire,” Xander scolded himself. When would he learn?

“I’m not doing this again with you!” Xander called out to Spike as the vamp smugly slid into his room.

“No, certainly not, pet. We won’t do it until the next time we do.” Spike answered back cheerfully.

“We need some new rules around here.” Xander said quietly, frowning to himself. He turned his head and stared at the hall Spike had waltzed down. Then his gaze returned thoughtfully to the coffee table. “Also looks like we need more Cheetos.” He swung his legs off the table, planted his feet on the floor, and went hunting for his car keys.

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

Chapter Two: If You Want It, Just Take It

After Spike added the cash to his ever-growing pile of wager winnings, he decided to run a bath.

Now, Xander bitched about the chocolate digestive crumbs buried in the seat cushions of the couch, made fun of Spike's endless supply of red silk shirts, howled unmercifully when Spike woke up with his hair askew, and taunted his roommate over the few wagers he actually lost. Yet Xander remained curiously silent on the topic of Spike's proclivity for steaming up the bathroom. No complaining, no mocking, no picking up of Spike's patchouli bath gelee and muttering “The hell?” At first, Spike had snuck around, soaking during the afternoon after lunch to avoid the possibility that Xander might come home from work to eat in the middle of the day. A two or three o'clock turn in the tub also left enough time to air out the room before the boy returned in the evenings. He had grown more bold however in recent months, leaving washcloths dripping on the hot and cold water knobs and sometimes running his baths dangerously close to the time when Xander was due home from work. So Xander knew about this indulgence, and it seemed he had decided it wasn't worthy of remark.

So after Xander took off, Spike cheerfully wiggled out from under the couch with his secret box of bath condiments and paraphernalia, unconcerned that his bath would be discovered. And suddenly realized he was out of bath oil. And that made him realize that he hadn't somehow been out of the bath oil for months. And that was unusual, considering how much oil he liked to use.

He stood in the doorway to the bathroom listening to the drip drip dripping of the sink faucet as he wiggled the bottle experimentally as though it would replenish itself magically. He stopped at once and stood stock still when he finally got it.

Xander. Xander had gone ahead and replaced the green tea bath oil. Just as Xander now picked up Spike's bags of blood without the vampire even realizing that he was close to running out. Just as the boy sometimes came home with a pack of cigarettes that he tossed at his roommate casually so that Spike wordlessly caught it and began to pack it down.

Just as Xander almost automatically got a hold of and kept the things Spike was used to having around him so smoothly that it hadn't dawned on Spike until now that he was the recipient of some kind of covert operation of purchase and supply.

Spike jerked his head up suddenly as he intuited that he had been standing in one place for some time, and that it would be dark outside. Almost time for — and there was the sound of a key in the lock, and feeling oddly shy despite his master vampire status, cocky attitude, and general Big Badness, Spike flew into the living room closet where Xander kept his jackets and coats and peered out through the small crack he'd left between the door and the frame.

Xander stumbled in with his arms full of bags, humming tunelessly as he kicked the door shut and dropped his packages on the counter of the kitchenette. Spike snickered noiselessly as the boy ripped open a box of Twinkies before even pulling it out of the bag and unpeeled a two-pack. He shoved one halfway into his mouth, set the other down on the counter, and continued humming his off-key song around the Twinkie as he started to empty the first bag.

Pop Tarts. Coffee. Sugar. Half and Half. The kind of peanut butter that comes with the jelly already swirled in it. Two bags of Wonder Bread. More Cheetos. A large bunch of bananas. Pudding cups. Pretty much everything Xander needed for breakfasts and late night snacks.

Spike shifted from one foot to the other as Xander started to unload the next bag with his head tipped back to keep the twinkie from falling out of his mouth. Toothpaste. Razors. Antibiotic treated band-aids. Spike's cigs. Spike's Rolling Stone Magazine. Spike's bath oil.

The vampire's eyes widened as he saw the items he was so used to having around, and then looked up at Xander quickly. He gripped the polyester blend sleeves of Xander's spring bomber and almost fell out of the closet. Because Xander had paused, his eyes closed, to slowly ease the remaining Twinkie half past his full lips.

He'd heard Willow and Buffy make all kinds of jokes about Xander and Twinkies; he'd even caught them wrapping huge price-club sized boxes of the snack in bright paper for Xander's birthday. Xander may have been an afficianado of all kinds of chocolate bars and he might have craved the salsa/velveeta/bean/beer dip that Willow sometimes made for Scooby meetings (especially since Giles had banned them from making it at his apartment). But Twinkies were the all-occasion snack. He always ate them. Yet the treats weren't old hat for the boy. Oh no.

Spike got an eyeful of that right now as Xander slid more of the cake into his mouth and moaned around the yellow cylinder.

The vampire widened his eyes, and then shook his head quickly, snapping his slack jaw shut. Then Spike growled, softly enough he thought, but Xander apparently heard. Xander froze, but then his face changed quickly from wariness to barely contained amusement. “Watcha doin' hiding in the closet, your Big Badness?”

“You — you” Spike stammered. He thrust his index finger out at Xander accusingly as he burst out of his hiding place. “You're buying me things.”

“By god, you're right!” Xander failed to look shocked, and swallowed what was left of the Twinkie. “What sort of evil spell is upon us that I've been replenishing your blood supply! What kind of sick, twisted mind would – ”

“Not that!” Spike waved his hand dismissively, then pointed at the items Xander had unpacked. “The other, the magazine, the – Don't you dare!!!”

Xander slowly withdrew his hand from the second Twinkie waiting in the open packet, and turned to look at Spike curiously. “Are you off your nut? Or has the fight for puppies and Christmas turned you so far to the side of all that is righteous that you're now defending snack cakes? How come you don't want me to eat this? You want it? Come on, Spike. If you want it, just take it.” He held it out to Spike.

Spike stopped, and screwed up his face in utter peevish frustration. Under his constant pallor he appeared to change shades several times. He waved both his hands about wildly. Then he stomped off to his room and slammed the door.

Xander wrinkled his brow, shrugged, and got his keys. At the door he paused. “Oh, Spikey? You're back in business with the bath oil, 'kay? So if maybe that would help with your crappy mood, by all means, soak away.”

When Spike heard Xander leave about five minutes later, he glided silently into the common area. He picked up the plastic bottle, and made for the couch to pull out his box of secret stuff. He stopped just as he was about to kneel down, however, and looked at the item in his hand. “All right then,” he murmured, and went to put the bath oil on the side of the bath tub.