Spike flopped down on the couch beside Xander and grabbed the remote from the coffee table.

"Mind if I watch some football on the telly?"

"Why do you talk that way?" Xander asked as he looked up from his newspaper.

Spike frowned at him.

"What - politely?"

"Like you're British."

"I am British."

"No, you're not," said Xander.

"I bloody well am."

"Do you have a British passport? A driver's license? A house in London?"

"First of all, do you have any idea how much a house in London would cost? And why would I need a passport or a driver's license? I'm a vampire."

"My point exactly. William was British. You're a vampire. A demon. A demon who's not British."

Spike's eyes narrowed, and his fingers tightened around the remote. The sound of straining plastic could be heard before Xander reached over and pried the device out of Spike's hand.

"Is there's something you're trying to get at other than making me blow my top?" Spike asked through clenched teeth.

"It's just... Okay, when did you last live in England?"

"Dru and I visited sometime in the 80s, I think."

"But when did you last live there?" Xander asked. "You know, set up a long-term residence."

"Uh..." Spike paused. "Staying in one place tends to lead to stakings by suspicious townsfolk. Can't say I've settled down much since I was turned."

"You've been in Sunnydale for a while."

"Yeah, but I have a good reason," Spike said. He drew a finger across Xander's bare forearm, and they shared a smile.

"The townsfolk are in major denial about the high death-rate."

"That, too."

"So you've wandered around a lot over the past century, right? You've been all over Europe, Asia, South America, North America, and you haven't even visited England in decades."

"Right."

"But you still have a British accent."

"It's the proper way to speak the language," Spike said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Not how you do it. 'Bollocks, knickers, wanker, poofter, barmy, bloody, bugger, git.'"

Spike shuddered.

"If you want me to kiss that mouth you'll never do that again," he said. "That was revolting. And I do have a proper accent."

"You don't. I've watched PBS. The actors on those British dramas don't talk like you."

"You want me to sound like a toff?"

"A toff?"

"You know, 'cheerio, pip-pip, what-ho, good morning, vicar' and all that. Nose in the air and a stick up my ass."

"No, I like you to sound like you. I'm just saying it's weird that you still speak that way after being away from England for so long. And what the hell does 'pip-pip' mean, anyway?"

"Demons aren't known for changing, Xan. I've talked this way for more than a hundred years. Not going to stop because I can't get the bloody BBC without hacking into your neighbor's satellite dish."

"Did you bleach your hair in 1900?"

"What? Of course not."

"See? Demons do change. So why keep the accent? Why not try to blend in more?" Xander asked.

Spike raised an eyebrow and glanced down at his trademark black clothes.

"Do I look like I'm interested in blending?"

"It'd probably be a good survival instinct."

"Last I checked I was still here."

"Right, but that's despite the clothes and hair, not because of them."

"Don't knock the extra fear that my victims felt from being cornered in an alley by a guy in black leather."

"I'm guessing they were more scared by the fangs being plunged into their necks," Xander said. "And you're changing the subject."

Spike shrugged.

"The accent is part of who I am, Xan. Part of what makes me me."

"Instead of what? Or should that be who?"

Xander seemed unruffled as Spike glowered at him.

"Is there a reason you're asking me these bloody stupid questions?"

"It's just that Angel seems to try to blend -"

"Into the bleeding walls," Spike interrupted. "The git's always lurking in the shadows..."

"- and you don't. He lost his accent, and you haven't. So I've been thinking about why."

"Don't compare me with that wanker."

"I'm not, but -"

"You'd think there'd be some rule against psychoanalysis on Sundays. We've got plenty of other rules around here - no smoking in the bedroom, no dirty weapons inside the apartment, no using the coffee maker to heat up blood - but do we have that one? No."

"And there you go again with the changing of the subject."

Spike sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"Look, Xander. What is it you want? Do you want me to tell you every detail of my life from start to finish so you can draw your own conclusions? Let me make it easy for you. I am the way I am because I like it. It works for me. End of story."

Xander fiddled with the pages of his newspaper.

"I'm sorry if it bothers you, but you interest me."

"I'm not complicated, pet. I just do whatever feels good at the time and to hell with everything else."

"Oh, yeah, that's great to hear. It makes me real happy about the future of our relationship," Xander said dryly.

"Xander, have I changed my hair in more than two decades? Have I changed my accent in more than a century?"

"Not as far as you've told me."

"Right. So when I find something I like I obviously stick with it." Spike shifted so that his shoulder was touching Xander's. "And, as much as it pains me to admit it, I like you."

"Well, liking you isn't exactly a walk in the park, either, pal," Xander said, twining his fingers with Spike's and smiling at him. "And don't think I haven't noticed you're avoiding the topic again."

"Remember the rule? No psychoanalysis on Sundays."

"Then you've got about twelve hours to come up with a good lie to cover the actual reason you talk the way you do."

"Fine. Now give me back the remote so I can see if there's any football on."

Xander handed it over along with the TV listings from the paper.

"You might have better luck if you look under soccer," he said. "Unless you want to watch beefy men in tight pants not run up and down the field."

"The idea has its good points," said Spike, scanning the listings, "but I do like to watch them run."

"Soccer must remind you of your glory days. People running, screaming, fights breaking out, people getting killed..."

"Hockey has more blood."

"Yeah, but there's also way more protective gear. Not so good for ogling the players," said Xander.

"True. Football really is bloody brilliant. Lean players, lots of running, and no padding."

"Plus, chaos in the stands and the potential of fan death. And it's soccer."

"Football."

"Soccer."

Spike rolled his eyes.

"Git."

"Poser."

"Wanker."

"Stubborn old man."

"Overly-curious poof."

"Yeah, well, that one's true," Xander said, grinning.

Spike smirked and turned on the television.

"Never would have known."

"Really? Guess I'll have to be more obvious in my actions."

"Later. After football." Spike flicked through the channels. "At least the poof part. Had enough curiosity for one day."

"It's soccer."

"Football."

"Soccer."

"You're absolutely barmy, you know that?"

"And you love me. You must be barmy, too."

Spike smiled and scrunched down further so his bare feet touched Xander's as they rested on the coffee table.

"Yeah. Guess I am."

"But don't think I'm letting you get away with not answering my questions tomorrow," said Xander, tossing his paper on the floor and settling closer to Spike. "I've got some theories, and they're pretty good ones, if I do say so myself."

Spike sighed.

"Just watch the bloody game."

~end~