I. A Pain in the Ass

***A***

Asshole!

Aggravating, agitating, annoying, awful, abhorrent, anti-social asshole! And I get to share quarters with him. Oh, lucky me. Such a happy day in Xander-land. Could it get better?

Anya. She left me. Not two weeks ago. Said she'd had enough waiting around for the next Apocalypse, and that after a thousand years of vengeance her nerves couldn't take it.

Actually, I don't blame her. For breaking my heart and stomping on it, yes, that I do hold a tiny bit of blaming for, but not for leaving. I'd get out of Sunnydale if Buffy - Willow - Giles - if they didn't need me. And I have to tell myself that every day, that they do need me, that I'm not just the Zeppo, not just doughnut-boy. I contribute. I patrol. I research. I help. I'm part of the team.

Even if they don't seem to care a lot of the time.

I am part of them.

I don't, however, appear to be a part of my family, but that's not news. I stopped caring if they cared a long time ago.

Really.

Apparently, they decided the basement had bugs and needed to be fumigated. Conveniently or not, they "forgot" to tell me about it.

So I get home tonight, being dragged by a Bleached Blunder hot on the trail of the blood bags stored in my mini-fridge, and the entire basement's full of roach-and-Xander-killing fog. Can't even unlock the door, the fumes are that strong.

Spike lets loose with a stream of really interesting words that probably woke my parents (good) and the neighbors (not so good), and then when he's through, he pauses and goes on with some even better ones that I'd never even heard before. And I'm the construction worker! Maybe Victorian British blue, I'm not sure what the shade is, but let me tell you it's colorful.

Handy he doesn't need to breathe. He jerks open the door like it's hot and plunges inside. I can hear his ranting floating out on clouds of noxious fog while he slams open the fridge and loads up with all the pig's blood and O-pos he can carry.

When he emerges, he stinks like an exterminator's van and he has a look on his face that would have made the Gentlemen back down. "Right," he growls. "Rupe's still got that Olivia bint stayin' over, so we can't go back there. You got cash for a hotel?"

I nearly laugh at him. I don 't even have enough for a night at that fleabag Faith stayed at! Spent it on tonight's snack runs, Mr. Thanklessness' bloody dinner from the butchers' because Giles was short himself, and mailed the rest to Anya for gas money (*yes*, I'm a fucking wuss; get over it).

He snarls again. "Fine. Back to my place, then."

And he takes off without even seeing if I'm coming, or if I want to come along.

And that's when it starts to rain. Hard. Harder than it has in years. Just like the universe is singing "nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah" at me. And Spike's already almost a vanishing black duster in the distance. My only hope for shelter. I'd rather stake myself.

But do I have a choice?

Nope. So here I go, over to play sleepover with Chips Ahoy.

Like I said, could it get any better?


***B***

Big bad? ::snort:: Yeah, right. Bastard is more like it.

We get to his tomb - sorry, his crypt - sorry, his home, as he corrects me with a few glares that warn of what he'd do without the chip, and I'm standing there dripping freezing rainwater all over a tatty carpet he picked up from - the junkyard, smells like - and he nearly has a fit.

"You'll ruin the bloody thing!" he howls, tossing an unlit candle not at, but past me, so the chip doesn't go off. "Sodding prat!"

"Excuse me for not being water soluble, Spike," I shoot back. "The only things I've ever known to melt in the rain are Wicked Witches of the West. And certain demons."

"Rather be dossing with one of them," he mutters with another daggery look.

Then I shiver and sneeze.

Oh, please. How pitiful can you get? I'm ashamed of myself. And embarrassed, because he throws his hands in the air and groans. "For the love of all that's unholy, pet, don't go and get your nasty human germs on my things, would you?"

Man, am I tempted to go and use his favorite ratty chair for a Kleenex. Now, now, not in second grade any more, Xan. But oooh, it's tempting.

Maybe he can see me rolling that thought over, or maybe he's just tired of watching me drip, because he shoves his hands in his pockets with a disgusted look and jerks his head toward the staircase leading down to the cave below his "home".

"For pity's sake, go find yourself something dry to put on," he orders. "Towels on the shelf to the far left. Don't be coming back up here 'till you look less like a rat drowned in a gutter, got it?"

Real sweet guy.


***C***

Chips. Chipped vampires. Chipped Spike.

Cause and effect, that's what it's all about.

Cause. Spike is chipped. The Initiative is not so nice, but in this case I've got to say Yay For Them. No more evil killer *capable* of slaughtering us in our sleep gives me a happy, and yes, you can salute just a little at that particular thought, Little Xan. That'd give a statue a little thrill. Plenty of vampires left, but not any Masters that I know of (I so do not count Harmony. She's a Mistress of nothing but Shopping and Stupidity.)

Effect. He takes petty revenge any and every way that he can on whoever he can.

Clothes, huh?

He knows damn well nothing he owns is going to fit me. I'm taller and broader in the shoulders and hips. No more baby fat; construction took care of that a while back, but now there are these things called Muscles to contend with. I glance them over with an understandable (hey, I think so) pride as I peel off my soaking flannel shirt, jeans and boxers. There's a handy underground pipe to drape them across. I resist the urge to check for notches in it, and the headboard, as I wriggle and writhe out of wet denim.

Asshole. I rummage through the few identical red button-downs and black T-shirts that are all he seems to own, and of course they're all too small. Huh. I can see his plan now. Keep Xander downstairs, naked and thus too humiliated to come up and be a pain, until his clothes are dry and he can bugger off.

Fine, then. Naked Xander will now proceed to sit, lie on, and jump up and down on every single thing The Big Bad owns or has stolen. And no, I don't care any more if it's childish.

I stalk across the room, bare as the day I was born, and hop up on his bed, ready for a good bouncing, and *oh*, that didn't come out like I wanted it to. Great, now I'm blushing.

A few good stomps and I stop. It's not as much fun as I thought, and being naked - ergo having nothing to protect your delicate pieces - doesn't do a lot for the joy of playing Trampoline. It could be worse. I could be a girl in this situation. Then again, if I were a girl in this situation, I'd either have enough sense to stay wet and happily risk pneumonia, or I'd already be neck-deep in the sheets with a certain blond vampi--and where the *hell* did that thought come from?!?

Eww!

Bizarre. Weird. A Road Not To Be Trodden. Some good old fashioned snooping is in order to take my mind off that moment of insanity, I decide. Besides, maybe I'll find some kind of cloth that comes close to fitting me. I'll strip the sheets off the bed and go Toga if I have to, but now I'm curious about what he might have squirreled away in here, and hey, he's the one who sent me down here.

I peek under the bed.

And howl with laughter.

The Big Bad has a pair of reading glasses stashed under his bed, along with a copy of "Message in a Bottle".

Damn if that's not priceless blackmail material!

I sneak the glasses into my wet jeans pocket, and kick the book so far under the bed that he'll be cursing for hours trying to get it out. It's too close to the floor for even his skinny ass to wriggle under there.

So it's petty. I feel petty right now. Oh, so petty, I feel petty, and witty, and bright... Not singing "gay" here, folks, sorry; am *so* not gay. Even the sight of the bed in question, spread with invitingly rumpled red silk sheets, has absolutely no effect on...

Excuse me? Little Xan? Did anyone ask your opinion? I do not like the evil vampire, therefore you do not like his bed. Understand? I'll zip you, I swear I will.

That's better.


***D***

Damn, I don't believe that just happened. I was hunkered over, trying to peek under his mattress to see how the hell he had the sheets tucked in, when I heard an - embarrassed? Couldn't be - cough from the top of the crypt.

"Xander?"

Thank god the bed wasn't high enough to crack my head on, because I sure jumped hard enough. That, and the immediately following knowledge that my bare ass was waving around for all the world and - ugh - him to see got me scampering back out and covering myself as best as I could.

You know, if vampires could blush, I think he would have been. I don't know who was more shocked, him or me.

What baffles me is why he would have been shocked. Vampire, right? Seen it all, right?

He looked away, almost like he was determined not to look back. Um... why? Thank all the heavens, yes, but what? Am I that hard on the eyes? So I planted my hands on my hips, Little Xan half-waving a shy hello, and looked him in the - corner of the eyes, because he still wouldn't look down the ladder at me. "What do you want now, Spike?"

He cleared his throat. "Robe in the far end of the room," he mumbled. "Should be big enough. Too big for me, anyway. Put it on."

I raised my eyebrow. A robe, huh? Nice of him to tell me that before.

Anyway, with that piece of news, I go and find it. Black, of course, so I couldn't see it in the candlelit shadows before. Silk. Very pooftery. Looks like it might have been Angel's, and we are so not going there. But it does have this much to say for it - it's almost big enough for me, at least big enough to hide what needs hiding and tie in the front. "Thanks for nothing," I snark back up at him.

His head snaps back around and he stares down at me before gawping and turning his back! I can't believe this. "What're you grumbling about?" he barks. "Fits, don't it?"

"Just barely." I take a step or two. "Anything more than a mincing waltz and I'm going to be flashing the world."

"Then walk like a bleeding lady and get back up here!"

Oooh. I don't think *either* of us liked the way that one sounded. His shoulders stiffen. "Don't want you down there with my private stuff," he snarls. "So get!"

"Okay, okay, I'm getting. See me getting?"

Awfully draughty climbing those stairs. At least Little Xan doesn't like it either, and so that's one less thing to worry about. Still... I have an ugly feeling that there's going to be more to be terrified about before the nights over. You think?


***E***

Exactly.

Exactly how I figured it.

I wasn't even all the way up the ladder when I heard the >sproiiiiiing< of springs that have had just about all they can take, take a little more as he flung himself into the comfortable - the only - chair and started up a tape of Passions! How much is one man supposed to be able to take?

"Not that show," I whine. "Look, Spike, anything but that show. WWF. Sesame Street. A Yoko Ono Special on Lifetime. Anything else!"

"My telly, my choice, whelp," he says, acting bored.

"I hate Passions!"

"Tough shit." He lights up and settles back.

You know, he's still not looking at me. And you know what, he's not even really concentrating on the story. I think he's afraid of even catching a glimpse of my reflection in the black screen, and that's why he's got that crap going. I can tell he doesn't care because this episode doesn't have Timmy in it, and no, I will not tell you how I know that.

He won't look at me. This is weird. No, this is bizarre.

Damn, Spike. Will you either jump my bones or stop acting like you're terrified of it?


Part II. So He's Not So Bad for a Pain in the Ass

***F***

>Fuck!<

I did *not* just think that! Did those demons we fought tonight sling some kind of mojo on me? Some gay-making, horny-inducing, me-wanna-have-vampire Big Ugly Pixie Dust?

***G***

Grand old time I'm having, here. Fuck, I'm bored.

He won't even let me wander around and look at his stuff. "Sit!" he barks, like I'm some kind of dog, while he smokes cigarette after cigarette and refuses to look at me.

This is really starting to get on my nerves.

All that I can do is look around, because I refuse to look at Passions. You know, it's not so bad, really, for what used to be a grave. He's got a few things here and there - the rug, the chair, and enough candles for three or four Catholic churches, all lit.

So why are vamps into candles, anyway? I can understand not being able to wire their lairs, but he obviously managed it: witness the TV and the mini-fridge for his blood. But all this fire around, when fire + vamp = toasty dustiness? You'd think they'd have heard of flood lanterns and battery-powered lamps by now.

And you ever wonder how come a vampire's candles don't seem to go out?

I wonder how long it takes to light all those in the first place?

I'm having this mental image of Spike with his Zippo, spending a couple of hours lighting all these bastards one by one and cursing when they won't catch. It makes me giggle, which earns me a glare.

Oooh.

That was a different kind of glare. That... smoldered. At least he looked at me, but ye gods... that was a look like I've never seen from Spike. I don't think I understand it.

No.

I just don't want to understand it.

I'll think about me. 'Kay? Me and my problems. I'm cold. I'm almost naked. I'm here with a vampire who is acting (even more) schizophrenic (than usual). And I'm -

Oh, shit.

***H***

Horny. Okay, I'll admit it. I. Am. Horny.

Damn Spike, anyway. Damn his crypt-from-a-bad-romance-novel, his satin sheets, his candles, his music, and him for all of this.

He's looking at me out of the corner of his eye, an unreadable expression on his face. "What's eatin' you, pet?" he asks, almost mildly.

I go for the easy way out. "I'm bored," I whine. "Passions on the TV, a cold floor, and no munchies - no, I do *not* want any blood - all these make for a Xander highly uninterested in being here."

"Ummph." He tilts his head to listen to the rain still pounding down outside. "Not going far, though, are you?"

"I can't believe you don't have an umbrella in all this crap!"

"Don't need one, do I?" He smirks - away from me. "Not afraid of getting wet, me."

That stings. "I'm not afraid!" I snap. "I just don't want to finish up what's turning out to be a glorious evening with a case of bronchitis, thanks."

Slight brow wrinkle. "You prone to that?"

"Sometimes," I admit. "When I was younger. Besides, you've got to admit, any time some funky new disease comes to Sunnydale, who comes down with it? Me. Funny-syphilis-guy here. If I go out in rain like that, I swear I'll end up on a respirator."

He chokes back a chuckle. "Can't have that, can we, nummy? Sick blood doesn't taste so well, and if I get hungry -"

"Stow it, Fangless," I snap. "In the know that you don't have any bite."

"I can bite!" he retorts, sounding wounded. "Just... don't want to. Don't fancy a migraine myself."

"So neither of us is going anywhere," I sulk. "And if you're just going to sit there, then I'm going to be bored. Bored, bored, bored -"

"Bloody hell, whelp!" OK, that finally got a reaction. He's up out of the chair and rummaging in a chest. "You're bored? Fine, we'll play a game."

I laugh before I can help myself. "A game? You? And me?"

I whoop even harder when I see what he's got. "Monopoly and Scrabble?"

Again, if vampires could blush... but he *can* scowl. "Not mine, they aren't, they belong to a demon friend of mine. Total softy, but he gave 'em to me for collateral in a game of kitten poker."

Kitten poker? I so don't want to know.

But board games, huh? I'm pretty much an undisputed master unless Wills is playing. "Alright, Biteless," I say, arranging myself cross-legged and carefully arranging the robe to cover all my strategic bits. "You're on."

He sits down in front of me and for this first time, ever so briefly, meets my eyes. "Am I, then?"

And now why should that make my heart speed up and my throat go dry?

***I***

I hate Monopoly.
I hate vampires who refuse to trade Park Place for all four railroads even when they know you've got Boardwalk.
I hate having to say "Pretty please, Spikey" to get the banker to loan me another 5 K's in play money.

I hate Scrabble.
I hate being surprised that Spike can whip my ass at Scrabble. I mean, we're both rough guys. I expected he'd come out with words like "and", "but", and "cat", such as are my specialties. But no, Mr "Andromedan", Mr. "Buttinski", and Mr. "Catatonic", not to mention Mr. seven-letter "anthropomorphic". I really hate that one.
I hate his little victory dance.
(I hate thinking that it's really cute.)

I hate playing poker.
I hate turning the color of a strawberry when certain said vampire quirks his eyebrow and suggests strip poker.
I hate the way he howls with laughter at that.
I hate the way the bastard bluffs when I've got a flush and I REALLY hate the way he folds when I've got a pair of twos!

I hate Spike.

Stupid vampire.

***J***

Just shoot me now.

I owe Spike $6,000 (god help me if he ever decides to collect - he'll probably take it out in blood, literally, stolen from the Red Cross or the butcher's). I also owe him a litter of kittens, and somehow - still not sure how - I owe Clem, whoever that is, a brand-spanking-new Monopoly and Scrabble set. Something about my kicking the boards across the room and "denting" them. Like they weren't battered already.

Spike's chuckling like the ass that he is, leaning back and lighting up. His T-shirt stretches tight over his chest when he does that, outlining every single muscle and plane of his taut tummy. It dips just before it enters the band of his jeans, where -

Gaaah! Bad Xander. Bad, bad Xander! No naughty thoughts about the vampire. It's not allowed to wonder what might be underneath that zipper. Little Xan's mighty interested in knowing, but for once in my life I'm more interested in ignoring him than not.

I am not having naughty gay thoughts about the evil vampire.

I am not.

Dammit.

I am.

Just shoot me. Please?

*****