::::::::::::::::::
"Dinner soon," Xander said. He'd rolled off Spike a while ago and lay next to him, their legs entangled.
Spike's eyes were closed, but he turned his head anyway. "Should go up."
"Yeah."
"Put in an appearance."
"Eat some grub."
"Chow down."
"Might not be a bad idea," Xander said. "Getting hungry, actually."
"Humans are so needy, ever notice that? It's dinner, I'm *hungry*, I wanna *eat*..."
"Whereas vampires are the epitome of self-control."
Spike punched him blindly and connected with Xander's chest, thumping hollowly.
"Ow."
He opened his eyes to see Xander rubbing his chest and grimacing. "Sorry."
"Yeah. So, are we going up?"
Spike licked the corner of his mouth and considered it. Xander did look lovely: tousled hair, flushed cheeks, shirt awry, hitched-up boxers poking out of the open fly. "Hmmm. Lemme see--" He reached down to rearrange the boxers and Xander slapped his hand away.
"Nice try. I'm going up." Xander struggled to his knees, then upright, tucking, zipping, rearranging.
"You do that."
Xander offered him a hand. Spike clasped it, ignoring the offer of help, and just rubbed his thumb over the palm. Xander shivered and bit his lip. Spike could see it blooming in the dark eyes: reluctance, confusion, loyalty forking off into a thousand possible paths. He slipped his hand from Xander's, trailing his thumb up the soft incline of Xander's wrist.
"You okay?" Xander asked.
Spike shrugged. "I'll see you up there."
::::::::::::::::::
The living room--okay, the entire house, really--looked less and less anyone's home, especially not Mrs. Summers's. Things kept getting put away, shoved aside, broken and thrown out, until the place had taken on the transient, thoughtlessly kept up air of a midrange motel. Nothing so grotty as Faith's place had been, but nothing very nice, either. The kind of place designed to help you forgot you were ever there, once you drove away.
Xander edged into the room, girls shoving past with plates in their hands and hair flying, descending on Andrew serving the food. Jostling each other for the big 2-liter bottles of bargain soda, voices piercing into registers he'd forgotten were possible.
Oh, that was nice. The weapons chest he made for Buffy last year made a really great buffet stand. Andrew stood behind it, gesturing grandly with a piece of garlic bread held in tongs as girls lined up, plates in hand, and got their hunks of lasagna. Cheese and sauce dripping everywhere: carpet, chest, Andrew's apron.
Xander turned around, feeling a desperate flush start in his chest and bloom upward and outward. He wanted to call for Buffy, get her to come in and fix this like she always did, like he was some stupid kid at a party whose cake got sat on.
It was safe to say, though, that everyone in this room had more important things to worry about than some badly-crafted homemade piece of crap. Hell, the splinter Anya got when she tried to help with the sanding had been more important.
Xander grabbed a paper plate and then another one; considering how gloppy that food looked, best to be on the safe side. There didn't seem to be any soda left, so he left the stack of cups alone and joined the line.
The pan of lasagna was looking emptier and emptier. There was going to be some left, right? Right?
"Hey, sweetie," Willow said, sliding past Xander and depositing an empty cup, wet with condensation, on the trunk. "How's tricks?"
See, now that's going to leave a mark. He'd need to go pick up some more linseed oil to get that out.
He blinked and grinned. "Great!" Realized too late that sounded a little too happy for the situation. He dropped his voice and tried to look abashed. "Okay. You?"
Willow shrugged; she looked tired. Not pale and veiny scary-tired, just kind of tight around the eyes and mouth. Older. "Having lots of male-type fun with Spike, are we?"
Xander took a couple deep breaths as surreptitiously as he could. As far as he knew, Will hadn't picked up any, like, psychic abilities lately. Then again, he hadn't been around much, so anything was possible. Locator spells just showed where you were, not what //who// you were doing; he thought so, but it's not like he could swear to it in court or anything. He really should start paying closer attention to the mojo.
"Male fun? Coupla white males bitching about affirmative action and chicks getting uppity, that's right." Oh, good. Spike's going to save him.
Like that would ever happen.
As Willow pursed her lips--her Disapproving Face was getting really freaky--Xander turned around, and Spike raised an eyebrow. Xander felt himself grin almost instinctually, until Spike turned his back. Cut in front of Xander's place in line and told Andrew to load him up.
Xander got the last corner piece of lasagna, the wrinkly brown hard one. Gross. When he turned around again, Spike was across the room, back to him.
::::::::::::::::::
Spike wheeled slowly around the edges of the living room. Clearly saw the nudges given to step back when he got too close, the whispers that trailed after him like smoke, the jump of eyebrows and hurried glances away when he happened to look in their direction.
The fact that none of these little girls liked him very much didn't bother Spike at all. He'd fought with the Scoobies for long enough to tolerate those who couldn't stand him.
That'd been different, though, hadn't it? They'd been snarky to his face; kept up their end of the bargain, spats and quarrels he fed just as much as they did. It'd helped pass the time, at least.
These chits were just plain scared of him. Plain fear, nothing exciting, nothing he could have gotten off of in the past. Just plain social fear barely covered by whatever gauze of politeness their stupid parents instilled in them.
And what was there to fear from a pseudo-Angelus with a weakness for folk songs? Besides the obvious, that is.
::::::::::::::::::
Face-time: Xander had heard Cordy use the phrase any number of times. Apparently it was some LA thing where you got seen and got to see, and it counted more than actually talking or relating or anything. He'd been putting in face time by leaning against the doorway, worrying at the hard chunk on his plate with a plastic fork that kept bending and sending the lasagna skittering close to the edge. Dawn kept coming back with drinks and soda for them, leaning opposite him, hair covering her face. She didn't want to talk; he got that.
He watched, fascinated, while Kennedy tried to start an argument with Spike. He had no idea what they were talking about, but Dawnie filled him in.
Kennedy just kept shaking her head and pursing her lips: Pale imitation of Willow. Without the, you know, smartness and cuteness. "You're so sad," she said. "The whole Brian-Justin thing is like romance with a big R. Like an old movie. They're meant to be together, but everything keeps getting fucked up."
"Old movies went out with _Nosferatu_. Okay, maybe Buster Keaton," Spike said. "But don't give me that fucking Douglas Sirk my ear cancer's out of remission so now we can be together darling if just for a few bittersweet months only my son has just lost his football scholarship and my hubby's taken to wearing my cashmere sweater sets crap."
Kennedy's mouth opened. And closed. Opened again.
"Thought so." Spike smirked, but a bit too late. Like he had to remind himself to do it first. "Didn't work the first time, don't see why they keep dragging it back to life."
"Should've known you of all people would identify with Brian," Kennedy said. "Isn't that what you're all about? Ego and id on two legs? Little reptilian brain in the head of your astonishingly small dick?"
Dawn coughed, very quietly, and Spike glanced over. "Right," he said, crossing to the doorway, leaving Kennedy wound up and flushing. "Cardboard cutout, here for your amusement. You okay, Bit?" He touched her arm lightly.
Xander was starting to understand something. And this wasn't good, since he's not the brain here, or even the backup brain. The way Dawnie smiles at Spike? He'd kind of like to do that, too.
::::::::::::::::::
Dusk had come and gone, and dark was stealing across the lawn in ever-bolder shadows. Spike had slung himself in one of the Adirondack chairs on the porch, slumped low enough to use his belly to support his plate of bread.
Xander edged between the back of the chair and the potted plant against the railing. He handed Spike a beer and nudged the bread with his hand. "Watch that, huh? Stinky garlic?"
Spike snorted and drained half his beer. "'Sperfectly safe. He used some generic garlic salt. Not a milligram of the real thing."
"Wondered why it tasted so good," Xander said. "Ah, preservatives: King of the food groups."
"You watching my diet now?"
Xander stuck his tongue out. "I nag because I care."
Spike spread out the fingers on both hands, tilted his head and took a good long look. "Funny. How'd I lose the ring already?"
"Simple thought," Xander said quietly. "Garlic bad. Vamp, um, good." He shook the hair out of his eyes. "Can't believe I said that."
"Thanks."
"What I'm here for. Make sure you don't dust yourself."
"Yeah." Spike closed his fingers into loose fists. "Gotta hang on til a ripe old age, yeah? Can see it now, you and me in Ptown, incontinent and senile, drooling like fools over the latest crop of pretty young things."
"Right." Xander laughed shortly, a couple little barks. "Really nice picture there."
"Better start saving up now," Spike said. He braced an elbow on the arm of the chair, rolled his hips in a way that stopped Xander laughing, and turned on his side. "Boy toys ain't cheap now, and with inflation after several decades--"
"You think?" Xander's voice sounded far away to Spike, like a badly-tuned shortwave. Even through all the noise and static, though, he could still here, right at the bottom, the little jump of hope.
"Nah," Spike said, dropping his head on his arm and closing his eyes. "Be lucky if we see June, that's what I *think*."
He felt Xander lift the beer from his hand and stroke his hair. Felt the ghosts of fingers on his arm, trailing lightly, and then just resting.
