Spike lay on his back, one knee drawn up, watching car headlights paint silver stripes over the ceiling. He was trying like hell *not* to think. Nor sleep. He just wanted to forget about everything, especially time.
Good witching hour, too, perfect in the past for feeding on stragglers from bars and the poor bastards who rose early. Losing time like that, however, wasn't an option, not any more.
He missed the insistent literality of clocks with hands. Something comforting about the tick-tick of a grandfather clock, or the old-style alarm clocks crowned with the bells. He figured he could sleep if there were something ticking away. Even the proto-digital clock he'd had back in New York, where the time changed by flipping tiny cards.
Spike knew he was an analog-lover through and through. Digitality, all sleek and cold and seamless, made him uneasy.
"What're you doing?" Xander asked. His voice was thick and scratchy as he rolled onto his side and poked Spike in the shoulder.
Spike shifted and closed his eyes. He'd never been any good at post-coital conversation and now, of all possible times, he didn't feel like it. "Thinking."
"Why? What're you thinking?" Xander asked woozily. "Shouldn't you be sleeping?"
Spike turned his head and opened his eyes. Xander looked confused more than anything, blinking at the dark and sucking on his lower lip. This was the kind of moment that called for a soft stroke down the lad's cheek and a quick, comforting kiss.
"Thinking 'bout you," Spike said instead. "You, your dirty little mind, wanking to the Big Bad."
He'd thought that was a good lie -- direct enough to convince, crude enough to embarrass Xander back into silence.
Xander just smiled lazily and shifted closer, nudging one leg between Spike's. "Yeah? What about me?"
"The term incorrigible comes to mind," Spike said as Xander ran his hand down his neck and over his collarbone until it came to rest on Spike's chest.
Xander chuckled a little and had the decency to look slightly embarrassed. "Just weird, is all. Why'd you think about *that*?"
"You, vampires, sex," Spike muttered. He was having more trouble sinking back into his solitary sulk the longer Xander remained so close. "Connection's clear, least to me."
"Right. Sure."
Xander's eyes closed; Spike could see he was shutting down. He couldn't let that happen - and the game was engaged. He scratched his nails lightly down Xander's side until Xander shivered and opened his eyes. Even licked his lips; if they were keeping score, Spike's opening gambit had to be worth some extra points for *that*.
"It's a nice story," Spike said, pulling Xander flush against his chest and trailing his fingers down to the small of Xander's back. "Like to hear it again sometime."
Xander smiled but didn't look at Spike. "Okay?"
How was it that this was the same man who'd just writhed beneath him, begging for more, blowing nearly circuit in Spike's admittedly addled mind? He was acting as coy and shy as a Catholic schoolgirl, raising the bar, upping the challenge with every hesitant swallow and twitch.
Spike cupped Xander's ass and squeezed firmly before he spoke. "Why not the first time, though? Angelus's little stunt?"
Xander looked away, over Spike's shoulder. "That. Yeah. Well, see--"
"You did! Knew it." Spike slapped him on the back. "Can't lie to me, can you?"
Xander glanced quickly back. "Nah."
"Didn't think so," Spike said, then realized too late he'd heard something else in Xander's voice. As if he was answering an entirely different question. Same words, different question. "Nope."
"Nope," Xander agreed, picking up on the ease, the lightness of tone that Spike was already well into regretting. Xander even offered him a thin, lopsided grin. "See, that night? Shoved way the hell to the back of the ol' mental closet. In the back of the wardrobe that's at the back."
"Yeah?" Spike reached behind him for his smokes and flipped a cigarette between his fingers. Much as he loved the boy's wanking stories - and, honestly, Xander was highly inventive and fairly amazing in that area - his stupid mind suddenly wanted to wander and think.
"Tell you what, Codgy O'Cogitator--" Xander said.
"What?"
"Nickname."
"What's it mean?"
Xander shrugged and scratched his chin. "Don't know."
"Okay. Carry on."
"I can tell you more than you ever dreamed about naughty Xander and the two vamps, or we can go back to sleep. Your choice."
"Wasn't sleeping."
"Choose fast. Time's a-wasting."
"But--"
"Full, glorious technicolor. In which blood tastes good and there're no recovery times. Or. Sleep. Which, considering the fact that it's getting light out, I'm thinking you're into." Xander hummed something then, jangly, certainly out of key.
"That's the Wheel theme, ass," Spike pointed out. "Think you're wanting Jeopardy."
"Sleep, then. Your loss. My gain."
"Fine," Spike said. "Sleep. What I wanted in the first place."
Xander snorted. "Try to keep it straight. *I*'m the one who wanted to sleep."
"Thought you were the one with his knee in my crotch."
Xander frowned and glanced down. "Shit. Sorry?"
Spike wanted to tell him not to apologize. Or maybe to shift just so, work up a little friction.
But he didn't feel like talking, even less like fucking again, so he just smirked. Dropping the game, he swallowed hard and closed his eyes.
Harris was a stubborn git, but he wasn't stupid. Sooner or later he'd figure out to leave Spike alone.
*
*You, vampires, sex.*
Xander lay on his side, fist against his mouth, wondering what the hell he'd just done. Willow would tear him a new one for thinking that penetration made sex real in a way that blow-jobs and hand-jobs weren't, but he couldn't help it. He'd let Spike fuck him, hell, he'd basically *demanded* that Spike do it, and now? Now he felt like a rip-off of a John Hughes movie: He'd just given his virginity away and the guy wouldn't talk to him.
He ached all over and he was sore and yet just thinking about it was making him hard again. Moron.
If there's one thing he learned while he was with Anya -- to be fair, he'd learned a lot, like he was capable of being both way more patient *and* way more cruel than he'd ever thought possible -- but the key thing here was that he learned how sex didn't have to have a point outside of itself.
He'd never quite thought about it like that, but before Anya, it's safe to say, sex was pretty heavily weighed down with big-I Issues. The life and the death kind.
Betrayal with Willow, bruises inside and outside from Faith. Each time he'd tried to follow what his body wanted, he'd fucked up worse than the last.
Those bruises took longer to heal than they should have because he kept pressing on them, proving to himself all over again how much it hurt, how close he came. Just how stupid he could be when he let himself -- what? Feel, maybe, or believe in the good old light and dark mission he's supposed to be on.
So, right, this started somewhere. Pointless sex. Sex that didn't have to wreak horrible consequences. Not entirely unpointy sex: what with the happy, and the rasp and friction of skin, that tight shot of pain blooming instantly and hugely into pleasure when he comes.
But pointless outside of the immediate range of nerve-endings and beads of sweat and the way astonishment captured, washed over and carried away, the other person's face when Xander touched them just right.
Before Anya, he thought sex had to mean love, not that that ever happened to *him*. Or equally big deals like betrayal and death. With her, he finally figured out that it didn't have to, which meant, hey, _Maxim_ & _Details_ got something right.
More important, since Spike's the last person who'd ever believe sex had to mean anything at all, well, then, Xander got his jollies but didn't have to deal with the other stuff. Like the big overwhelming and mind-numbing significant stuff. It was probably the fairest trade he could make, and he didn't have any right to complain.
He could swear he started this mental wipe-out for a reason. And who's complaining?
Sex to feel good: That's all he'd meant. He'd always done it well, always trusted his body much more instinctively than his mind. Considering how clumsy he was, Xander knew that this was hardly a ringing endorsement. But you work with what you have, right?
He trusted his body, knew it was a much better decision-maker than he was. Cordy would never have stuck around at first if he hadn't been such a good kisser and - despite the Bad Stuff with Willow and Oz and Cordy - that worked out well. Took her to LA, made her some kind of demigod. And Anya liked his body, liked what he did with it enough to think she loved him. It was when Xander let himself *think* that he fucked up so royally.
Sex was what he knew best. It was what he was good at. It was what he liked.
So when Spike went silent, Xander *really* started to worry.
*
Fine, then. Lad's always been more talkative than a crackhead on meth but now? When Spike would actually *like* to hear his voice? He was snoring out his lungs.
*
Xander was asleep when the call came, and even though he heard Spike's half of the conversation, nothing made sense until the bed shifted, Spike's weight was gone, and he heard the scuff and shuffle of feet into jeans. Until his own pants landed heavily on his face and somewhere, across the room, Spike was cursing at him.
"Fuck! Get up *now*!"
Spike wore gloves and clutched the comforter around him like a refugee on CNN as he dashed awkwardly for the car and dove, rolling, into the back seat.
Xander felt sleepies still prickling in the corners of his eyes as he gingerly eased himself into the driver's seat. Sitting today was promising to be an interesting challenge. "Going to tell me what the rush is?"
"Drive, you stupid fuck."
Wow, enraged Spike. Xander actually felt kind of scared. He thanked Whomever silently for the blinding sunlight, and drove them to Buffy's.
Why'd he keep having to lose his virginity in the midst of utter chaotic crises? Couldn't he, just once, get the long languorous morning cuddle with whispered endearments, instead of peeling off toward whatever doom beckoned this time? Then again, unless he was planning on trying farm animals next, he figured he was plum out of virginities to lose.
Since whatever today's big crisis was involved Spike, they were all gathered in the basement.
Giles was there. Or whatever it was that passed for Giles these days, looking and sounding like Giles even if it was dead inside and smelled like ash and had creepy flat eyes. He was telling them about -- something. Something about triggers and a slug-like thing straight out of _Wrath of Khan_.
Xander kept busy drilling in hooks and hauling chains around. He was good at making himself useful.
Might have been nice if these cuffs and chains were still up *last* week.
Shit. He realized too late as usual that he'd said that aloud. When he turned around, no one looked at him, which was good. Spike growled, brief and low in his throat, and it was nice to be heard.
Xander turned back, wrenched the last ring tighter, and smiled at Spike.
Spike just sat there, all the rage burned out. Hunched and suddenly really, really skinny. His eyes flickered over Xander's face and Xander could only hope Spike could read his smile.
He scooted backwards off the mattress and clapped Spike's shoulder as he stood. The joint poked his palm painfully, but he felt Spike lean infinitesimally into the touch. Xander squeezed again. The comfortador rides again.
As he joined the group Anya smiled tightly at him; he slipped an arm around her and concentrated on sending mental daggers towards Buffy's new guy.
He didn't know what Wood was doing here. He understood, finally, how the others must have felt when Anya started coming around: Who the hell is this? Since when is there open admission? Since when is slayage just like all-ages night at the Bronze?
But he'd never felt like that with Oz, or, later, Tara. They'd each just kind of slipped in beside Willow and even if he didn't know them, it was all good. And at least Anya had something in common with the rest of them. Okay, maybe it *was* sucking freaky leather Willow into their dimension, but that was *something*.
Who was Wood that he got to be here?
And why did Giles stand so close to him, anyway? Their eyes matched; both were flat and glittery, both kept darting sharp little glances over at Spike.
Their closeness made something musky and old flare up inside Xander's gut: Don't hurt one of ours. It's why he hated vampires to begin with. He'd seen exactly what they did to Jesse, how they stole your friend and replaced him with a demon. He'd felt the first flare of protectiveness when Jesse got dragged away. He'd felt it all the time when Glory was skanking around looking for Dawnie. Felt it so often that he chugged Pepto like it was going out of style.
It was the same stupid feeling that made him agree to Willow's scary Lazarus-spell for Buffy, the same one that made him whale on Spike after the little cable-access show. But it was also the same one that made him clear out the old closet and invest in a new futon when Buffy brought him back.
Don't hurt one of us and take care of your own.
When Giles bent over Spike to insert the slug, Wood watched avidly, arms crossed, a freaky smile on his face. Xander's gut flared higher, up into his throat. Not that he could say anything about it.
*
Waiting there on the mattress, Spike didn't have to turn to see Xander. He could feel the boy perfectly, warmth and worry billowing off him. He could hear the tension, taut as electric wires, singing, in his muscles. He wanted to turn and see, but he couldn't.
He thought again, because he was nothing if not a master of the revisited thought and reinscribed yearning, how much easier it would be if he were distinguishable from both demon and soul. If soul-demon-self was not a fibrous, cancerous tangle, He might have known what to do if that were the case.
Instead, he glared at the small crowd, spectators he wished would at least have the decency to ogle him, appraise him for the worthless piece of entertainment he was. They wouldn't even look back at him; they just slumped, guilty, uncomfortable, and he hated them for that.
Especially her. Harris' girl. Almost as bony as Buffy, all her beautiful fierceness drained away since Cecily's immolation. Anya was still beautiful, but reduced now, fearful and sharp. He'd tasted her that night, over a year ago. Thrusting into her, both of them delirious with need, he'd felt her pain and loss and disbelief kindling his own.
He'd never lost that feeling, either.
So he watched her as he felt Xander's hand, heavy and hot, on his shoulder, and Spike started to understand something. Anya didn't have to be here, but she was; he'd been in and out - mostly in - the Scooby orbit for so long that it was almost as if he'd forgotten he *didn't* have to be here. Unlike him, Anya was human now. She'd learned how to be with Xander.
He might hate that about Xander or need it. Spike didn't know yet.
And then they made him remember *everything* and the thought went away.
