Summary: A night in the basement circa S4. Xander probably should have left Spike tied up. If he had, he could have avoided a large mess which Spike probably won't clean up and a conversation about the undead.
All's Well That Ends
1 Another Clue For You All
“’S true, I’m telling you!”
Xander shifts his beer to his left hand and picks at the edge of the label, a gesture that clearly says, Uh-huh. Whatever, Bleach Boy.
Spike apparently doesn’t speak Xander.
“I knew the bloke that turned him.”
Xander decides to try words. “Right. Whatever.”
“You’re a moron, Harris, you know that?”
Xander wonders if it’s safe to wish, as long as he doesn’t wish out loud.
“If you don’t believe me, just look at the clues!”
They’re hard to miss. In the past hour, they’ve expanded to cover roughly eighty percent of the basement’s useable floorspace.
“My whatever still stands.”
A time machine. That’s what he’d wish for, if he was wishing. So he could go back and not untie Spike.
“Use your brain!” A pile of clues lands in Xander’s lap. “You live on the Hellmouth. You fight with the Slayer for Christ’s sake, how can you be so blind about this?”
Timeline be damned. If he could, he’d go back and make sure none of this stuff ever entered his parents’ house.
“Spike… put this stuff away.”
Even better, he could pull a reverse Marty McFly and prevent himself from being born.
“Not until you fucking listen!” Spike says.
And not even then, Xander thinks.
He’s seen Spike pick up after himself exactly… never.
“Stupid bloody Tuesday? The gravedigger getup? The walrus? What did you think it all meant?”
Xander knows he’s going to regret it, but he asks anyway. “The walrus?”
“Tusks,” Spike says, like Xander’s a complete idiot.
Yup. There it is.
“Like fangs.” The moron at the end is implied.
It’s the kind of regret that can only be experienced in the company of Spike.
It’s comforting, in a way.
Like a really uncomfortable shoe that’s never going to fit any better, no matter how many times you wear it.
“So who’s that?” Xander points in the direction of a clue, and God help him for even considering this.
“Imposter,” Spike says.
Xander shoves the evidence off his lap and onto the floor.
“So Paul is dead.”
2 Give My Regards to Gr'Shok
Thanks to electricalgwen, cordelianne, and savoytruffle for looking this over for me!
AN: Give My Regards To Broad Street was a movie released by Paul McCartney (of the Beatles) in 1984, and it's generally regarded as a complete piece of crap.
Prompt: I Own You - One character takes another as a slave to save their life/as a punishment.
“You’re out of blood.”
“I’m also out of ways to pretend I care.”
“You should care. Might decide to eat you. ”
Xander stares across the sea of memorabilia that separates him and Spike.
“Good luck with that.”
It’s relatively small as seas go. It’s no Pacific. Like the Red Sea, maybe. Xander squints, willing it to part. Of course, that would give Spike a clear path back to the couch, which isn’t necessarily a good thing.
“You could at least offer me some food.”
“You’re not a guest, Spike.”
Spike snorts. “In that case, I have rights.”
“Starting with the right to remain silent.”
“You’re one to—”
“Which, in case you weren’t aware, involves lots and lots of not talking. Look around, Spike. I have beer and I have refreshing Sunnydale tap water.”
“What happened to the food?”
“I ate it. It’s what people do.”
“Right, and then people buy more food. Humans need to eat, Harris.”
“Humans also need to work for a living. Unlike the mooching undead. Welcome to the other half, pal. Payday’s Thursday; I’ll hit the store then.”
“’M not waiting five days. That’s cruel and unusual.”
Vampirus Spoiledrottenus. Often sighted in Sunnydale, California, they prefer to be waited on, hand and foot. They are easily distinguishable from their feral cousins due to distinctive bleached blond hair and—“Hey!” Xander says, as his legs are unceremoniously dumped to the ground. The couch squeaks as Spike sits.
“You really are a moron.”
“And this night keeps getting better and better.”
Why’d you spend all your money on beer?”
“Beer is good.” Xander fishes said beer out from between Help! and Let It Be, knocking over a pile of trading cards in the process. He raises the bottle and downs the rest, slightly warm from sitting out, in one gulp. He drops the empty onto the coffee table and glances at Spike.
And now he knows what a withering look is.
“Wasn’t all my money, at the time.”
“So what’d you blow it on?”
Xander shrugs because really, what else is he going to do? It is what it is. “Landlords raised the rent.”
Spike’s a wealth of facial expressions tonight. The gaping beats the withering, but only because it makes Spike look vaguely fish-like, which is really more entertaining than Xander would have thought.
“You pay rent? Here? To your parents?”
“And they raised it.” The gaping eases off into disbelief with a bit of raised eyebrow thrown in for good measure.
“Hey, gotta keep up with the high cost of drinking.”
Which reminds Xander that he’s in need of a new beer. And with two cases of the good stuff to his name, he might as well indulge.
“And you paid it.”
“What else am I gonna do?”
Xander’s across the room at the fridge when Spike’s face delivers its most disturbing expression so far.
“Save your money, get a place of your own?”
It looks a little too much like pity.
“Your problem is that you’ve got no self respect.”
Xander closes his eyes and counts to ten. Which does nothing, but hey, at least now he can say he’s tried it.
“My problem is that you won’t shut up.”
“Hurts to hear, don’t it? Hits you right—”
“Spike.” If Spike doesn’t shut up, Xander’s pretty sure there might be an “accidental” staking. “Shut up and clean up this mess and I’ll go get blood from Giles tonight.”
Which will suck. Waking Giles up after eleven is never a good idea, but a quiet Spike is well worth a Giles lecture.
“I’ll leave right now if you promise to shut up for the rest of the night and put all the boxes back where you found them. My mom’ll freak if she thinks I messed with her stuff.”
And it is fine. Well, as fine as can be expected under the circumstances, which include waking Giles up near midnight for blood, listening to two separate lectures—one on feeding habits of vampires, and one on something called “Give My Regards To Broad Street”, which is apparently an “abomination” for which Giles is “thrilled” to have a “reasonable explanation”—and accidentally missing a turn and taking the long way home.
What’s somewhat less fine is the large grey demon that’s just jumped out of the shadows only a block from the safety of the basement.
“Aurg blasz?” the thing asks—at least, it sounds like a question—and Xander wonders if he’s suddenly developed a talent for understatement because large just isn’t the right word to describe this guy.
And yes, it’s definitely a guy.
It’s a guy in the guyest of ways, and apparently happy to see him.
“Um, habla inglés?”
The demon takes a step forward.
Xander takes a step backward.
“Okay, not so much. Right. See, the thing is, I’m not gay. So as much as you’re really a very attractive… whatever you are… I don’t really like male… um, males, in that way.”
Xander takes another step back.
The demon advances.
“It’s not you, it’s me. I’m picky. Too picky, really. And the grey, you know, it looks really nice on you, but I kind of go for blondes myself. And the red eyes are… well, I’m really more of a traditionalist. Just give me a blue-eyed blonde…”
Xander stumbles backward and lands sprawled out on his back, covered in pig’s blood.
And the demon, large as he is, suddenly becomes somewhat less important than the “ew” factor.
Which is why Xander’s so engrossed in getting up to inspect his clothing—and somehow, being doused in blood is even more offensive when it’s not leaking out of his own injuries—that he doesn’t notice the demon’s final approach.
What he does notice is a hand on his shoulder.
A not grey hand.
And before the what the fuck can get past his lips, there’s a low voice in his ear.
Which Xander’s about to protest because he remembers very clearly telling Spike to shut up for the rest of the night.
Then again, he was supposed to provide blood, which is currently all over the ground and his clothing.
“Xander, listen to me.”
But Xander figures Spike’s probably not above sucking his meal out of Xander’s clothes.
“Harris, unless you want that cock up your arse and your spleen in his belly, you will kneel on the ground right bloody now.”
And suddenly, kneeling seems like a good idea.
So Xander kneels.
“Keep your eyes on the ground and your mouth shut. Play the part of my slave and tall, dark, and ugly here won’t claim you as his own.”
“Mm nmm ummm mmmmm,” Xander says, because he can keep his mouth shut, but there’s no way he can refrain from saying he’s not Spike’s slave.
Spike threads his fingers into Xander’s hair and pulls. Not hard enough to set off the chip, but hard enough. Hard enough that Xander tunes out the demon in favor of a revenge fantasy that involves replacing Spike’s bleach with hydrochloric acid. Of course, that would be messy, and Spike never cleans up his messes. Which is really the entire reason Xander’s in this predicament. If it weren’t for Spike and his—
“Harris. Pay attention. Stand up. And don’t talk.”
Xander stands and starts a mental list of thing he really needs to say once this demon is out of the picture.
Item number one: Fuck off, Spike.
“You will speak only when I address you directly. Short answers. Don’t make eye contact.”
Item number two: Fuck off, Spike!
“Did he hurt you?”
“Eyes on the ground. You’re all bloody. If he hurt you, I have to avenge.”
“No. All this,” Xander says, “is your dinner.”
“Right then. He just needs proof of ownership and we can go.”
Item number three: FUCK OFF, Spike!
“You’ve got a choice, Harris. I can drink from you or I can bugger you. Doesn’t much matter to me.”
“I’m gonna go with C, none of the above.”
Spike snorts. “C is you sucking me off. Want to hear about D?”
“No.” Really, really no. A thousand times no. “Fuck.”
“Right. Buggering it is, then.”
“Lower your voice, Harris. It’s one or the other if you don’t want to be Loverboy’s pet. And I’d wager you don’t.”
“You can’t bite me.”
Spike pulls a small blade from a pocket on the inside of his jacket. “Make it a shallow cut. Inside of your forearm, near the elbow.”
“No,” Xander says.
“What is your problem, Harris? D’you want to be buggered to death and eaten by a Gr’shok demon?”
“Vampire bites can scar,” Xander says, unbuttoning his jeans. “I’m not living the rest of my life with a big scar on my arm.”
“I won’t be…” Spike trails off as Xander pushes his jeans down past his boxers. “You want to fuck instead?”
Xander rolls his eyes and grabs the knife. “Dinner is served,” he says, as he slashes a line across his inner thigh, where a scar won’t be noticeable.
Spike doesn’t move.
Xander clears his throat. He hasn’t been spoken to, and he really doesn’t want the big grey guy getting any ideas.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Spike says.
Xander looks up and then remembers not to look up and then looks up again because Spike looks so…
“I’m sorry. All right? This isn’t… doesn’t that bloody watcher teach you anything? This isn’t what I had in mind. Just… try to enjoy it.”
Xander’s about to say it—about to tell Spike to fuck the hell off—when Spike drops and attaches his mouth to Xander’s thigh.
Instead, Xander squeaks.
It’s completely unmanly, but it’s exactly what the moment calls for.
The moment being the instant and spontaneous orgasm brought on by Spike’s mouth on his thigh.
And now he’s working on moment number two.
Working his cock against Spike’s arm, which is probably there to help hold Xander upright, but Xander prefers the new use he’s found for it.
There’s not enough friction, so he thrusts harder.
Spike sighs around a mouthful of blood and brings his arm in closer to Xander’s body. Xander gets in three good strokes before he comes again, and three more have him back on the edge.
Spike trails his hand downward and teases Xander’s balls for a moment before dropping his hand to the ground and taking one last lick at Xander’s thigh.
“He’s gone. Your arse is safe.”
“Harris? You okay?”
Xander squeezes his eyes shut. The answer is no, absolutely not. Xander’s not okay. He’s half naked, bleeding, sexually frustrated, and quite possibly a little bit gay.
“Go,” Xander says. “I’ve got to…”
“’M not leaving you out here alone. You smell like a buffet.”
Xander still hasn’t opened his eyes.
That why he’s surprised to feel a body at his back, and a hand snaking around his waist and into his boxers. Two rough tugs and he comes again with a shout and collapses backward against Spike as his knees buckle.
He’s vaguely aware of being hoisted over Spike’s shoulder and carried back to the basement.
Spike dumps him on one end of the couch and sits on the other side.
“Get me a beer.”
“Get it yourself,” Xander says. He’s thinking sleep.
“Oi! Who’s the slave in this arrangement?”
Xander rolls his eyes. “No one, Spike. That was an act to get the demon away from me.”
“A proper slave would say thank you.”
“Thank you. I’m not your slave. And now is the time when we move on to the forget that ever happened portion of the evening.”
Forget what ever happened? Xander thinks.
“Get me a beer,” Spike says.
“What part of forget that ever happened don’t you understand?”
“Most people wouldn’t want to forget an experience like that.”
“Well, I do. I have. Never happened.” Xander’s good at denial. Not that there’s anything to deny, because nothing happened.
Spike puts his feet up on the coffee table and knocks off a stack of magazines. “The least you could do is clean up this mess.”
“No way,” Xander says. “That’s your end of the bargain. And why didn’t you do it yet?”
“No bargain anymore. I was promised blood.”
“You got blood.”
“When?” Spike asks.
“Out there! Just now, with the demon!”
“Oh, so it did happen. In that case, get me a beer.”
“You’re a terrible slave, Harris. And as I recall, I’ve been a very generous master.”
“We are not talking about that.”
There will be no talking about things that absolutely did not happen.
“The least you could do is get me a beer,” Spike says.
“And clean up.”
“And get me that blood you promised.”
“You had your fill.”
“And go to the bloody food store.”
“I told you—”
“Here,” Spike says, pressing a silver thumb ring into Xander’s palm. “This’ll fetch fifty dollars at a pawn shop. You can go tomorrow.”
Xander closes his hand around the ring. He doesn’t know what to say—thank you, or fuck you, or maybe something in between…
“I should make you call me Master.”
“And I can call you boy.”
“You could probably learn to follow orders, given enough time.”
Xander looks at Spike.
And he’s smiling.
And Xander laughs.
“Fuck off, Spike.”
Xander closes his eyes, and if he feels a hand ghost over his knee, he ignores it, just like he’s ignoring the rest of the things that didn’t happen tonight.
3 Good Morning, Good Morning
Many thanks to electricalgwen for the beta!
The title is taken from the Beatles song of the same name. This fic assumes that the basement has two exits--which it does: see 4.03 "The Harsh Light Of Day
Prompt: No Way Out - Characters are trapped/kidnapped/captured/jailed.
Xander wakes up in stages.
He’s usually fuzzy until halfway through the peeing. At least.
It’s made for some interesting mornings.
Take today, for example.
“You sure you want to do that?”
He’s peeing on the washing machine. Or not peeing. There’s some kind of combination of autopilot modesty and confusion keeping it inside his body.
It’s that or the raging erection.
Which is new.
As is the washing machine. It’s not usually in the bathroom. Xander blinks and tries to squint his way into coherence. Something’s in the wrong place, and it’s either the bathroom or the washer because it’s not—
“Drop your cock and step away from the machine.”
“Spike?” Xander asks, turning around in a full circle before he zeroes in on Spike’s location.
“What happened to the bathroom?”
The blinking and squinting do their job, and when Spike’s face snaps into focus, Xander wishes it hadn’t. It’s not a “good morning” face. It’s an “are you a fucking moron?” face.
He blames the early morning fuzziness for the moment he takes to actually consider that question, and then he says, “Wait, huh?”
Spike rolls his eyes. “You’re a moron, Harris.”
Xander’s inclined to agree. Not that he’d ever admit it, but he is the one standing in the middle of the room with his rock-hard dick in his hand, asking why Spike moved the bathroom.
A screaming horde of questions shove and elbow their way to the surface of Xander’s mind, but his cock takes priority, and everything it wants to do requires a bathroom.
A bathroom, which is—Xander turns another circle—right where it always was. It’s just everything else that’s moved.
“What the hell did you do?” he asks, and then he adds, “Don’t answer that. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
Xander’s not the kind of guy who talks to his penis. That’s a little weird, even for him. But if he were, right about now he’d be saying, “What the fuck, dude?” Because “dude” is a word he’d probably use if he was the kind of guy who talked to his dick.
A little morning wood is one thing, but this is something else. He kind of wishes he had a good use for it. This is the kind of hard-on that deserves to be remembered, but it’s going to have to settle for a quick jack in the shower so he can pee already.
He doesn’t actually make it to the toilet. He’s got a head full of shampoo when he can’t wait any longer, and he lets go with a groan that he instantly regrets. He regrets it so much that he can’t enjoy the rest of his piss, and so what if he enjoys peeing? It relaxes him, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that, and no, it’s not weird, thank you very much.
Though now, he’s faced with two rather immediate problems. The first being that he has to clean the tub, and he really hates cleaning the tub. And the second being that Spike’s going to think he jerked off. Which he did. Silently. And Spike never had to know.
Though Spike’s got a few questions to answer himself, and Xander figures if he keeps them coming fast enough, maybe he won’t have to deal with the whole jerking off thing.
He figures wrong, of course.
Insults, banter, witty observations, these are things he can deliver with speed and at length. Questions about why everything in the basement is suddenly somewhere else, not so much.
Plus, he didn’t count on the jerking off conversation being entirely nonverbal. It goes something like this:
Sniff of air.
Strange pucker of lips to keep from smiling.
Xander turns the pucker into a question. “Spike, what did you do?”
The smile is replaced by agitation. “I cleaned, Harris. Kept my end of the bargain.”
“You call this cleaning?”
Spike snorts. “Bloody right I do. Spent all night on this mess. What do you call it?”
Xander looks around. Yeah, it’s clean. Cleaner than he’s ever seen it, actually, and there’s more space, with the couch tucked under the stairs and all the boxes…
all the boxes…
“Spike, where are all the boxes?”
Spike jerks his head toward the wall behind him, which is not so much a wall as a hole in the wall that’s filled, top to bottom, with boxes.
“Gives you some extra space, yeah?” Spike says, and if Xander didn’t know better, he’d think Spike was proud of himself.
Xander’s torn between screaming and doing something that’s less likely to wipe that look off Spike’s face.
He goes with less likely. “Spike. Thank you for cleaning. However, I’m sensing a slight problem with what you’ve done here. You remember what’s behind those boxes?”
“Door. What’s your point?”
“My point,” Xander says, feeling the need to be nice lessen a bit, “is that you’ve blocked our only exit. There’s no way out.”
Spike points to the door at the top of the basement stairs. “What’s that?”
It’s Xander’s turn to wear the “are you a moron?” look. “Have you ever seen anyone use that door?”
“Doesn’t mean we can’t,” Spike answers.
“Yeah it does, Bleach For Brains. It’s locked. From the other side. And if you don’t want us to get kicked out on our asses, you’ll let it stay that way.”
Spike doesn’t answer. At least, not verbally, and Xander can’t see his expression because the lights pick that moment to go out.
“Hey!” Spike says.
“What’s so funny?”
Nothing at all, but Xander laughs anyway. “What day is it? Is it the thirtieth?”
“How many vampires you know keep track of the date?”
Xander laughs more. “Fine. I nominate you and your superior vampire vision to check the calendar over the fridge.”
“After you tell me what’s so funny.”
“Only that I’m going to starve to death alone boxed into a basement with no power because good old Mom and Dad didn’t pay the electric bill.”
Xander gets out one last giggle.
“’S not actually all that funny, mate,” Spike says, and Xander hears him cross the room. “Yeah, it’s the thirtieth. And you’re not…”
After a minute, Xander asks, “I’m not what?”
“You’re not…” Xander hears Spike sigh and figures his other senses must be making up for his lack of vision. “You’re not gonna die,” he mutters.
There’s a loud thump from across the room, and then a quieter one.
“Nah. I can see well enough to move the boxes.”
“Oh. Need my help?”
Xander can’t help thinking that’s the least Spike’s said. Ever. Which kicks his mouth into overdrive to make up for the silence.
“You put all my mom’s Beetles stuff away carefully, right?”
“It’s Beatles. With an ‘a’.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, you said ‘Beetles’. With an ‘e’.”
“Spike, they sound exactly the same!”
“Aren’t though, are they?”
“So how did you move the couch with me sleeping on it?”
The scraping and thumping stop.
“Y’know that plan you had to die here alone?”
Xander’s new super ears hear… nothing. Except that Spike is possibly pissed at something.
“Well, it wasn’t a plan so much as—”
“People who’re alone don’t usually talk this much.”
“Oh,” Xander says.
“Because people who are alone don’t have anyone to talk to.”
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