Whoever was talking to Xander’s butt, Xander’s head deeply wished he she or it would go away and leave him to his misery.
He couldn’t be more specific, as the mystical anti-break-in seal round the back window of Archie’s Liquor Store had efficiently sealed itself tight round him as he attempted to, duh, break in - head first. It was now muffling almost all sound from outside, where his back half was doubtless waving and kicking in a humiliating picture of helplessness. Damn shopkeeper warlocks and their effective curses.
And yes, technically he was in need of rescue, preferably by an alternative warlock more in tune with the beer-based needs of American youth. But such persons were hard to come by, even when you were in a position to seek them out rather than having to hang around waiting for someone, anyone to show up and… well, do whatever one did to break someone out of a mystical seal. He’d secretly rather have had a little time to become truly desperate and grateful for release than to be mocked after only five minutes of uncomfortable dangling.
Xander’s ears had been listening hard while his head was thinking this one through. The collated sounds were starting to make a little sense. With all the voices in all the world, or at least all of LA, to choose from, how come this one sounded familiar? Familiar in a resoundingly unwelcome way, too. That hint of… British. What Xander always thought of as Dirty British, contrasting with Giles’s Uptight British accent. (Dirty in a bad way, just to be clear. Not in a sexy, knowing-too-much, could make you scream for a week way. Oh no.)
And then the tight seal round his midriff slipped away, to be replaced by…flames, flamey FLAMES!!! Even as his brain registered and panicked, Xander was wrenched out of the window and patted till his jacket stopped smouldering.
“Idiot boy. Shoulda known Archie’d have protection.” Spike looked up at the still-burning gap in the wall and slipped his Zippo back into his pocket.
Even as Xander’s vocal chords tried to frame the concept “you just set me on fire” strongly enough to express his feelings on the matter, Spike stripped off his coat. He passed it speedily to the boggling and still smoking Xander. “What were you after? Tequila? Vodka? 25 year old Scotch?”
“Beer.” The shameful word was barely a whisper.
“What the…? Oh for fuck’s sake, you’re nicking beer? How cheap are you?” But Spike was distracted as he spoke, “Shit, gotta get going quick, fire won’t hold it open forever.”
And the vampire vaulted neatly through the burning window frame, leaving Xander open-mouthed and in possession of the Mystically Reconstituted Leather Coat of Spike. Which reeked of cigarettes and whisky, and smelt so familiar and Sunnydale-evoking that Xander was tempted to bury his face in and inhale nostalgically for a few minutes.
He resisted, fortunately, and managed to field two bottles of Johnny Walker and a six pack of Coors which sailed out of the now-smouldering window before Spike reappeared, bearing a couple of packs of cigarettes, some tortilla chips and a bottle of Finlandia, while still managing to scoot nimbly across the frame just before the flames went out and it snapped tight once more. He might be evil, but that vampire could move.
Spike dusted himself down, picking off the occasional charred piece of shirt. “Closer’n I’d like, that time. Shouldn’t‘ve wasted time chatting. Ah well, s’nother day without combusting so pretty good I say.” A beady pair of blue eyes turned on Xander. “Couldn’t say the same for you, by the looks of things. Beer theft, hmm? Council keeping you that skint?”
“Pay’s not… huge. Lot of work to be done and no paperwork about the old Council bank accounts so… yeah, not great.” Xander couldn’t be bothered to pretend reviving the Slayer tradition was all good.
“And so poor Watcher wannabes have to steal their liquor?”
Xander hung his head, ridiculously embarrassed at confessing crime to Spike, of all the deep-dyed criminals in the world. “We file itemised expense claims. They fuss about booze. And… I was pissed, okay? I’m penniless, and the new job’s not exactly big secret world-saveage, and I lost my fucking eye last year and some nights I’m not doing so well with that… And no, I didn‘t really need the beer that much but I… got angry.”
Whoa. That was probably more than he’d needed to say. More than he’d thought out for himself, actually. Xander realised only with those words how much his maimed eye, the loss of looks and balance and judgement that came with it, was still festering. It was okay in a group of friends and Slayers, mostly, when the Cyclops Mystique was strong. But now, sent to LA on a needless Slayerette-locating mission (like Angel couldn’t have tracked her down if anyone had bothered to ask), alone and very self-aware, he was… yeah. Angry.
Xander had expected Spike to come back with a quick and cutting putdown. There wasn’t one. Just a quick nod and a, “Lotta that going around.”
What’s more, it was followed up with a “Want some company while you drink that? My basement hovel’s just ‘round the corner. ’Bout time I returned your hospitality, innit?”
Can you say “unprecedented”? Xander didn’t try. He went for the modest, achievable, “Okay.”
The basement was indeed a hovel, with a vibrant smell of damp and a hint of mold. It brought back vividly unpleasant memories of his own basement days, and a fleeting regret for the generic cheap motel room he’d otherwise be sitting in. But there were chairs, TV and beer, so it could have been worse. And company, albeit of the evil (souled) vampire kind.
And they were talking. Catching up. Like… friends would be pushing it. Old acquaintances, then. Though old acquaintances who were vigilantly avoiding certain words. Like “Buffy”. And “Anya”.
Still, there was common ground. Dawn, Giles, the inexorable and absurd rise of Andrew. Angel - many minutes of fruitful mockery there, though with Spike winning by a mile due to the fine new material gathered and honed in his ghostly days. They’d made it up the scale from acquaintances to old comrades within the hour.
Beer, bourbon and nothing more than a few limp chips later, it was little wonder Xander was flat out on the couch, feeling no pain. Spike, on the other hand, had reached Morose Drunk stage. It looked pretty good on him, but clearly he didn’t feel as good as he looked. He paced the room irritably, declaiming “I had a destiny. Two, in fact. Died the once, didn’t take. Died twice, didn’t take. Thought that meant something; thought I was s’posed to make a difference. Bloke brought me back, told me I was special, now he’s turned out to be a lying sack of shit with a moronic agenda of his own. He’s got sucked into a hell dimension. And now I’m just… nothing. And yeah, I‘m angry about it too.”
A reflective pause later, and Spike flopped down on the floor by the couch. “Bit like when I was living with you that time, really. All revved up and no one to fight.”
“God! Don’t make it sound like we were roomies. You were our prisoner, remember?” Xander flailed up onto one elbow, almost nose to nose with the broadly grinning Spike.
“Remember it well. Me all trussed up and powerless in that fucking chair, you parading around starkers driving me mad.”
“I did NOT “parade”!” Outraged, Xander nonetheless couldn’t help but feel a tickle of memory. A couple of times, when Spike had been whining more than usual about not being able to… put his hands to good use… while bound. Yeah, okay, he had probably been a little more overt than usual about showering. “Showering” meaning less basic hygiene, more not-so-furtive self-pleasuring under the trickle of rusty water which passed for washing facilities in the basement. He’d meant Spike to know and be infuriated. Hadn’t he? Four years on, though, Spike’s look was of reminiscent lust rather than outrage.
“God, yeah, I remember. You all young and tender and trying to be adult. Wanting to be noticed. Begging to be…” Spike’s eyes focused very directly on Xander’s mouth, and didn’t bother to finish the sentence in words as he leant forward and slowly brushed his mouth across Xander’s. Then settled in for a longer, deeper kiss which would have given Xander ample time to object, if he’d been so minded.
Not so much. The kissing went on, slow and boozy and infinitely seductive.
What a mouth. Xander tried very hard to forget what else that mouth had done, and who else it had kissed. He succeeded completely, mainly because Spike’s hand was distracting his brain, sneaking up Xander’s thigh to rub briefly at his bulging crotch before starting to work at the fastening on his jeans.
“Whoa! What the-”
“Save it.” Spike grinned into the panicked brown eyes inches from his own. “No need to play the blushing virgin, love. You’ve been around a bit. Smelled it on you often. That boy that died, the high school one; your pizza delivery buddy; old Rupert, when you were older. Think they were secret? No need for hiding here. And you wanted me before. Now you get me.”
Xander’s head was full of exploding stars of self-recognition which would have to be dealt with sometime. But right now Xander’s mouth was full of Spike, and Spike’s hands were causing distractions of their own. Slipping in, undoing, stripping off… Spike hands on naked Xander now, working steadily on his slick erection. Eagerly encouraging Xander’s hands as they began to reciprocate with some exploratory moves of their own. Off with the coat, shirt, boots and jeans. No surprise there was nothing left to be removed after that.
Naked Spike was a thing of much beauty, which deserved to be worshipped a little. Oh yeah. Count Xander among the congregation. At some point he had to join Spike on the floor to get better access to all that lean muscle. Which led to more touching of a mutually oh god yes beneficial nature.
Those looking for symmetry in life would have noted that Xander ended the evening as he had begun, with Spike getting a close-up of his ass. But voluntarily this time, naked and with lube. It was a much better version.
Male character (ONE) you want paired with Xander: Spike
Up to three things you want in your fic: breaking and entering, the unexpected, Spike needing a drink
Up to two things you don't want: Alcoholic issues, pre-Chosen
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