Wrong Side of the Bed by Whichclothes

Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I'm not Joss
Summary: Spike and Xander end up in bed together. But they're not gay, you know.


Author's Note
: Many thanks to my lovely beta, silk_labyrinth ! Written for fall_for_sx.





Wrong Side of the Bed


by
Whichclothes



Xander woke up and wished he hadn’t. His head was pounding and his mouth felt like someone had stuffed it full of dirty carpeting. He considered groaning but decided that would hurt too much. He considered attempting to pass out again but decided that would result in wetting his bed.

Wait. His bed? No—the mattress felt too springy and the sheets smelled like hotel bleach.

Hotel bleach and sex, actually.

He risked peeling open his eyelid a fraction of an inch and was relieved when bright light didn’t stab into his brain. In fact, the room was dark enough that for a moment he thought it was night, which meant either that he’d hardly slept at all or that he’d snored through the entire day. But then his eye focused a little better and he saw the bedside clock, which read 1:23 p.m.

Several more minutes passed before he realized that he was on the wrong side of the bed. Anya had always insisted on sleeping on the left side, and even though nearly ten years had passed since her death, Xander still stuck stubbornly to the right. Except now, when he was definitely on the left, in a hotel, with conga drums and jackhammers in his skull and a bladder that was ready to call it quits.

He was about to get up—hoping the floor would stay steady under his feet—when he noticed that the room was wrong too. It wasn't his hotel room, which was a decent one with a coffee maker, comfy bed, and free Wi-Fi so he could surf porn to his dick’s content. In his room the bathroom was to the left of the bed, next to the door, and in this room there was no bathroom over there, and no door. Just a table and a chair and a window with the curtains tightly drawn.

Presumably this hotel room had a bathroom too, but on the other side of the room. So either he’d woken up in some alternate universe where he slept on the wrong side of the bed and the hotel rooms were backwards… or else he was in someone else’s room. Although either scenario was a possibility in his life, he decided that the latter was slightly more probable.  And of course that begged the question of whose room he was in. And where that person was right now.

After several more minutes and a pep talk from his bladder to his brain, Xander managed to flop onto his back. He slowly turned his head to the right.

The opposite side of the bed—his side—was occupied. The occupant was an unmoving lump, covered almost completely in the thick white duvet. Only the occupant’s hair was visible, short, messy curls in a color that did not exist in nature.

Xander screamed. He tried to scramble backwards and ended up falling off the bed and landing on his ass, but not before he saw Spike’s newly-awakened, horrified face and heard Spike’s answering shout.

Xander’s legs refused to cooperate and it took him a while to get to his feet. When he did, there was Spike standing on the other side of the bed. Naked.

Xander looked down at himself. Also naked.

Fuck.

A confusing set of images appeared in Xander’s head, too staccato for him to gain their full sense: Purple-skinned demons nodding as Xander handed them something that looked vaguely like a miniature bowling trophy. A hotel bar and celebratory drinks. Lots and lots of celebratory drinks. More drinks in someone’s room—the teeny honor bar bottles all emptied and scattered. Pay-per-view porn. Cool lips against his, grabby hands all over. A long, slender cock in front of him, in his mouth. A pale, round ass raised expectantly.

“Oh, fuck,” Xander groaned.

Spike sort of gaped at him.

“Did we…” Xander began. And then looked down at his dick, which was partly covered in flaking dried stuff and looking rather smug.

Spike looked down at his own cock, rubbed a bit at the mess on his belly, shifted his stance a little, and then winced. “Bloody hell.” He sounded more defeated than upset.

Xander backed up a step, then another. “But… but… I’m not gay.”

Spike crossed his arms on his chest—his nicely sculpted, hairless chest—and raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not!” protested Xander. “I’ve never—” And then he stopped, because he had ever, but only that one summer in Oxnard when he’d been very young and really confused. It didn’t count.

Suddenly, Xander felt very sick.

He made a clumsy dash around the bed, past Spike, and into the bathroom, where he puked noisily and plentifully into the toilet. He slumped on the cold tile floor for a while, reflecting on the fact that the taste inside his mouth hadn’t improved. By the time he emerged from the bathroom—having pissed, rinsed his mouth and face, and stared disbelievingly at himself in the mirror—Spike had pulled on a black T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Xander, however, was still naked, and he had to endure Spike’s narrow-eyed stare as he found his widely scattered clothing and stuffed himself into it.

Xander was still clumsily managing his buttons when Spike stomped close to him. “You took advantage of me,” Spike said.

“I…. What now?”

“I’m no poofter. You took advantage of me.”

After opening and closing his mouth a few times, Xander found his voice. “I did not! You’re a vampire!”

Spike’s answering glare made him look more like a basilisk. “That means it’s all right to do what you want with me, then?”

“No, it— It means I can’t make you do anything because you’re a zillion times stronger than me.”

“I was rat-arsed!”

“Well, so was I!” Xander retorted, assuming rat-arsed was British for totally wasted. Then another thought occurred to him. “You took advantage of me!” He pointed his finger in Spike’s face.

Spike batted it away. “Right. I used my evil wiles to force your dick up my arse.”

Xander had to admit, when Spike put it like that, he did have a point. A rather uncomfortable point, actually, and one that raised thoughts Xander would rather not think. He fastened the last button on his day-old jeans, found his shoes in the corner and picked them up but didn’t bother to put them on, and brushed past Spike. “This never happened,” Xander said.

“Agreed.”

It wasn’t until Xander had slammed the door and wobbled halfway down the hotel corridor that it occurred to him he wasn’t wearing his eye patch. Well, fuck that. Spike could keep the damn thing. Xander had an extra.

***

Giles glanced up distractedly as Xander entered the library at headquarters. “What— Oh, Xander. I trust you were able to transfer the talisman successfully.”

“Yeah, the purple guys got their trophy. They seemed happy about it.”

“I imagine so. They’ve been searching for that item for several hundred years, and by giving it to them we’ve averted—”

“I got it. Trophy to purple demons good. It’s been a long trip, Giles. I’m gonna crash.”

Giles’ attention was already mostly back on his book, a thick one with a yellowish cover. “I trust Spike handled his bit of the intercourse properly?”

Xander choked so violently that Giles looked up at him with concern. “Xander, are you quite all right?”

It took several minutes before Xander could speak again. “What… what?”

“I asked you whether Spike was helpful in the transaction. You know that Buffy and I were skeptical about sending him with you. Having another demon present was meant to be helpful but Spike….” Giles sighed. “Spike is often anything but.”

Xander heard Giles’ final word with two t’s and decided he really needed some sleep. “Everything was fine. Full report tomorrow, okay?”

“Very well. Good night.”

Good morning would have been more accurate. The drive from Albuquerque to California had taken over twelve hours, and the sky was already beginning to brighten. The sun itself wouldn’t be visible for a while, and wouldn’t stay that way for long—the tall mountains to the east and west guaranteed that—but the night was definitely over. Nobody else was in the corridor, because everyone was still asleep except Giles. Giles and the resident vampire, that is; and the resident vampire was probably in the large kitchen, microwaving mugfuls of blood and muttering to himself about Xander’s slow and uncomfortable truck. But hey, at least the pickup had made it safely to Albuquerque and back. That piece of shit Spike drove probably wouldn’t have made it three miles.

But Xander didn’t want to think about Spike.

The drive had been long and unpleasant. Xander and Spike had sat crammed together in the truck cab, not speaking. Xander had stared straight ahead through the windshield and Spike had alternately fiddled with the radio or twisted sideways to look out the passenger side window into the dark, empty desert. At least Xander’s hangover had mostly abated. When they arrived at HQ, they’d climbed silently out of the truck, grabbed their bags, and stomped into the building, all without exchanging a word. Xander had gone to the library, knowing that Giles loved his predawn research hours, and Spike… well, he was probably in the kitchen. Drinking blood. Not that Xander cared.

This was the fourth HQ they’d occupied over the past decade, and the one that had needed the most work. Still needed a lot of work, actually. The last one had been in Chicago, right off the Loop. That had been Faith’s idea. “Puts us right in the middle of the action,” she’d argued, and the close proximity of shopping and movie theaters and restaurants had swayed enough Slayers to her side to overcome opposition from Buffy and Giles. And then some of the bad guys du jour had tried to take out HQ, but Willow’s wards made their attack backfire and several blocks of Chicago real estate went boom. A dozen innocent civilians had died. Now Faith was back east somewhere, sulking, and nobody had argued when Giles had chosen the current location, which was technically still in California but really a world away from anything resembling civilization.

They’d bought a parcel of cheap land with a few usable buildings. Used to be part of some military base. Xander had overseen the conversion of the biggest building into living quarters for a couple dozen Slayers, a few Watchers, one or two witches (depending on whether Willow and Phoebe were speaking to each other), a one-eyed carpenter and gofer, and an annoying vampire with a soul.

Xander’s own room was at the far end of the building, in what he privately thought of as the Men’s Wing. Very privately, because if he even hinted that an overabundance of estrogen might sometimes be a little overwhelming, two dozen Slayers and one or two witches would kick his ass. Giles’ room was next door and Spike’s was across the hall. The only other residents with Y chromosomes, a pair of identical twin Watchers named Mike and Matt, shared the remaining room. Didn’t actually sleep there all that often, though; as far as Xander could tell, the twins spent most of their nights in various Slayer beds.

There was also a shared bathroom. A manly bathroom, with a urinal and without a single bottle of pink, fruity shampoo or a single bar of flowery soap.

Xander opened the door to his room and dumped his bag onto the floor. He could unpack later. Now he just wanted to sleep. In fact, his jaw cracked noisily when he yawned and he almost dislocated his shoulders with a mighty stretch. But first he had to visit the bathroom. Maybe one of these days he’d build himself his own place to piss and brush in private.

He stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside, kicked off his shoes, and opened the door. But just as he was stepping into the hallway, the opposite door opened and Spike nearly bumped into him.

“Hey. Watch it,” Xander growled.

Spike narrowed his eyes. “Trying it again, are you?”

“Trying what?”

“To seduce me.”

Xander stood there for a moment, sputtering. “Sed—seduce you?”

Spike waved his hands in the direction of Xander’s bare chest. “Parading about half-naked, aren’t you?”

“I’m not parading. I’m going to go brush my teeth. Something us mortals have to do, remember?” Suddenly a little self-conscious, he crossed his arms.

“’T’s been a few years since I brushed mine, but I seem to remember it didn’t require stripping.”

“But— Oh, for Christ’s sake! I didn’t even know you were here. I thought you were in the kitchen.”

“So you were keeping track of me then?”

Xander made a noise somewhere between an expletive and a growl, turned sharply to his right, and stomped to the bathroom. He spent a long time in there, not so much for thorough dental hygiene as a fear that he’d run into Spike in the hallway again. But eventually exhaustion overtook him and he ventured out. This time he made it safely to his own room, where he closed the door with a relieved sigh.

His bed wasn’t as nice as the ones at the Albuquerque hotel. This one was narrower and a little lumpy—they’d bought the mattresses in bulk—and the sheets were sort of scratchy and not especially clean. Plus, nobody was going to make the bed for him in the morning, or dust and vacuum, or replace the little bottles of booze in the minifridge he didn’t own. He missed his hotel bed.

But he didn’t miss Spike. Definitely not Spike. Never mind that he’d actually been finding Spike decent company over the past couple of years. Someone to watch bad TV with or complain about the younger Slayers’ taste in music. Never mind that they’d sort of had fun during the drive to Albuquerque. They’d amused each other with imitations of movie characters or—even better—imitations of Giles, and Spike had told some really embarrassing stories about Angel's time in LA. Even now, imagining Deadboy as a puppet made Xander snicker. Never mind that Spike had a really great ass, and those lips….

Goddammit, Xander was not missing Spike.

***

Xander tried to avoid Spike over the next several days. Or maybe Spike tried to avoid him; Xander wasn’t sure. In any case, they saw very little of each other.

And that was just fine.

Angel called and said there was a new crisis in LA, and most of the crew piled into a bus and headed south. Buffy seemed just a little too eager to go, if you asked Xander. She said that she and Angel weren’t a thing, but neither of them had hooked up with anyone else in years and there seemed to be a lot of apocalypse scares in southern California that turned out to be nothing. Xander and Spike had been joking about it for years, actually. Spike called the LA runs “Buffy’s booty calls.” He seemed over Buffy himself, and refused to get too near to Angel. Xander had never been especially clear on why Spike had attached himself to the U.S. branch of the New  and Improved Watchers’ Council.

Not that it mattered.

So while most of the gang chaperoned Buffy and Angel, and while Giles did his research thing, Xander did a few minor repairs, installed some shelving units in the outbuilding where they kept the bus and several cars, and began an improvement project in the big room they used as a lounge. He wanted more electrical outlets so he could install a surround sound system, and he’d been thinking about upgrading the lighting too. He and Spike used to spend a lot of time in the lounge, sort of hanging out. Now he didn’t know where Spike was spending his time.

And he didn’t care, either.

If he happened to keep his ears open for Spike’s booted footsteps in the hall outside their bedrooms, that was only so Xander could avoid him. Which he did.

Until four nights after the bus left, when Xander had finished his DIY for the day and was kicking back on one of the lounge couches with a beer in his hand and American Idol on the TV. American Idol sucked balls when you had to watch it by yourself, he thought. Maybe it would improve after a few more bottles of Sam Adams.

But then Spike entered the room and skulked silently near one wall, until Xander finally turned to glare at him. “What?”

Spike attempted to look innocent. “Nothing. ’T’s a public space, innit?”

“Yeah. But you’re… hovering. Why are you hovering?”

“’M standing, berk. That’s all.”

Xander decided that ignoring was the best response and turned his gaze back to the screen. But ignoring was really hard when he knew Spike was standing there, all taut muscles and smooth skin, and Jesus, that was not what Xander wanted in his brain right now. Problem was, it wasn’t just in his brain, because Little Xander was suddenly interested in the proceedings, and Little Xander was remembering how Spike felt, tight and cool and welcoming.

With an exasperated sound, Xander downed the last of his beer and stood. But there was only one way out of the room, and that doorway was right next to Spike. Stupid. They should have thought to put in a second exit, in case they were ever attacked by hordes of angry demons. Or a single frustratingly sexy demon.

Xander almost made it out of the room, but Spike shot out his hand and grabbed Xander’s shoulder almost hard enough to hurt. Xander yanked himself away. “What?” he demanded.

Spike’s jaw worked for a moment, like he’d forgotten how to talk. “’S stupid,” he finally mumbled.

“What is?”

“The… this.” Spike sighed very deeply. “Haven’t had a leg over in ages. Except for you. Wasn’t bad, really.”

Xander blinked at him. “Um… yeah. It wasn’t. I mean, I sorta don’t remember very much but the parts I do—they weren’t bad.”

“Not bad? Anyone—bird or bloke—who gets a chance at my hot body is bloody lucky.”

“So? I’ve had people beg—literally beg, Spike—for my dick.” Xander was proud of his penis. It was really one of his better features. Lots of people had told him so. Way back in Oxnard he’d even been told he could make a career off his cock. That idea had got him through a few tough times over the years, even if he’d never quite had the balls to go through with it.

Now, he and Spike faced each other, glaring. It was Spike who finally rolled his eyes. “’S like this. I’m not getting any and neither are you. Neither of us has many prospects in this rathole. So… what say we fuck?”

“I thought you said you weren’t gay.”

“’M not. Doesn’t mean I don’t fancy getting buggered now and then.” He pointed a schoolmastery finger at Xander. “The prostate is our friend.”

“I’m aware of that.”

Spike’s eyebrows flew up. “You bottom as well? You claimed you were no nancy.”

Xander refused to blush, goddammit. “Anya. Strap-on,” he muttered.

Spike barked out a laugh. “Should have known. So… what do you say?”

There was a brief pause as Xander considered the alternatives. Sleep. American Idol. Another Internet-porn-accompanied wank. Or a sexy and willing vampire with the nicest ass in the West. “Okay,” Xander said.

Spike grinned.

Maybe Spike, like Xander, thought he’d make a dignified walk in the direction of their rooms. But by the time they entered the corridor they were both trotting, and the trot turned into a full-out sprint at the end. They ended up in Spike’s room, which smelled like cigarettes, whiskey, and leather. Xander was going to tear off his clothes, but while his shirt was still sort of hooked over his shoulders, Spike slammed him up against the wall and kissed him.

That was kind of a surprise. Xander couldn’t remember if they’d kissed back in Albuquerque. He sort of thought he would have remembered it, because Spike was a hell of a good kisser. Soft lips and no beard stubble. Plus he was a multitasker, because without breaking the lip-lock he wandered his hands all over Xander’s body, ripped Xander’s T-shirt clean away, and unbuttoned and unzipped Xander’s jeans. He stuck one of his hands down the front of Xander’s boxers—God, his hand was cold—and the other grabbed a fistful of Xander’s hair. Xander wasn’t as adept, but he did manage a double handful of denim-covered vampire ass.

Spike broke away after a while. They were both a little breathless and Xander was scarily close to climaxing right into Spike’s clever fingers. “Bed?” Spike asked throatily.

Xander grunted his agreement.

The rest of Xander’s clothing and all of Spike’s came off in a flash. And fuck, but Spike was even more gorgeous than Xander remembered, so maybe Xander really was a little gay. Or, you know, a lot. Because when Spike threw himself onto the bed on all fours and waggled that demony ass, Xander’s throat went really dry and he was pretty sure he heard a choir sing.

“Um, lube?” Xander said. He vaguely remembered a drunken discussion about how rubbers weren’t necessary when bonking the undead, but surely they must have used lube of some kind.

“Blood.”

“Ew.”

“Vampire.”

“Human.”

They were at a little bit of an impasse, which Xander broke by holding up one hand. “Hang on.” Then he darted out of the room and across the hall—naked, erect, and very much hoping Giles didn’t unexpectedly appear—and into his own room. He grabbed the familiar bottle from his bedside table. Then he dashed back, half-expecting to find Spike dressed and disinterested.

But Spike was neither. He was in fact, on his back with his knees drawn up tightly, busily working a spit-wetted finger into himself.

Xander almost had a coronary.

Instead he tossed the bottle to Spike, who caught it neatly and flipped up the cap. As Xander climbed onto the bed on his knees, Spike drizzled a healthy dollop of Elbow Grease onto his fingers and began to slick himself up. It was, bar none, the single most fascinating sight Xander’s remaining eye had ever seen: slim pale digits disappearing into the tight little hole and then reappearing, Spike’s balls pink and fuzzy, Spike’s cock hard and leaving a little damp smear on his belly.

“Guh,” said Xander.

“Well said.” Spike handed him the bottle, and as Xander smeared it on his own cock, Spike seemed as interested as Xander had been in Spike’s lube-related activity. “Lovely,” breathed Spike.

Well, a guy couldn’t get enough of hearing that, could he?

“Planning to do that all night or are you going to fuck me?” Spike asked after a few moments.

“Um… fuck.”

“About bloody time.”

Xander maneuvered himself into place, lined himself up, and sank inside.

Oh God. It was better than he remembered. Not just the sort of cool tightness around him, but also the view of Spike jacking himself, and the feel of Spike’s fingers pinching and rolling Xander’s nipples. Xander had really sensitive nipples. Had Spike discovered that in New Mexico or was this a new thing? Didn’t matter. Felt good now.

“Won’t break me,” said Spike. “Hard is— Oh, fuck, love. Like that.”

Yeah. Like that. And with a little… yes, a little of that. “Fuuuuck.”

Neither of them could manage actual words after that. If Xander hadn’t been otherwise occupied, he might have been amazed at witnessing Spike speechless. Amazed and sort of proud, because he was the one making those growls and moans and gasps escape from Spike’s throat, and making Spike arch his neck and squeeze his eyes shut. When Spike just sort of opened his mouth and howled, and Xander got a nice view of his white teeth, he imagined those teeth sharpening and elongating into fangs. Surprisingly, that didn’t put a damper on things. Instead, Xander moved harder and faster and deeper, and then his body was rocked with the small explosion of an orgasm so intense he nearly blacked out.

He came to himself moments later, with Spike snuggled up against him, sleepy-looking and sated. Snuggled. And the snuggling was… kind of nice, actually. Maybe even really nice. And he and Spike had been pretending that all of this was just about getting off, but fuck buddies didn’t cuddle, did they? Didn’t chuckle softly and place soft kisses on cheeks and empty eyelids.

Spike kissed him again, yawned, and pulled the blankets up to their chins. “Was a bit of all right.”

“Yeah. Better than American Idol.”

“We could do it again. Regularly even. Practice, yeah?”

“Practice does make perfect.” It was Xander’s turn to yawn. “Wanna help me repair the training room floor tomorrow? Couple of the girls fucked it up last week when they started tossing around barbells. Then we could maybe watch a basketball game or something.”

“I’ll supervise the construction and no basketball. Still have those Torchwood DVDs?”

Xander hid his smile in Spike’s messy hair. “Yeah.”

And it was all kind of weird and unexpected, but Spike felt good in his arms and Spike’s mattress was more comfortable than his. Xander didn’t even mind that Spike was on his side of the bed. Still smiling, Xander drifted off to sleep.




The End




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