The True Meaning of Family

The loud banging on the door wakes Xander out of a sound sleep.

Grabbing his baseball bat, he shuffles out of his bedroom, into the main room, to his front door. Looks out the peephole.

With a grin, he unlocks the deadbolt, baseball bat falling to the floor, forgotten. He’s just opening the door when it slams inward, nearly taking off his nose. A compact body in leather and denim hurls itself at him enthusiastically.

“You miserable little fucker! How the hell are you?”

“I’m - great, Spike! But for the lack of oxygen, I’m gravy.”

“My big little brother can’t take a simple hug?” Spike lets go of Xander, grinning. “Getting soft, are we? All this easy living spoiled ya, then?”

Xander rolls his eyes. “Yes, living in the Bronx has indeed spoiled me rotten. Now I know how Louis XIV felt.” He looks Spike over. Same pale face that’s all blue eyes, sharp cheekbones and pouty mouth. Same ancient leather duster, tight acid wash jeans and torn band t-shirt. The platinum hair was new, as were the eyebrow ring and - yep, a tongue stud. Facial piercings and platinum hair. . . not for the first time, Xander wonders if there was a look his brother can’t pull off.

“Get in here, man, before the cockroaches try to follow you in.”

Spike grabs his grungy looking duffel bag and guitar case and steps in, looking around. “Y’ last place was nicer.”

“My last place was the one we had together. In case you’d forgotten. Couldn’t afford it by myself.” Xander locks and double-checks the door then steps back into the main room. Spike is already spread out on the couch, duffel on the chipped, secondhand coffee table, guitar case next to it.

“As I remember, Angel was still staying there, at the time. He coulda easily carried my half of the rent.” Spike’s burrowing into the pillows, trying to toe off his Docs, which are still tied. Xander goes over and begins untying them.

“Ta, mate.”

“No prob. And as you may remember, me and Brood-boy? Not so much with the getting along.” One shoe off, showing a holey sock that has seen cleaner days. “You honestly didn’t expect him to want to keep living with his ex-boyfriend’s little brother. I mean - can you say cock-block?”

“And who’s been teaching you such naughty, grown-up words, pet? Not His Brooding Magnificence, surely?” Spike opens tired, amused blue eyes to regard Xander, who’s working on the second shoe. The laces are matted and spliced together.

“Uh - actually, it was you, Spike. Jeez, a little help here, man. Pull your foot out.”

“Tosser.” But Spike pulls his foot out of the shoe. No sock on this one. Xander doesn’t even ask.

“So, why are you back in town? The Slayer dump you?” Xander lifts Spike’s legs and sits on the couch. Spike immediately puts his feet in Xander’s lap.

“Not hardly. I dumped them, I’ll have you know. Bleedin’ chick band. And that Buffy - dunno what her sodding problem is, bossing everyone around. Drummer’s supposed to be in the background, not giving orders like General Stupidbitch.”

“Spike -”

“And Red was no help, always taking her side. Faith - well, good shag, that one, keeps her nose out of the squabbles. Oz - “ Spike frowned. “Guess he’s the strong silent type. Never said peep to anyone but Red.”

“You slept with Faith? I thought you had a thing for Buffy -”

“Fuck no! Pale, skinny blondes are Angel’s thing.”

“Obviously - ouch!” Xander glares at Spike, whose eyes are closed again. The kick to Xander’s chest had been dead on, however.

“Wouldn’t fuck the General for all the money in the world. Looks like she’d put a hurtin’ on your naughties, that one. And Angel never did get over her totally. ‘S what broke us up, you know?”

“I thought it was your sleeping around that did that.” Xander’s grinning. Hasn’t done much of that since Spike left. Feels weird and wonderful to do it now.

“Couldn’t have been; told him I wasn’t the settling down type, didn’t I? Anyway, old news. Tell me something new. What’ve you been up to? Still with that weird girl you were so hot and heavy with?”

Xander snorts bitterly. “She left me when she got a look at my new place. Anya's long gone.”

“Fuck her, then. Can’t see when she’s got herself a quality catch? Then fuck her. Stupid bint. Anybody new?”

Xander blushes, shrugs. “Sort of. Nothing serious, really, just a - convenience thing. Kinda on-again/off-again. Mostly off.”

“Ugh, bad news, that. Never works. Constant sex is the glue of a relationship. That’s my philosophy.”

“That and ‘shoplifting isn’t a real crime’.”

“Never get caught, do I?”

Spike grins so charmingly, despite his disapproval, Xander returns it.

“I’ve missed you a lot, Wil.”

“You, too, Xan. Feels like it’s been longer than a year.”

“It’s been fourteen months, two weeks and. . . three days,” Xander says softly, looking down at Spike’s feet, which he’s been rubbing absently. He stops.

“Don’t stop, felt good.” Spike sighs. “Got magic hands, you do.”

“Sensualist.” But Xander starts rubbing again. “So, how long you in town for?”

“Well. . . I’m sick of travelling for the next little while. Was hoping I could crash with you till I get my own place. Can’t stay with dad, can I?”

“You could.”

“Wouldn’t. I know how you feel about him. Lord knows you got reason. I want to be somewhere you feel comfortable coming to see me.” Xander’s still looking at Spike’s slightly grubby feet, but he can feel his brother’s gaze on his face like warm sunshine.

“Is he still with Ethan?”

“Oh, yeah. And that one hasn’t mellowed with age at all, let me tell you. When the band was in London, I stopped by for supper. Dad asked. Ethan was - Ethan. Dunno if you remember how he was -”

“I remember.”

Now Spike’s gaze feels like a weight.

“Yeah, well, he’s like that times ten. Dunno what dad sees in him, why he chose that blighter over mum, but it’s his life, he’s the one who has to live with his mistake.”

Xander doesn’t agree, but they’ve had this argument before. He doesn’t want to have it again, not when he’s with Spike for the first time in over a year.

“Xan, keep doing that and you’ll never get me off this couch. Christ, I’m tired!”

“Can’t sleep till you’ve had a shower, Stinky. Come on. You’ll feel better and I’ll let you sleep in nice and late tomorrow,” Xander wheedles.

“But I just showered - what’s today?”

“You know, the fact that you need a calendar to figure out the last time you showered says you need another. As does the funky European aroma you’ve got going on. You’ve been on the Continent, too long; forgotten the merits of roll-on deodorant and scented fabric softener.” Xander pushes Spike’s feet off his lap and stands up, stretching.

“Fuck you. Hey, think you could make me a cuppa?”

“As long as you don’t want anything harder than plain old coffee. Can’t make it Irish for you, I’m afraid.”

“If coffee’s all you got, sure. So tired the caffeine won’t keep me up. And how can you not have tea? Even bagged tea, deplorable as that is? You’re a piss-poor Englishman.”

“This is true. Must be due to the fact that I’m not English.” Xander walks into the kitchen partition. “By the time you’re done showering, the coffee should be done.”

“He hinted, none too obliquely.” Spike sits up, stands up. Flops back down tiredly. “Luv, carry me to the bathroom?”

“This apartment is the size of a shoebox, Big Bad. Carry yourself. Oh, and leave your clothes in the hamper. I have to do laundry, anyway. You can wear some of my old stuff in the meantime.”

“Like a bloody mother-hen, you are.” Spike sounds grouchy and pleased. Xander smiles as he rummages through his cabinets for the instant coffee he never used.

“Hey! Don’t leave your wet towels on the floor!” Xander calls, just as the door to the bathroom closes. Whether or not Spike heard is up for debate. Either way, there will be wet towels on the floor.

Yep, Spike is back.

~~~

Xander’s key is barely out of his pocket when the door is yanked open and he’s snatched inside.

“What took you so long?” Kisses too deep and intense to talk around, though Xander tries. Finally has to push him away just to speak.

“I - something came up -” Impossible to think when those brown eyes seem to burn at him, devour him; when strong arms pull him close, closer, closest and he feels warm and safe.

“Something came up over here, too. And you’re lucky I didn’t start without you, Xander.” And there goes the nuzzles and nipping bites. Something about having his neck touched drives Xander up the wall, murders his brains cells with lust that burns brighter than a roman candle.

“But -” What? Xander’s damned if he can remember.

“Tell me later. For now, I just wanna fuck you.”

This is what always happens, Xander reflects as he’s dragged relentlessly to the livingroom. On-again/off-again. Sure. Every time I try to make it off-again, I find myself bent over the back of his sofa or some random, waist high piece of furniture and fucked six ways to Sunday.

Yep, Xander’s being bent over the sofa. There go the sweatpants and boxers. And the shoes. And one of his socks.

“What I like about you is that your rough, unromantic shell covers an equally rough and unromantic core.” Xander muses just before he’s spread like Thanksgiving dinner and a large - thankfully lubed - finger is sliding up where the sliding’s good.

“Jesus.” Previous train of thought? Lost. So very lost. . . Lost of the Mohicans. . . .

“Love the way you clench around me. Can’t get enough, can ya?” Arrogance. Shouldn’t be a turn on, but it is. It so. Is.

Two fingers and ouch, sir, may I have some more?

“We can’t keep doing this.” Xander can ignore the fingers tickling him in places the sun will never see. He can ignore the hand stroking him off like stroking-him-off is going out of style. He can even ignore the tingly burn building up in his lower back that means either imminent orgasm or imminent hernia.

“Your mouth says no, but other parts of you -”

What he can’t ignore is all the wicked-dirty things being whispered in his ear, in that wicked-dirty New Yawk accent.

“I hate you, sometimes.”

A soft chuckle. “If you just shut up for a few minutes and promise to be a very bad boy -” near painful bites on his spine, accompanied by something large and hard pressing against his hip for a too brief moment. ”I’ll change your mind.”

The dirty-talk reminds him of Spike. Not that Spike has anything resembling a wicked-dirty New Yawk accent. Not that Xander’s ever heard Spike make with the dirty-talk, but he’s imagined -

“You just got a lot harder. . . what are you thinking about?” Warm breath on his back, moving up to his neck and ear. “Thinking about how good you’re gonna feel with nine inches of Irish cock in you?” A quick sharp thrust-twist of those fingers and hello, Mr. Prostate!

Whoa, I can see time.

Xander thinks he must’ve said this aloud because the dirty nothings have turned into chuckles and wow! He really can see time!

“Ready for me, Xander?” And yep, that’s a full nine inches of Irish cock poised to skewer Xander, but currently brushing against him gently, carefully. As if gentleness or care has ever had any part in their - relationship.

“You’re - you’re very fond of rhetorical questions, aren’t you? Fuck!” One fast, deep push in at, like, Warp Nine or even Warp Nine Point Nine, and Xander’s just panting and pushing back to meet those hard, unsparing thrusts, one leg twined around his lover’s. There’s no thought, no kiss-off speeches, just fucking and being fucked. Strong, huge hands on his hips, holding him up - holding him in place. Hot, harsh breaths in his ear cursing and cursing him, telling him he’s going to be split like a cord of wood.

It’s always like this. Always good like this. Always. Scarily intense, desperately impersonal. Always like this. Nothing ever changes. Coming is like pleasure, pain and relief all rolled into one. It leaves him limp and gasping, unable to resist being carried to bed to be fucked some more.

“Jeez, what are you, the marathon man? Why can’t you come when I do?” Xander gets dropped unceremoniously on the bed, like a sack of potatoes, and brooded over critically. It’s that look that makes Xander feel ashamed, more than the fact that he suspects he’s nothing more than a convenient, if yappy, warm hole to be fucked until he’s too tired to respond.

“Some guys actually like to take their time. Been waiting awhile for this. Not gonna rush it.” That lovely speech, delivered with that infuriating, possessive, arrogant look is enough to make Xander seethe.

“Don’t fucking look at me like that. I swear to God, I’ll walk if you don’t cut it out.”

“No, you won’t.”

“You’re so sure you’ve rocked my world? So sure I’m not gonna walk out of here for good, this time?” Resentment? Lust? Attitude? Xander honestly can’t tell which of those things is coloring his voice, suspects it’s all three.

“Pretty sure.”

Xander’s ready to throw on his sweatpants - God, he’s still wearing his jacket and sweater - and leave, while he still feels shamed enough to do so. Leave before the naughty touches start again.

“I hope you enjoyed that, 'cause I can promise you it’ll never happen again. I’m gone - “ And damn, for a big, hulking bastard he moves fast. He’s on the bed and on Xander like the world’s horniest duvet, turning Xander over and fucking him again before he can make a no doubt witty rejoinder.

Signs you’re in a troubled relationship? Your lover never seems as detached as when he’s just fucked you so hard, you’ll be walking funny the rest of the day.

Signs you’re in a flat-out bad relationship? Not even you take your ‘no’s seriously, anymore.

But instead of a moment of rage that feels like it’ll burn him alive before the reawakened lust kicks in, all Xander feels is calm. In his mind’s eye he can see Spike, the way he’d looked when they’d first reunited three years ago. The leering smile that should’ve set Xander’s teeth on edge, but didn’t. The way Spike had given him the once-over and a friendly: “you’ll do” then thrown an arm around his shoulder.

Taken him in with no questions asked, opening his home and his life to Xander, despite having just moved in with his boyfriend.

Xander’s always been pretty sure the closest he’ll ever come to true love is what he’d felt for Spike after that first hug. What he feels to this day.

Oh, and Xander’s totally not ready to explore the reason Mr. Happy just sat up, like a dog hoping for a treat, at thoughts of Spike’s smile and Spike’s arm around him and Spike, saying wicked-dirty things in a wicked-dirty London accent.

A spot of repression would be smashing, just about now. Or a distraction - oh, yeah! Big, hot hand on my cock, big hard cock in my ass. There’s a distraction. No way that gropey paw could belong to Spike. Spike’s hands are smaller, precise. And he’s probably more creative than grunt-thrust-repeat-for-two-hours-straight-nonstop.

And how pervy is it to think about my brother when I’m about to come? Pretty pervy, yet witness me not stopping -

And there Xander goes, again, a scream ripped out of him along with orgasm the second. In the eternity it takes to recover his wits, he slowly realizes tall, dark and licentious still hasn’t come. Is still fucking him slowly, steadily.

Is obviously in no hurry.

Great. He’s just getting warmed up and I’m already getting bored, not to mention sore. Yeah, walking funny for at least the rest of the day. And that’s the least I deserve for what I’ve done and who I think about when I do it.

I can’t keep doing this. It’s wrong and sneaky and kinda icky. And this whole on-again/off-again back and forth is far from healthy. It’s like this every time. The same sequence of fucking, limited conversation and my increasingly pervy imagination.

With Spike back in town, I have to find a way to end this relationship. For keeps, this time.

But for now, Xander can only pillow his head on his forearms, close his eyes and let himself be fucked.

And try not to pretend it’s Spike doing the fucking.

~~~

“And where’ve you been, young man? I’ve been worried sick!”

Xander nearly jumps out of his skin. Then steps into the doorway of his bedroom, turning on the lights -

There’s Spike, stretching sleepily on the bed, all wide, blinky-blue eyes and disturbingly sexy bed-head. Wearing Xander's ratty, old bathrobe and apparently nothing else.

“I, uh, was - uh - helping someone. A friend. I was helping a friend move. Upstate. To Schenectady.” Yeah, Xander’s had an hour of travel time to think up decent lies about his seven-hour absence. Perhaps he should have actually spent the hour doing just that instead of meditating on all the places Angel had made him ache.

Spike’s smiling at him fondly, one sandy-colored eyebrow quirked up. “You have got to be the world’s worst liar, Xan. Anyway, are we gonna do something tonight or stay here and veg? M’self? I could go for some fun. After the week I’ve had I feel the need to shake what the good Lord gave me.” Spike wriggles around on the bed in a way that gives Xander an excellent view of the underwear Spike’s not wearing.

Or would give an excellent view if Xander weren’t staring determinedly at Spike’s feet and not one inch higher.

“Uh - going out is good. I h-haven’t been out on a Saturday in awhile. Where, uh, do you wanna go?”

“Where else? The Cock.” Spike is sitting up, looking rumpled and too fuckable. Xander swallows, tries to focus on his current aches and how they’re the result of naughty thoughts.

Naughty thoughts only cause pain in naughty places naughty thoughts only cause pain in naughty places naughty thoughts only cause pain in naughty places -

Okay. Xander’s officially turned on by pain in naughty places caused by naughty!Spike.

“Uh, Spike -”

“Come on, pet, don’t gimme any bollocks about oh, no, not The Cock, Spike, it’s a gay club.” Spike’s American accent is dreadful and he looks suspiciously close to scoffing.

“But Spike, it is a gay club,” Xander says innocently, trying not to grin and failing. He ducks the pillow thrown at his head with a chuckle. “Okay, calm down. I’ve actually been to The Cock before and I wouldn’t mind going again.”

The look on that perfect face is priceless. Couldn’t buy it with ten Mastercards. And the leer it slowly melts into? More than enough to liquefy Xander’s bones into twin puddles of goo.

“Well, well, little brother cruising for cock at The Cock? What alternate universe have I returned home to? Come sit and tell Spikey everything!” Spike pats the bed expectantly.

“I wasn’t - ‘cruising for cock’, Spike.” Xander rolls his eyes but goes to sit on the bed. “I was - I dunno. Curious, I guess. You and Angel used to fight so much about that place -”

“You heard that?” Spike is blushing. Only a little, but it’s the first time Xander has managed to color those pale cheeks.

“Uh, yeah. Boston heard that. All those super-loud fights about your skinny, drunk ass getting into trouble that he had to bail you out of - I just had to see what all the fuss was about.” Xander grins, remembers the apoplectic red Angel would turn after he’d finally managed to drag Spike home from one of those halcyon nights of mayhem. Remembers peeking out at the two of them, hoping he hadn’t cracked his door open so wide he’d be seen. Spike was usually fall-down drunk and singing “Anarchy in the UK” or “EMI” at that point. And climbing Angel like a tree - or trying to - while Angel ranted and half-heartedly pushed him away. By the time things got X-rated, Xander had usually shut his door.

Usually.

“Curious, eh?” Spike’s voice has a laugh in it and Xander wonders how much Spike’s guessed about what he’d just been remembering.

“A little, yeah,” Xander admits, blushing much deeper than Spike had moments ago.

“I'll bet you were.” Spike is moving behind Xander, putting strong hands on his shoulders. “That’s a lot of tension you’ve got stored up, luv,” Spike notes disapprovingly as Xander groans, his muscles loosening so quickly it’s almost painful.

“What’s got you so worked up, Xan? Schenectady?” Spike's voice sounds like a warm, wry smile.

“Whuh?” Thinking bad. Massage good.

“Never mind, pet. Just sit back and enjoy. Regale me with tales of your adventures at The Cock.”

“Uhhhh. . . no adventures, just - me, unsuccessfully mackin’ on cute guys, buckets of flop-sweat and hoping my fake i.d. held out long enough for me to buy some liquid courage.”

“Sounds interesting.” Spike’s voice is right next to Xander’s ear, a soothing purr that curls around Xander’s spine.

“Totally not. Interesting, I mean. The only time I didn’t make a complete idiot of myself was this one night when they held the Bar-Top-Strip-Tease contest and I - nuh-uh, wild horses couldn’t drag the rest of that story out of me. Even if I live to be a million.”

“You did a strip-tease on the bar-top of The Cock?” Those strong hands slow, become almost sensual. Xander shivers, leaning back and oh, wow, Spike’s chest against his back. Sending naughty-signals to Xander’s stupidly amoral naughty-zone.

“Uh - wild horses, Spike. Wild horses.”

“I don’t believe this - my little brother, following in my footsteps - God, I’m so fucking proud of you - hey, what was your song? Mine was ‘Big Balls’.”

“You did a strip-tease at The Cock, too?" Despite the surprise that is not, Xander bursts out laughing. "Wait - to AC/DC? That’s so fucking lame! Ouch!” Xander glares back at Spike, rubbing his head. Spike looks as stern as Xander’s ever seen him.

“Is not! Stupid teeny-bopper - don’t know good music, do ya? You probably listen to that blonde girl - you know, the one with the shit voice and the big fake tits. And that Timberwolf ponce, as well. What do you know about good music?”

“Plenty! The Cars, Culture Club, Rick Astley - but that’s just strippin’ music! For listening, I prefer the vocal stylings of the first lady of country and western, Patsy Cline,” Xander says. Spike makes a rude noise, turns his brother’s head forward again and starts kneading his shoulder muscles.

“There’s no excuse for your musical taste, boy. I raised you better than that. Or thought I did. I blame Angel and his unholy love of the Rat Pack and that Perry Como git. Corrupted you, he has. Barmy poofter.”

Xander can’t even reply to that. Feels it’s safer to let that comment slide on by.

“Alright, out with it, poofter-junior. What did you shake your moneymaker to?”

Xander turns red and mumbles something; he hopes Spike will be content not to push. But he knows better, knows Spike.

“Didn’t quite catch that, luv. Would you mind repeating it in English?”

“I stripped to The Divinyls’ ‘I Touch Myself’.” Xander sighs

“You really are the gayest bloke I’ve ever met,” Spike says thoughtfully. Xander elbows him in the side, earning another slap on the head.

“Stop slapping me!”

“I will, as soon as you stop acting like a git!”

“Don’t hold your breath!” Xander retorts, then frowns. “I mean -”

“I can’t believe you’d dance to that - no, I can. I can see you in my head, gettin’ all jiggy with it. It’s cute, really.”

“Okay, who even says jiggy with it anymore, Captain Behind-the-Times?”

“Maybe more than cute. Maybe hot. You probably are the only one who could make that song sexy. Of course. You are my brother.” Spike actually sounds proud.

“Coming from the guy who stripped to ‘Big Balls’ - I dunno if that’s a compliment. . . but thanks.”

“I’m telling you, that song is a classic! And it’s astonishingly apropos, in my case. . . .”

“Sure it is, Big Willy - ow! Quit slapping me, already!”

“Bet you looked gorgeous up there. Probably not a dry crotch in the house.” Spike’s hands have slowed and gentled so much that they’re more caressing than massaging.

“Me? Nah, I’m not ‘gorgeous’ material. That’s more your forte, Spike.”

“Have you looked in a mirror, lately, pet?” Spike’s voice is in his ear again, curling around his spine, his cock, his anything-hard-enough-to-sit-up-and-take-notice. “Bet you won the contest, didn’t you?”

At Xander’s nod, Spike chuckles. “I swear, if you weren’t m’ brother, I’d -”

Xander snaps out of his pleasant reverie when Spike falls silent and beings massaging Xander’s shoulders so briskly, the muscles tense back up again.

“If I weren’t your brother you’d -?” Xander has a desperate need to hear the end of this sentence. Spike almost certainly wasn’t going to say what Xander wishes he’d say, but Xander can’t help wanting to know what he would’ve said, anyway.

“Well, if you weren’t my brother I’d be trying to set you up with my friends, yeah? Alright, Mr. Stripper, lemme get showered up and you go do some laundry, then we’ll see if we can’t find something salvageable in that disaster of a wardrobe of yours.” Spike is letting go of Xander’s shoulders and sliding past him off the bed. He snatches his loaner duds from Xander’s chair and pads into the bathroom, shutting the door.

Yes, the absence of Spike will make the hard-on-that-won’t-die - well, die. Right?

Xander flops back on the bed with a gusty sigh.

. . . if you weren’t m’ brother, I’d -

“Believe me, Spike, there are times I wish I wasn’t.”

~~~

“I look like a fool. . .”

“You look edible.”

“This outfit is so gay. . .”

“Well, yeah.”

“Please explain to me why I’m letting you tart me up in mascara and eyeliner like some chick?”

“Don’t be so macho, luv. Make-up’s for whomever looks good in it and you look good in it.”

“Really? I think you must have me confused with you, oh, androgynous one.”

“Trust me, I’ll have to beat the blokes off of you with a stick.”

“There’ll be no beating of would-be suitors with a stick. Or any other blunt object. Or with fists. Or chairs. Or chains. And no stabbing -”

“Alright, alright, I get it.”

“And no kicking, either.”

“Bugger. . . stop moving or you’ll mess up all my careful work!”

“Oh, sure, careful my ass! I look like a clown! A girl clown, damnit!”

“You look fuckable.”

“You have to say that, Spike. You’re my brother.”

“Telling the little brother how fuckable he is? Exactly which section of the Big Brother Handbook is that in, again?”

“You know what I mean. You’re just being nice. Or not-nice, depending on whether or not I’m actually looking in the mirror. . . .”

“I’m telling you, you look good. You’d look even better if you were a little more confident.”

“This wasn’t exactly the in-look last time I was at The Cock, you know. . . .”

“Trust me, you’ll fit right in looking like this.”

“That fills me with confidence.”

“I knew it would. Don’t blink unless you want soot all over your lids.”

“I’m sure I’ll be the prettiest working-girl at the bar. . . .”

“That’s enough of you, smart-arse. . . there, I’m done. Damn, but we’re hot.”

“Speak for yourself, Lestat.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Pop-culture reference. How much is the cover?

“On a Saturday night? Don’t ask, it’ll only depress you.”

“Yikes.”

“No worries, it’s my treat.”

“My five favorite words.”

~~~

“So. . . where are you and Spike from originally?”

Xander smiles at Andrew limply. If conversation is a fine art, neither of them are Picasso.

“Uh, he grew up in London. I grew up in SoCal.”

“Really? So did I! I’m from the small and picturesque town of Sunnydale.”

“Sunnydale? Really?” At Andrew’s nod, Xander’s smile turns wistful. “My mother was from Sunnydale. We moved to Oxnard when I was eight, though. Apparently Sunnydale was a little too - picturesque for my family.”

“Tell me about it. This one time, my older brother, Tucker - “ Andrew suddenly stops talking. “Uh, it’s not really a happy-ending story. So let us speak of more pleasant things. Hey, are you, like, adopted or something? You don’t look or sound anything like Spike.”

Yep, this weirdo was from Sunnydale, alright. “Yeah, we were raised separately, after our folks split up. He takes after dad, I take after mom.”

“I see.” Andrew nods quasi-sagely, curly, longish hair bobbing around his face. He’s almost pretty enough to be a girl. “Much like in the movie The Parent Trap or the remake of the movie The Parent Trap.”

A very strange and geeky girl.

“Yeah. . . only Spike’s not my twin. And we’re not girls. And we didn’t reunite at summer camp. Or switch identities. And our parents didn’t get back together.” Xander wants to giggle and snort. But that would be mean.

The bartender plonks down their drinks. Andrew grabs his Zima and Spike’s Guinness. Xander picks up his own Coke and Adam’s Tom Collins and looks around till he spots a massive body and a platinum blond head leaning in toward it.

Adam’s going to have a lapful of Spike if he’s not more careful and less sexy.

And gah! Adam really looks like Angel from a distance: a big, pale, handsome, intimidating man in dark, designer clothes.

“Come on, Andy. Chop, chop.” Xander motions Andrew ahead of him. Andrew squeezes past a group of laughing guys, and a couple making out, then he stops and turns to look at Xander shyly, all baby blue eyes and pink face. Probably before the thought can even crystallize in Andrew’s head, Xander predicts what the strange little guy’s next words will be.

“Hey, Xander, I know we just met and everything and I hope this doesn’t weird you out, but - I think your brother is really hot.” Andrew grins goofily up at Xander then turns back toward the back of the bar, nearly slamming into a tall red-haired man. Some of Spike’s Guinness slops out of the glass.

“He is, Andrew.” Xander laughs, feeling a mixture of relief, annoyance and amusement. “He so is.”

~~~

“Pet? Pet - Andrew!”

“What?” Andrew’s voice is pouty and annoyed, even around a mouthful of Spike’s earlobe.

“Not that I don’t enjoy your enthusiasm, pet, but slow down. I’m not goin’ anywhere. And we’ve got an audience. Not that that’s a turn-off.” Spike nods cordially to the dozen or so guys watching the with varying degrees of interest, disgust and wistfulness.

“Can we go back to your place and fuck?” Andrew breathes in Spike’s ear.

“Uh - I live with Xander - close quarters. Don’t imagine he’d be too pleased with hearing the two of us getting better acquainted.”

Andrew finally looks up at Spike, his big blue eyes far from innocent-looking in light of recent events. He scans the crowd, looking over his shoulder, till he spots Adam and Xander, then looks back at Spike with a slow smile.

“I don’t think it’ll be a problem. Adam’s working his magic. Xander probably won’t get home for at least twelve hours.” Andrew leans in to kiss Spike again. Spike hold him back, frowning.

“Mr. Muscles does this a lot, does he?” Not necessarily a problem, if they remember to use protection. But Xander’s a smart kid. Spike had seen to that.

“Hmm. An interesting question. But no. Not a lot. I’ve just seen Adam around guys he’s interested in. He always gets what he wants. And tonight - he wants Xander.”

“Just for tonight, then?”

Andrew frowns. “I dunno. Xander seems really sweet, and he’s hot in a boy-next-door kinda way. Adam really likes that whole - you know - innocence-vibe. He gets off on it.” Andrew pulls Spike’s hands off his shoulders and down onto his ass again. “Do - do wanna know what I get off on?”

And here I’d thought Johnny Man-mountain was the freak. It’s always the quiet-looking ones. Andrew obviously has this flaky/nerdy act down to a science.

Spike bucks up in his chair, giving the boy a brief taste of what he’s in for later. When the big blue eyes get even bigger, Spike leers in satisfaction.

“But I already know what you’re gettin’ off on, pet.”

Andrew leans in for another marathon round of face-sucking.

Looks like the night’s not a total loss. This kid’s a piranha, no mistake. He’d have eaten Xan alive! Speaking of, I wonder how he’s doing with Adam. . . .

Spike breaks the kiss and goes for Andrew’s earlobe, a nice pretext for keeping one eye on little bro’s adventures with The Incredible Hulk. Spike looks up just in time to see Xander grab the big lug’s head and yank him down into a kiss a four year old would be ashamed of.

“Slow down, luv, relax,” Spike mutters, biting Andrews ear. The boy yelps.

“Sorry, luv. Guess I got a little excited.”

“No, I liked it. Don’t stop.” Andrew yanks Spike’s gelled hair hard enough that Spike yelps, too.

What a little freak! It’s definitely a good thing I rescued Xan from him. Though I may have to rescue Xan from Adam, too. Spike frowns. Xander has obviously found some technique, toned down the intensity, cranked up the sensuality and is settling into the kiss nicely. Adam seems to have no complaints; those big ham-hands are all over whatever parts of Xander he can reach. And with those apey-long arms, that’s a helluva of prime acreage for the groping.

Should be me touching him. Xander’s mine and this over-developed git is gonna have him. Tonight. Do I just fuck Andrew and eat my heart out? I think not. Just because I can’t have him, doesn’t mean any old yobbo can.

“Luv - hate to break the mood but I’m kinda dry.” Spike pries Andrew away from his neck, works the tiny, surprisingly strong hands free of his hair - though he looses quite a few strands in the process. “How about you go get us some more booze, yeah?”

“Right now?” Andrew looks less than happy. He takes Spike’s hand and puts it in his lap. Spike automatically grabs Andrew’s cock and squeezes, just to make the boy moan. nope, hasn’t lost his touch. “If we go back to your place now, I promise I’ll find a way to keep your mouth wet.” Andrew smiles hopefully and wriggles around in Spike’s lap.

“Anyone ever tell you you have a one-track mind, luv?” Andrew’s wriggling is pleasantly distracting, but Spike can also be one-tracked when he has to be.

“Don’t you wanna fuck me all night long?” The boy looks like he’s about to start sobbing. Spike, soft sod that he is, tries to extricate himself without too much ego-smashing.

“And most of the morning, too. But right now -” Spike takes his hand off of Andrew’s erection and pushes the sulky boy to his feet. “Right now, I’m thirsty. So go get me another Guinness and get yourself another Fresca, or whatever it was you were drinking. Put it on my tab and hurry back.” A slap to the boy’s arse and Andrew’s edging his way through the crowd towards the bar.

As soon as the crowd closes behind Andrew, Spike’s up and shoving his way to Xander and the Muscled-Wonder.

~~~

“. . . so, then Warren was all, like, ‘Andrew, you monkey, don’t drink that third Zima or you’ll throw up’, but then I totally did drink the third Zima, and I threw up and it was really painful and I wished I had listened to Warren.”

Spike throws back a shot of Jack. Ninth? Tenth? Who knows? Who cares?

“Your point is?”

“I guess my point is - you’ve had too much and you’re so gonna throw up because you’re not listening to me.”

“‘M listening, just not paying any heed. Keep talking. It’s very - distracting.” Spike glares at the bartender, who tries to take the rapidly emptying bottle of Jack Daniels. When Spike growls, the bartender raises his hands in surrender and backs away.

“That was kinda mean. He’s only being a responsible bartender and trying to look out for your best interests.” Andrew’s face is getting less and less happy by the second. He seems none-too impressed with Spike, at the moment. Spike is none-too impressed with Spike at the moment.

“I could out-drink everyone at this bar put together and still be able to do my taxes.”

“Um, that’s - impressive.”

“Bloody fuck-yeah, it is.”

“Speaking of cabs, maybe I should call you one. You know, so you don’t have to ride the subway so dru- I mean, ride the subway when everything runs so crappy and slow at this time of night.”

Spike glances over at Andrew. The boy looks worried and slightly frightened. But not much more than he always seems too. Certainly this pipsqueak doesn’t think Spike’s too pissed to make it home alone on the subway?

“I’ll take a cab if you’ll take it with me. . . ever given a bloke a hand-job in a taxi, luv?” Spike leers, nearly falls off his stool. Only Andrew’s quick grab of his arm saves him.

“Dude, you are so drunk.”

“Bloody Miss Marple, you are.”

“Drunkenness is not really a turn on for me,” Andrew says, fidgeting, not meeting Spike’s eyes.

“That so? Perfect. First I get passed over by Muscle-boy, now I’m getting the brush off from you - that’s just bloody perfect!” Spike pours himself another shot. Waits for the bar to stop spinning a little so he doesn’t spill when he drinks.

“If you - I dunno, wanted to get together for an alcohol-free brunch, or something, that’d be nice,” Andrew says, putting on a bright smile. Spike snorts.

“I’m not your bloody girlfriend, tosser. I don’t do brunch. Especially not pity-brunches. Sod off. Maybe it’s not too late for you to pout your way into Adam’s bed.”

“Oh, Adam left a little while ago. With Xander.”

Spike thinks his hearing’s gone barmy on him. Andrew can’t have said -

“Wait - what the fuck did you just say?” Spike’s pulling Andrew close by the collar of his shirt. The huge, frightened blue eyes are all he can see.

“Adam took your brother home - but I don’t think they’re gonna - you know. Adam said Xander didn’t feel too well and that he was gonna drive him home. He should be getting back here any minute.”

“Granted, traffic is pretty thin this time of night, but getting from here to 149th St. is more than a jaunt. No one drives someone they barely know that far - just to say good-night at the fucking door.” Spike lets Andrew go scornfully, turns back to his drink. It goes down just as easily as the previous eight or nine. The coming up will be another story, entirely.

“But - don’t you guys live in Alphabet City? That’s where Adam said he was going. He and Xander coulda walked that in about fifteen minutes if Xander wasn’t feeling so bad. Maybe he had too much to drink, too,” Andrew muses, watching Spike pour another drink, most of which actually makes it into the shot glass.

“Used to live in Alphabet City, luv. But not no more. My ex still lives there, though Xander couldn’t be going to see that poofter -” Spike pauses, the shot halfway to his mouth. A bunch of pieces and clues are clicking into place. And he can hear Angel’s voice in his head, saying “I have company. . . .”

And that scent that had hung around him was - well, the scent of two people fucking, yeah, but something else, too. Familiar, sweet, so very tempting -

“That was Xander. Company was Xander.” Spike mumbles, putting down his shot, eyes as wide as saucers. Then as angry as a thunderstorm. “My Xander was company!”

“Uh, Spike -”

“I’m gonna tear his neck out!” Spike roars, jumping up, then tripping over his stool to go sprawling on the floor. The bar has gone silent, but for the jukebox. Everyone is studiously ignoring Spike.

“Um. Yeah. But maybe I should call you a cab first? That way, you can tear whoever-he-is’s neck out in the morning after you’ve had a chance to sober up,” Andrew suggests with a friendly, helpful smile. Spike only glares up at him, then slaps away the offered hand up.

~~~