crazydiamondsue | Thankful

Thanks to:

My flist - You guys have rocked beyond the call of rocking.

sweptawaybayou - Thank you again, my little Snow blossom, for switching Herald days with me so that I could post during the week. *kiss*

spikendru - For a desperately needed bunny for my fic-a-thon entry. You will get a credit and a *smooch*

dovil - You're not a hollaback girl - you're a milk-up-my-nose girl.

reremouse and

savoytruffle - For the tag fic you're doing in my "The Deets" comments - I just got a heads up from

tabaqui and I adore you. Printed off to read tonight.

Vinnie, Stoney, Carrie and Kathy and for phones.

Thanks again for the advice (MP and Liz - you rock!) and pics and hugs. And thanks for the offers to do fundraisers, but I think there are people a lot worse off than us right now. I also heart

smashsc for her awesome, indepth Katrina links.

I'm thankful that

lunabee34 is okay - haven't heard about anyone else on the flist.

Okay, off to class. See you guys in the morning. *g*

P.S. Since I have less time to compose my Herald posts now, feel free to link me to meta and discussion (I have the most difficult time with that.) It needs to be posted on either Tuesday/Wednesday/Thursday, be Buffy-verse related (Firefly doesn't count) or general fandom-related written by a Buffy-verse fandom person. Just drop me a note whenever you see those, I'd appreciate it. *smooch*

Current Mood: thankful

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I got nothing but love fer ya. (You should totally email me your homework and I'll do it for you. Aww! It'll be just like high school, and I'll pretend you're the hot guy on the soccer team that lived next door! A's for everyone!)

Hee!!! I will be bringing my scanner up to work tomorrow and hooking it to Eddie's computer. *rubs hands together evilly*

Anything for you, babe. Anytime. Always.

*smooches you all up*

I only wish I could do more.

<3's you.

*smooch*

*cuddle*

For the meta, you probably already know

metafandom, right?

I'll comment with links to other discussions if I see 'em. *kisses*

fandommeta is ususally what I mine for meta - Dody does a great job.

spuzz prefers that the meta stuff be Buffyverse specific and, well, that's getting harder and harder to find. (You wanna post your thoughts on Xangel 'ship manifesto or anything?) Hee. Thanks for any heads up!

*smooch*

I'm pretty thankful myself today.

:)

How're you doing? Anything I can do? Guess what I found? "Grave Dancer." It's bad. Well, I still like the intro, but then it needs work. I'll still send it to you when you get settled. Just send me your email. *g*

Awwww, Sue. You're so sweet to offer. I think we're good here. Unless you wanna give me diamonds. 'Cause that I would take you up on. Heeeee

OOOOOOH, OOOOOH,"Grave Dancer!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" I can't wait to read it.

lunabee34@yahoo.com

*eagerly awaiting*

You may be laptopless, but you're still pretty.

*blinks* Hee! I said 'topless'

*shakes head*

Shameful. I miss you and my daily QaF fic updates!!!

I have no idea what hallaback means. I assume it means a rack out to here and a dazzling smile. And now I pour milk up your nose in order to entertain you and show you my love.

"Hollaback" is a word Gwen Stefani made up to sell records. That's what it says at www.urbandictionary.com, anyway.

Nose! Milk! Hmm. Nose-milk.

How are things with Binkley and the other furry critters? And are the broken windows all fixed up?

I'd like to call you sometime soon but your phone never likes me. :-(

Binkley is doing much better. Caza said he actually came out from under the daybed of his own violition. Me without a laptop is not doing so well. :(

I will give you a call and "check in." *see icon

Continued from here:

It’s time for a meeting, he supposes. Time to sit the gang down together, go over what they know, plan some recon… and introduce Spike.

It’s hard to imagine taking Spike to their meeting place, inviting him in, telling him all their plans. It feels wrong. Like a movie hero when he chooses to trust some chick just because she’s pretty and good in bed, and the members of the audience who aren’t thinking with their cocks the way the hero is cringe and say ‘no, no, don’t do it, you stupid idiot’ and throw popcorn at the screen and then, at the worst possible moment, she stabs him in the back and it turns out to be a near fatal mistake.

Not that Xander’s thinking with his cock in this situation. His cock has no thoughts about Spike. None whatsoever. Not about Spike’s body, not about his eyes, not about his lips or his cheekbones. Not about how a vampire might be in bed.

Which is good.

Because chances are, any wrong move this time won’t just be near fatal. No, with these demons, it’s gonna all the way fatal – the full fatal – and not just for Xander.

And that’s what sucks about being the leader. Your bad judgment is everyone’s problem.

Back in Sunnydale, it went like this: Xander thinks with his cock, Xander screws up, Xander gets his ass saved by his super friends. And sure, it wasn’t great for the self-esteem, but very little deadness of Xander resulted.

In the years since high school, Xander has gained an all new respect for Buffy and Giles. It sucks to be life-and-death decision guy. Of course, Buffy and Giles had the superhuman strength and the superhuman research skills going for them.

Xander has a whole lot less.

Basically, foolishness that sometimes passes for bravery and a bunch of pointy sticks.

It sucks to have people look at you and say ‘what now?’ just because you happen to be slightly less clueless than the rest of the general population and he knows he’s not good enough for the role he’s taken on in this town.

But he’s all this town’s got.

And he takes his role very seriously.

Spike's down to his last cigarette by last call, but he's tapping another package against his knee. American Spirit - looks like Gaz took a shine to Spike while Xander was slinging Cosmos and Singapore Slings.

And what kind of people drank Singapore Slings these days?

Well, clearly gay ones - so much for the gay rep for taste.

"You smell like a distillery." Spike doesn't look up when Xander heads over but he's not talking to the fairies anymore so Xander counts it progress.

"You smell like a fire on a tobacco plantation."

Looks like Spike decides that's a fair description because he stubs out the butt and picks at the cellophane on his pack of American Spirits. "You're a popular bloke these days, Harris."

"I'm the bartender, Spike. In a gay strip club. I am the definition of 'guy everyone wants to talk to'."

"Noticed more than a few weren't ordering drinks."

"So I can't be chatted up?"

"Weren't chatting you up either." Spike mouthed a cigarette and squinted at the other end of the club where Xander knew without turning around that the new guy was waiting for him. "Mostly. Can I break his legs?" Spike asks it so casually, Xander's sure he heard wrong.

"Excuse me?"

But Spike's moved on. "And anyway, I heard you tell the bloke with bad Eighties hair there was a meeting tonight." He lights up and Xander's experiencing a surreal moment thinking about pots and kettles.

“Yeah, thought I might as well introduce you and get you up to speed and all. The sooner we find the demons and you help us kick their asses, the quicker I can return you to Buffy.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, Xander realizes how bad they sound. He envies those people who make these realizations before they speak. “I mean… I’m sure she’d like you back ASAP. ’Cause, you know, sounds like she needs all the help she can get right about now.”

Spike doesn’t seem offended or even hurt. There’s a sad sort of acceptance in his voice when he says: “I wasn’t helping.”

And there’s pretty much no good answer to that, so Xander just claps his hands and smiles like a camp counselor on crack, voice overloud and pumped full of artificial cheer. “Alrighty then, let’s get going. Rest of the gang should be waiting at Brad and Jordan’s by now. Thaddeus? You ready?”

“Yep,” the new guy calls as he starts for the door.

Spike stands and makes some sort of odd, five-part ritual of stashing his unsmoked cigarettes. “Thaddeus?” he asks with a soft snort.

“Be nice,” Xander warns under his breath. “We try not to alienate the new recruits.”

“He’s only here because he fancies you,” Spike says, leaning close. His hushed tone suggests the back-alley revelation of a highly classified state secret.

Xander just laughs and winks at Spike. “Hey, whatever gets them through the door.”

He can feel the weight of Spike's stare while he walks away. Spike's got super vampy speed on his side so he can afford a little stop-and-stare. Right on cue, there's running footsteps and a cloud of American Spirit tobacco smoke falls into step next to Xander.

Up ahead, Thaddeus is hurrying along throwing looks back over his shoulder at Xander.

He nearly walks into a post box.

"Luring them in with your pulchritudinous charms, are you?"

"My what now?" Not for the first time, Xander wonders how Spike's managed to keep a big bad image this long tossing out SAT words like that.

"Comeliness." Spike apparently realizes that was a bad choice of words when Xander snickers in spite of himself. "Your beauty, all right?"

Xander's enjoying the look on Spike's face too much to call him on it so he shrugs. "Hey, it worked for Buffy."

Spike looks at him narrowly through the smoke, up and down. "Not gonna change into a skimpy halter top and chunky heels, are you?"

"Only on Drag Night."

Xander waits for Spike to rise to the bait but Spike only says, "Good. You haven't got the legs for it."

They walk in silence and smoke while Xander tries to decide whether he's offended or amused and whether Spike actually made a joke that didn't involve hilarious dismemberment or exsanguination.

"All of your gang poofs, then?"

Xander looks forward toward Thaddeus and back at Spike, nods. “More or less.”

“And which are you?” Spike asks. “More? Or less?”

Xander grins. “More. Definitely more. I have crossed over to the dark side and am never going back. I have seen the light. I have been saved. Hallelujah and amen.”

Spike gives him a look like he’s the crazy one. “You’re disturbing,” Spike says.

“And you’re disturbed,” Xander replies. “Guess that makes us a dynamic duo. Use your bat lube, Batman!”

Spike stops walking, stops smoking, and stares at him. Thaddeus stops walking, turns around, and stares at him.

“What?” Xander asks, looking back and forth between the two stares. “Am I the only one here who watches reruns of Super Friends?” He gets nothing. He sighs. “Apparently so. Fine. Come on, the house is on the next block.”

They reach the front porch and Xander doesn’t bother to knock, just opens the door. He can hear the sound of voices inside. The sound of friends - talking after, around and over the top of one another and laughing like it’s not the end of the world. Man, he loves these guys.

“Go on in,” he tells Thaddeus. “Find Brad and tell him I want to talk to him out here. Just Brad, not Jordan, okay?” Thaddeus nods and goes and Xander turns to Spike. “Jordan can get a little melodramatic,” he explains.

Brad comes to the door half a minute later, remaining on the inside side of the threshold, like a good amateur vampire fighter.

“Brad,” Xander says, “this is Spike. He’s here to help, but you need to invite him in.”

"Okay and the rule that says 'help is the guys you don't need to invite in' changed when, exactly?"

"Uh - when my friends in Sunnydale sent us their pet vampire instead of a Slayer or a - " Xander gives up, drowned under 'I'm not her bloody pet!' and 'Vampire?'

So much for doing this the easy way.

"Let's start again. Brad, this is Spike. He's a vampire with a soul." Xander decides that leaving out the 'crazy' part is the better part of valor here. A guy's got to pick his battles, make his stand, choose a team - "What?"

"Vampires don't have souls."

Xander jerks a thumb at Spike. "Tell that to him."

"Vampires don't have souls," Brad says, facing Spike.

"Ta," Spike says and looks like he's ready to turn around and go knock over a liquor store or something. Xander recognizes the early twitches and fidgets of Spike getting bored.

Unless they're the early twitches and fidgets of Spike wanting to run away.

There's something in his facial expression that makes Xander think that's not completely out of the question. "Clap if you believe in vampires with souls," Xander mutters under his breath.

Spike claps.

Once.

"Look - got any demons in your gang?"

Brad looks to Xander for help and gets the hands up you are so on your own, pal gesture in return. "Uh - no. We pretty much fight the demons."

"Right, then. Can't hurt any of you lot anyway."

"And I'm supposed to believe that why?"

Spike squints and makes a complicated series of movements that put out his half-finished cigarette and tuck it behind his ear.

Then Xander and Spike are both writhing on the front porch clutching their heads in pain and Xander has the vague feeling Spike punched him.

"This is our help?"

Once Xander recovers enough to be sure Spike punched him, he glares at the two Spikes until they finally merge into one. “Okay, next time? We discuss the demonstrations beforehand.”

With a shaking hand, Spike removes the cigarette from behind his ear and tries to relight it. He can’t seem to manage, so Xander takes the lighter from him and flicks it open. Spike leans forward to touch the cigarette to the flame and Xander is hit with a strong sense of déjà vu – or maybe that’s just his head still spinning.

Xander turns back to Brad. “Look, Brad, I asked you to come out here because I know you’re a reasonable man…”

“No, you asked me to come out here because you know Jordan is a drama queen.”

Xander nods and concedes the point. “Fine, but still, you have to trust me on this one. You just saw that Spike can’t harm anyone.”

“I just saw him punch you.”

Xander waves his hand and makes a pshah sound. “That was just a love tap. And besides, it hurt him more than it hurt me.”

Brad looks stern. “Not funny, Xander.”

“I can’t help it. Inappropriate and ill-timed humor is my signature, you know. My calling card. My…”

“Xander.”

“Look, it’s a long story, okay. But he really can’t hurt people and I honestly don’t think he wants to. And he can help. So could you do me a favor and invite him in and maybe not mention the whole creature-of-the-night thing to the others?”

“No,” Brad says.

Xander is genuinely surprised. “No?”

“I will let him in, but you are damn well going to explain this to everyone.” Brad looks at Xander as he steps out of the doorway. “I assume you can still come in on your own”

Xander nods and crosses the threshold. Spike looks in at them and frowns.

“They’re not actually sitting around sharpening stakes in there, are they, mate?”

Xander looks to Brad. Brad just raises his eyebrows and shrugs. “Come on in, Spike.”

"Didn't come all this way to be staked," Spike mutters, passing Brad, and he stays close to Xander when they enter enter the room.

When Spike leaves, it's with at least five offers for another kind of staking and Xander's pretty sure he saw Spike considering at least two of them. "Not bad for a bunch of poofs."

He's got a fresh pack of Kamel Reds and Xander is starting to wonder if cigarettes are gay popularity currency and he never noticed. Like Snoopy valentines in kindergarten. Spike lights up and stows cigarettes and lighter in his pocket and that's when Xander identifies the pat-fumble for what it is.

"Hey - what happened to your duster?"

"Must've left it somewhere." He drags hard and fast on his cigarette and turns toward the waterfront.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Spike twists and gives Xander a glare way more lucid than anything in this evening's fine program so far. "Got demons to kill, don't we?"

"Did you miss the part about big and nasty? And reconnaissance?"

Spike finishes off his cigarette and flicks it into the street in a shower of sparks. "Reconnaissance is for poofs."

Xander catches up with him and takes his arm. "Okay, first," and Xander holds up a hand to mark his place in the air between them, "poofs? Kinda falls short as an insult around here. You really need some new insults if you're gonna work with my crew. And second," Xander hurries on before Spike can say anything like 'I don't want to work with your crew, Harris,' "you may be all suicidal crazy kamikaze guy but the rest of us kinda want to come out of this with our limbs attached."

"So - what?" Spike's looking around and his hands have gone back in his pockets. He looks smaller without a cigarette. "You want me to find a place to hole up for the day, is that it? I can...yeah. Fine. That's fine."

Spike looks anything but fine. In fact he looks kinda resigned - and then confused when Xander takes his arm and steers him in a wide circle back the way they came.

"Where're we going?"

"Back to my place. You know? The place where the couch and I live."

Story continues here...

Xander gets out of bed sometime after noon, slips on some clothes, and sneaks into the darkened living room to watch Spike sleep. Okay, that’s not his actual reason for going into the living room, it’s more like a side effect, something he falls into doing.

The blanket has fallen to the floor and the sheet is tangled around Spike’s legs and Xander wonders if Spike gets nightmares. A new soul’s gotta be tricky, when you think about it.

Xander hasn’t really, before.

But whatever tossing and turning Spike may have done in the night, he’s perfectly still now beneath Xander’s gaze. A beautiful corpse.

But not a peaceful one.

Pale, gaunt, haunted.

The moment stretches.

Spike twitches, or maybe it’s a play of the shadows, but it snaps Xander back to himself and he looks away. He picks up his keys and grabs his wallet. Time for a trip to the butcher shop.

He shuts the door softly behind himself.

When Xander returns, Spike is sitting up.

Staring.

Smoking.

Xander walks over and picks up the remote off the coffee table, turns on the TV so he can pretend that’s what Spike is staring at.

“Ready for breakfast?” he asks as he carries the bag of pig’s blood to the kitchen.

Spike doesn’t answer.

Xander puts the blood in his least favorite coffee mug - for lack of a better option - and puts it in the microwave. When it’s done, he carries the mug over to Spike and sets it on the coffee table.

“Breakfast is served,” he announces.

Spike doesn’t answer.

Xander picks up the remote again to change the channel. He finds it hard to convince himself that Spike is watching Days of Our Lives. A cool hand darts up from nowhere and closes around his wrist.

“Don’t,” Spike says. “Passions is almost on.”

Xander doesn’t know quite what to say to that – or quite what to do with himself – so he goes back to the kitchen and pours himself a bowl of cereal, takes it back to the living room and sits down to watch Passions.

Spike's unmoving beside him. Eerily so except when he's lifting blood or cigarette to his lips.

It's like watching daytime television with an animatronic man.

And if a hidden speaker on Spike's body starts to play 'It's A Small World', Xander's going back to bed.

But it doesn't. And he doesn't.

So they sit and watch Passions until Charlie throws Sheridan into a pit in the basement and Spike turns off the television while Sheridan's still screaming something about contractions.

Xander's glad he turned it off.

"Sodding hate basements," Spike's muttering and lighting another smoke. He's ashing into one of the club's ash trays.

Apparently the soul doesn't have anything against petty theft and Xander kinda hopes nobody noticed Spike's fingers turning sticky last night.

Although it was kinda considerate of Spike to provide his own ash tray.

"Mukkiks don't much like vampires," Spike says, like he's saying commercials for orange juice are bloody stupid. Which he also did.

"Vampires don't much like other vampires," Xander points out because that's one of the first things you find out on the streets. Vampires piss off everybody.

"Well, yeah. But these really don't. Suppose it could be dangerous." Spike ashes into the ash tray and unfolds his legs, propping his feet on the coffee table.

His feet are bare.

Pale.

Fine-boned.

They don't look like the kind of feet that kick the shit out of innocent trash cans, doors, passers-by...

"Demon hunting? Pretty much dangerous by definition," Xander says to arrest that train of thought.

Spike has nice feet, the train adds while it's being handcuffed and bundled into the paddy wagon.

The train's right.

"Yeah. I'll go in first. Distract 'em," Spike's saying.

"What?"

“Being attacked by a vampire’ll piss’em off. They’ll ignore you ’til I’m gone.”

Gone. Xander stares at Spike. “Recon,” he says. “Re. Con.” He hopes breaking it down into two clear syllables will help the concept penetrate Spike’s nicely shaped skull.

Thick skull.

Penetrate Spike’s thick skull.

And maybe penetrate isn’t the word Xander wants to use here. But still…

“Recon is the thing that we do so that we can make the plan,” Xander says. “The plan is the thing we make so that we can fight the bad guys without getting any good guys killed.”

“I’m not a good guy,” Spike says.

“Okay, good vampire,” Xander amends, though he knows that’s not what Spike meant.

“I’m not—”

“Going in first to distract them,” Xander finishes. He stands up and claps his hands together. “Good. I’m glad we’re agreed. I’ve gotta head to work in a minute. I traded shifts with Danny so we can do the recon tonight. There’s more blood in the fridge and extra towels in the bathroom. You can come by the bar when it gets dark. If you want. JD’s on me.”

Spike doesn’t say anything, just goes back to the staring thing and Xander doesn’t know whether or not to expect Spike to show after sunset.

“At least eat something while I’m gone,” Xander says.

No response from Spike. Xander grabs his keys and is halfway to the door when he hears the soft words.

“You shouldn’t be nice to me.”

“I’m not being nice, I’m being self-serving. The only thing worse than a crazy souled vampire is a crazy souled vampire with a death wish.”

Xander says it all without turning. For some reason, he doesn’t want Spike to see his face.

He's not sure what he expects when he comes home.

Spike sitting where Xander left him - likely.

Spike smoking on the balcony - possible.

Spike sitting in the middle of the living room floor playing solitaire - makes a surprise stealth campaign.

But what Spike is - is asleep. With that pale foot sticking out from beneath the blanket with a vulnerable arch and relaxed toes.

Spike doesn't wake up when Xander comes in and shuts the door behind him. Or when Xander goes into the bedroom to slip into something more comfortable for a night of recon. Something that makes a statement other than 'financially comfortable wino.'

He's acutely conscious of how he smells now that Spike's around - he wonders if he has time for a fast shower.

He wonders if Spike will be around long enough to find out whether Sheridan has her baby in the pit.

Then Xander wonders when he lost his mind. It's a soap opera. Of course Sheridan will have her baby in the pit. And then it'll be spirited away by the wacky witch and her semi-competent henchman.

Spike's grinding the heels of his palms into his eyes when Xander comes out of the bedroom. "It's your fault," Xander tells him.

"All right," Spike says.

Agreement wasn't on the program. "Wake up on the wrong side of the couch?" They both look at the high back of the couch. "Okay - that was possibly not the best snappy come-back. Blood?"

"Sure."

“Up for some recon?” Xander asks, moving toward the fridge.

“All right.”

“And we do remember the meaning of recon, right?” The patronizing tone alone ought to provoke a snarl.

“Sure.” But it doesn’t.

From left field comes the urge to ask Spike for a blowjob, as long as he’s being so agreeable. Some part of Xander’s brain slaps another part for being a pig. The pig parts points out that the not breathing thing? Definitely of the blow job good.

Meanwhile, some part not involved in the debate moves his hand to open the refrigerator and sees exactly the same amount of blood sitting on the shelf as when he left over six hours ago.

This bothers him.

And it bothers him that it bothers him, dividing his brain into further factions.

Once upon a time, his brain was united—of one mind, so to speak: Vampire is as vampire does. Vampire kills. Hate vampire. Kill vampire.

Or, in the case of Angel: Don’t kill vampire and hate vampire extra to compensate. But don’t feel sorry for vampire. And don’t fall for vampire’s broody act.

So when did things get… complicated?

But then how can you want someone dead if he doesn’t seem to want to live? And if you let him kill himself does that make you his friend? Or if you keep him alive, does that make you his enemy? And which one is Spike supposed to be anyway?

The microwave dings and he hands Spike a mug of blood - watches Spike, making sure he drinks it down.

Yeah… complicated.

Xander slams the door behind them.

“What part of recon didn’t you understand? Re-con. Two syllables.”

Spike shrugs, shedding his jacket and falling into the couch. “Killed ’em, didn’t I?”

“Re. Con,” Xander says. “You could have been dusted.”

Spike pats down his own chest. “Wasn’t.”

“That’s not the point,” Xander says, picking up Spike’s jacket, pulling out cigarettes and Zippo, and handing them over.

“Point is they’re dead.” Spike fishes one out of the pack and slides it between his lips.

“No, the point is—”

“Barely broke a sweat.” Spike flips open the Zippo and lights his post-carnage cigarette. “Not much of an apocalypse if you ask me.”

Xander puts his hands on his hips and glares. “Don’t be down on my apocalypse. I mean, sure it’s not Sunnydale level, but for Oxnard, this was big.”

Spike snorts.

Xander looks down his own body, realizes he has his hands on his hips and drops them. His lips slide into a pout. “You could have at least let me kill one,” he says.

Spike pats him on the shoulder with the hand that doesn't have a cigarette in it and the arm finds its way around Xander's shoulders. "Would've taken your head off, mate. They've got a wicked bite - and they're bloody fast."

For a guy who almost dusted four times in the last hour (and Xander counted), Spike's unnaturally cheerful.

Chipper.

Content.

He's going to the fridge and helping himself to -

Okay, he's helping himself to Xander's orange juice straight from the carton, but Xander can't bring himself to object.

Then Spike holds the carton out to him and Xander figures what the hell and drains the juice.

Vampire cooties taste okay and - "Hey. Wait a minute. Why are you sharing?"

Spike gives him another idiot look, this one with more fire behind it. "Because you looked pale, Harris. Don't fancy you dropping dead at my feet."

Xander looks at the orange juice.

Then he looks at Spike and speaks with his eyebrows. 'Dead?' His eyebrows ask.

'Yeah. Sure. Never know,' Spike's eyebrows answer and Spike drops himself onto the couch and kicks his feet up and Xander puts a finger on where he's seen this side of Spike before.

In a school hallway.

The view's a lot better without his head jammed under Angel's arm.

But the side's not solid. There's still cracks in it where the other Spike peeks through, flicks glances at him that say simultaneously 'is this all right?' and 'bugger this for a game of soldiers. I'm not moving my boots'.

And Xander's got a problem because he wants to sweep one Spike off its feet and take him to bed - and he just wants to sweep the other Spike's feet off his table and go to bed because mother of god he hurts all over and works an early shift tomorrow.

Spike's complicated.

And hard work.

And -

"Suppose I should be going back to Sunnydale, now your apocalypse is over," Spike says.

"What?"

“Gotta return me to Buffy, remember?” Spike smirks a smirk of satisfaction. “Might actually be able to help now.”

For some reason, Xander’s heart is pounding, but he stands with his arms crossed and studies Spike - thoughtful. “No more crazy?”

The smirk disappears as Spike seems to introspect. “More like just enough,” he says a moment later, smirk returning along with a raised eyebrow. “Something to be said for a fighter’s got nothing to lose.”

And all of a sudden, Xander wants to give Spike something to lose. Or maybe something to remember him by. Or maybe just something.

Because isn’t that what last nights are for? Isn’t that the kind of thing you do before sending someone off into battle? Isn’t that the way you thank the hero before he rides off into the sunset?

And because isn’t Xander dying to know what that skin feels like? That skin and those hands. Those hands and those lips. Those lips and everything else he can’t see from here…

Xander looks at Spike and Spike looks at Xander and Spike looks ready and Spike looks willing, but Spike always looks that way – its part of his presence, his appeal. And Xander looks and Spike looks, but Spike doesn’t move, so Xander doesn’t move and they stand there not moving until it’s too much and Xander says…

“Goodnight.”

Xander is too tired to have any trouble sleeping, but his brain works while his body rests and he wakes up convinced that Spike can’t go back yet.

For one thing, who knows if they actually got all the demons last night?

There could be more in hiding somewhere just waiting for the scary vampire to leave so they can kill Xander and all his friends and all his non-friends and all their pets until Oxnard is nothing more than the middle of nowhere, which it’s been accused of being before, but not in quite that literal a sense.

Or even if all the demons are gone right now, who’s to say that they don’t have demon friends?

Demon friends who might be on the way right now and who won’t be happy when they find that their demon amigos are dead and gone. Demon friends will hear about how Xander was standing there watching while all their demon amigos were killed and who won’t care that it wasn’t Xander who did the killing. Demon friends who will come to the club one night and pull Xander out from behind the bar and viciously disembowel Xander in front of everyone, after which the patrons will be driven to drink, but won’t be able to since the bartender will be dead, so said patrons flee the club instead, leaving all the strippers without tips, and said patrons will never come back to the club again, leaving all the strippers without livelihoods, forced to beg on the street where they will all be killed one by one by other demons and vampires.

The whole situation is a tragedy waiting to happen. And all because Spike is going back to Sunnydale too soon.

And what kind of man would Xander be if he lets that happen?

So for the good of humanity, Xander rolls out of bed and marches into the living room and over to the couch to tell Spike that he can’t possibly go yet.

But when he gets there, the couch is empty.

Spike is gone.

Spike is gone.

Xander repeats it to himself silently. Spike is gone.

Then Xander repeats it out loud. "Spike is gone," he tells the stove.

The stove doesn't say anything back and Xander doesn't want to become the crazy cat guy who talks to inanimate objects so he grabs his phone and dials.

"The Magic Box. What can we sell you?"

It's a woman's voice, nice, and totally not what Xander wants to hear. "Spike is gone," he tells it.

"No he isn't," she disagrees.

"Yes he is." It's not much better than talking to the stove and Xander decides to cut the long and vicious cycle short. "This is Xander Harris. Buffy sent Spike to Oxnard and he's gone."

"Of course he's gone. I assume you averted your apocalypse. I mean - Spike's back and the world is still here."

Spike's back.

Spike's back, Xander thinks and then nips that cycle in the bud too.

So he skips the stove and gets to the point. "Spike's back in Sunnydale?"

Which means he made it safely. Ali - okay in one piece and Xander looks at the kitchen clock to see what time it is but the clock is gone too.

Spike made it safely - and he took a souvenir.

"Hello? Xander Harris?"

"Yes, that's me," Xander's mouth says while his mind is still wrapped around Spike wanting his clock. Spike wanting his James Dean clock.

There's a huff on the other end of the line and then a blessed, blissed - and Xander doesn't know if blissed would pass as a word in Scrabble but -

"Sorry, Buff, can you say that again?"

"Xand - are you feeling okay?"

"I'm okay. I'm fine. I'm - " He's struck by an idea. "Is Spike there? Can you put him on?"

"Why would Spike be here?"

Okay - Spike isn't here - there-here - and Xander forces his brain into a think - it grinds gears - coffee. He needs his morning coffee.

Except there is no coffee maker where there had been a coffee maker before.

Spike took another souvenir.

And Xander starts to feel that kinda lifty feeling - because it means he'll have to go to Sunnydale to get them back.

“He took my coffee maker,” Xander says. “And my clock.”

Buffy snorts. “Just be glad he didn’t take your toaster oven.”

Which might be a good point except…

“I don’t have a toaster oven.”

“Or your stereo,” says a voice in the background that sounds like Dawn.

“Or your bookshelves,” chimes the voice that answered the phone.

“He seems to be nesting,” Buffy explains.

“Nesting? Vampires nest? With toaster ovens?”

“Hey, it’s a step up from lurking in the basement and muttering to invisible people while trying to cut his soul out,” Buffy says.

And Xander has to concede the point.

He does not, however, have to concede his coffee maker.

“I’m coming over there,” he says.

“For a clock and a coffee maker?”

“It’s only an hour.”

“You don’t have a car.”

“I don’t have a coffee maker.”

“You could buy a new coffee maker for less than it costs to get here.”

“It would be nice to see you again, too, Buff,” Xander says, because faced with logic, he often finds it best to counter with emotional manipulation.

Buffy sighs. “Not the best time for a social call, Xan. We’re kinda in crisis mode here.”

“Believe it or not, I might actually be able to help.” And this time the sarcasm isn’t manipulative, it’s honest. “It’s not like in high school, you know. I’m not like in high school.”

“I know, Xan. Of course I know.”

Buffy sounds genuinely sorry now and, for a second, Xander feels guilty because he knows deep inside that his motives aren’t exactly pure. But a second later, he’s convinced himself that his motives are perfectly pure and fills his voice with righteous indignation to announce…

“Alright then, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Because one day is more than enough time to borrow a car from one of his buddies, his pals, his brothers in arms - right?

Xander steps off the bus at the Sunnydale Greyhound station, shoulders his duffel bag, double checks his stake and starts to walk.

He can use the exercise. A physique like his doesn't keep itself after all and walking is great exercise.

And good for the heart.

Light cardio - for free!

Xander leads a heart-healthy lifestyle.

Xander also has totally fair-weather friends.

But - hey - last time he was here, he was picking up an Inca mummy who'd later try to suck the life out of him. No Inca mummy this time so Xander figures he's ahead of the game.

For Sunnydale.

He hangs a left onto Main and walks past the hardware store - where his zombie buddies got their cake ingredients - and past the dress shop where he and Cordy were attacked by hell hounds.

Yeah, Xander's way ahead so far and he does not miss this place.

Get in.

Get his coffee maker.

Get out.

It's a Mr. Coffee search and rescue operation.

And if he's thinking more about engaging the enemy and under the covers covert ops, that's his business.

Xander sees The Magic Box up ahead and takes a sharp right into the Espresso Pump.

Because he has no coffee maker.

And he can not be expected to face the rescue operation without his morning coffee.

Xander bellies up to the counter and fumbles his way through ordering a hot chocolate.

Story continues here...

A minute later, Xander nearly fumbles the hot chocolate itself. He steps through the Magic Box door and is slammed with an armful of Dawn.

“Xander!”

“Hey, Dawnie,” he manages with the last bits of air in his lungs.

She steps back and gives him a once-over that’s just a little less innocent than it used to be in the early crush days. He blushes and manages to set the hot chocolate down on the nearest available surface just in time to catch an armful of Willow.

“You suck. Do I need to cast a spell that attracts you to Sunnydale? ’Cause I can do that, you know.”

They squeeze each other tight and when she steps back, he smiles and gives her a kiss on the lips. “Missed you too, Will.”

“Hey, how come I didn’t get a kiss?”

Xander smirks over at the pouting Dawn. “Because you’re too young and not gay enough.”

“That’s discrimination.”

“I like to think of it as self-preservation. You do remember that your sister can kick my ass?”

“Damn right I can, so stay away from her and come here.”

Buffy emerges from the training room and Xander crosses the shop to meet her halfway and enfold her in his arms. “Missed you, Buff.”

“Missed you, too.”

Buffy steps back and Xander leans down to kiss her on the lips, too.

Across the room, Dawn stomps her foot. “Buffy’s not gay.”

“Buffy’s also not jailbait.”

“What’s…?”

“Dawn,” Buffy says, “don’t you have homework?”

‘But I’m not at home.”

“But you could be.”

Dawn crosses her arms, but plops into a chair in front of some books. “Fine.”

Xander laughs. “Ah, the joys of raising a teenager.”

“Tell me about it,” Buffy mutters. “We were this bad?”

“Are you kidding?” Xander lowers his voice. “We were so much worse.”

“I heard that!”

Then there's patrol and an invitation to join Buffy on patrol because she swears they'll meet Spike and Xander doesn't doubt it.

There's something about the way Spike looks when there's people to protect and stupid things to do like barging in during reconnaissance and trying to put the stake in stake-out.

Spike's a wacky guy.

And Xander's stomach is fluttering at the thought of Spike wackying himself into a pile of dust.

So he's relieved when they round a crypt and there's the vamp of the hour, leaning against the marble and smoking a cigarette as if he sprouted there - like some kind of weird, pale fungus.

Spike flicks the butt of his cigarette into the damp grass where it smolders out.

Then he flicks a glance at Xander that just smolders.

The glance leaves him feeling warm when it moves away and Spike pushes off from the wall with his shoulders and starts walking with them. Spike's looking at Buffy now and Xander realizes he's still looking at Spike.

Noticing things.

Xander notices he walks differently in his boots than he does barefoot.

And Xander's so not ready to be the weird guy who fixates on feet.

"Out for a walk?" Buffy asks and it's not as sharp as it used to be. Like she's trying too and that's not something Xander expected.

"Not illegal, is it?" Spike lights another cigarette and even though he's not looking straight at Xander, Xander knows he's being watched.

"And that's stopped you - when?"

Spike snorts and doesn't answer but when he gives Xander a straight look, the smirk's shy.

Xander reminds himself he's here to liberate his toaster - and feels the tingles from Spike's smirk all the way down in his toes.

More low-key banter between Spike and Buffy, but there’s something off about it – something forced – and a tension that vibrates around them and its pretty much a relief when a pack of vamps appears to provide a distraction. Spike and Buffy jump straight in and Xander is about to jump in after them, but gets catch up in watching.

Because when they fight, the awkwardness falls away and some sort of awareness seems to take its place and Spike has Buffy’s back and Buffy has Spike’s and it’s like a dance or something.

Then a stray vamp breaks free from the edge of the pack and it’s time for less watching, more dusting. And dust it Xander does – in short order, even – but his technique feels a bit… oafish.

Effective, but not pretty.

Not like Spike and Buffy, whom he watches as they finish the rest off together, and it occurs to Xander that they know each other.

Intimately.

That he, Xander, is the outsider and that’s kind of a surprise.

He’d known, but he hadn’t known.

The fight finishes and they stand there, the awkwardness creeping back in through the settling silence. Spike lights a cigarette and Xander is jealous because smokers always have something to do when non-smokers are just standing there like idiots.

Finally, Buffy dusts herself off and says she’s gonna call it a night.

Xander doesn’t know what to call anything.

He’s not so sure he should have come because now he can't shake the feeling he doesn't fit in Sunnydale anymore. Like there was a Xander-shaped place here before but now there's not. Or maybe that he doesn't fit into the old Xander shape.

And maybe he shouldn't be making any moves at all in this whole big totally unfamiliar - landscape - that is the past three years in Sunnydale.

The enormity of what he doesn't know is big and has teeth. Xander sticks to what he does know. Spike's cigarette is almost gone. He should probably say something before they both have to stand around being awkward. “You stole my toas - coffee maker."

“Suppose you’ll want to come take it back then,” Spike says and Xander watches his boot crush out the cigarette butt he drops to the ground. “Seeing as how you drink so much coffee.”

And Xander’s about to deliver a witty funny guy come back - he's got a million of them - but then he actually looks at Spike - who's smirking again.

And the tingly feeling comes back and brings friends.

And Xander holds Spike’s gaze and feels like - okay maybe there's movement possibility here after all. Groping in the dark movement. But moves. Groping. Spike's still smirking and Xander thinks he's grinning back. And possibly licking his lips and thinking thoughts that could constitute necrophilia in every state in the union. “Uh - Buff? Catch up with you later.”

There's silence and Spike looking over Xander's shoulder with a neutral expression on his face. Then the eyebrows go up and the head tilts and behind him, Buffy clears her throat. "Okay. So not asking. So not wanting the details. So spending the rest of my evening with chick flicks and pizza."

"Whoa, is that the exciting life of a Slayer these days? Chick flicks and pizza?"

"And Star Trek and beer are the social ambition of every young up and coming homosexual," Spike says and before Xander can recover from the wig of Spike defending chick flicks and pizza - or maybe the total non-wig of Spike mocking him and Buffy both - Spike's lighting another cigarette and jerking his head toward a crypt. "Look - are you coming to rescue your sodding appliances or not?"

"Meat Lovers," Buffy says, turning and walking away, "with extra pepperoni."

"Slayers," Spike says around his cigarette. "Hungry or horny."

And, okay, that’s a setup for a cheesy line if he’s ever heard one, but Xander manages to keep his mouth shut.

Barely.

By chewing on the inside of his cheek.

It’s a technique he’s honed since moving to Oxnard, where he learned the hard way that, in the bar scene, volume of babble tends to be inversely proportionate to amount of play. The principles of high school geometry had finally come in handy.

Or was it algebra?

Or maybe…

Xander looks over at Spike, who is doing something to his new cigarette for which the cigarette ought to press charges – or possibly send a thank you note.

Xander swallows.

Hard.

Or maybe math is so not the point right now.

Xander wonders if there’s some part of his brain that he can chew on to keep himself from thinking.

And, okay – ew.

But anyway, Spike is walking now and Xander is following and that is of the good. They reach a crypt and Spike slides open its stone door – smoothly, like it doesn’t weigh a couple hundred pounds or so - holding it open for Xander to step through.

Who says chivalry is dead?

Of course, Spike is dead, so maybe the better question is: Who says the dead aren’t chivalrous? But Xander isn’t sure that anyone really says that – although they probably should, what with vampires being more likely to eat an old lady than help her across the street and all.

And Xander’s wishing he could chew on his brain again, but he looks around instead.

At stone, stone and more stone – with a subtle stone motif and elegant stone trim.

This is nesting?

“Wanker,” Spike says, because apparently he’d said that last bit out loud.

Whoops.

And apparently he's said that out loud too because Spike's giving him the you idiot look but that's okay because it's followed by a look best described in Penthouse Forum if Penthouse Forum accepted letters of the gay and Spike's pushing him back against the door and Xander loses the thread to a mouthful of tastefully chilled tongue.

The crypt door's cold against his shoulder blades and something Xander doesn't want to think about is brushing his neck. He'd rather think about the way Spike's hands are kneading his ass and the way his cock's trying to batter a hole through his zipper singlehandedly.

If a cock had hands.

And he thinks he's moaning again but the crypt has weird acoustics so he can't tell. He just sucks on Spike's tongue and kisses back with a clack of teeth and gets his arms under Spike's duster for a double handful of wiry ass until Spike's moaning too in a weird kind of harmony.

Xander finally remembers he has to breathe and throws his head back to connect hard with the door and stays there panting but Spike didn't get the cease and desist memo and those cool lips are marking territory down his throat which should be wiggy and weird and other words that start with w but it's not.

"Whaa - " Xander tries to say before the word dies a stuttering death when Spike bites his collarbone with human teeth. "How - " he says, getting farther before losing the thread because Spike's licking his shoulder and that's not as sexy as the collarbone thing. Xander swallows and wonders if Spike's mapping out his veins.

As hello kisses go, this one's going down in history.

Xander marshals his thoughts.

They fall in with untied boots, unbuttoned jackets and exposed tattoos they don't remember getting. "Where's the clock?"

Spike backs off and a blank look flickers over his face and is gone. It's replaced with the textbook example of 'incredulity' - a word Xander missed on a Junior English pop quiz. "You actually came for the sodding clock?"

The words filter in and Xander is an idiot. He grabs Spike by the hair and hauls him back to his lips. "Fuck the clock," he tells Spike's tongue, up close and personal.

Spike’s tongue implies that it’d rather fuck something else.

Right now.

Or maybe five minutes ago.

Which, yeah, would be good, because he’s been wanting this for… days? Has it only been days? Feels like weeks.

Feels like years.

Feels like if Spike doesn’t finish unzipping Xander’s jeans in the next point-five seconds, Xander may suffer permanent injury. Fortunately, Spike has that super-vampy speed thing going for him.

Spike also has that super-vampy no-breathing thing going for him.

Going for Xander.

Going on Xander.

Going and going and going and going and it’s like getting a blow job from the Energizer Bunny.

Except - you know - a whole let sexier and without the bestiality angle.

And all too soon, Xander is coming and then he’s sliding.

Down the wall.

And what little may have been left of his brain is dribbling out of his ears.

Xander feels himself being dragged back up the wall. “Not done with you yet,” the evil-only-in-a-good-way, not-just-blood-sucking vampire says.

“Can’t move,” Xander says.

“Can still be fucked,” Spike says. And Xander has to admit that Spike has a point.

A good point.

A hard point, stuffed into obscenely tight jeans.

“God, yes,” Xander says. Spike starts to drag him across the crypt. “Where’re we going?”

“The bed.”

“There’s a bed?”

There is indeed a bed. It’s downstairs. Or down-ladder, really, which is sort of a problem since Xander can’t really feel his legs yet.

Falling? So not sexy.

But Spike really doesn’t seem to mind and Xander finds himself hauled up again and hauled over to the bed. Xander flops back onto the pillow and summons up the energy to look around.

Clock, coffee maker, toaster over, stereo, bookshelf – with books and everything.

“Nesty,” Xander says.

Spike pulls off Xander’s shoes. Spike pulls off Xander’s pants. Spike pulls off his own tee shirt. Spike pulls off his own pants.

Suddenly, Xander is back in the game.

All in.

So very, very in.

Spike starts crawling up the bed.

Slowly.

Too slowly and Xander levers himself up, grabs Spike by the back of the neck, and crushes their lips together.