Title: Yield
Author: Kelandris the Mad
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Author's e-mail: Kelandris
Author's webpage: http://kelandris.iwarp.com/main.html
Disclaimer: Yes, practically everything I write involves characters originally created by other people. Those other people will hopefully feel flattered. In this case, those people are Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and anyone at WB. I’m not worth suing, really.
Spoilers: No specific ones mentioned; ‘Beer Bad’ implied, but not heavily
Summary: Spike learns what it means to yield.
Warnings: Boykissing, some boy groping, lots of angst and some alcohol abuse.


"Yield"
by Kelandris the Mad


The college pub was packed, but there were seats closer to the taps available. This early of an evening, there were still a few seats closer to the bartender. Even so, the blond man sat at the back, curled into a cracked naugahyde booth. On occasion, his lips curled as well, into a familiar expression of disdain and disgust. One scuffed black boot held down the legs bracing the center pole of the table. Wouldn’t want it to wobble, now. Wouldn’t want the wobble to spill the drinks. Why, that would be more criminal than sitting in this punishingly human little pub, night after night.

Beer wasn’t enough anymore, hadn’t been for months now. He’d switched to whisky; the burning seemed a fair punishment for what he was thinking. What he was thinking should’ve been enough to send him screaming from Sunnydale at last, chip or no chip--but he couldn’t tear himself away from watching.

Watching. *Him*. Watching the damned bartender.

Spike snarled, and tapped a waitress as she flounced by, the pseudo-Germanesque outfit more of a black flip skirt with a peasant blouse. Suitably low-cut, of course. She stopped, blinked hugely at him, and leaned down. He watched her pulse for a moment, the obligatory gaze towards hot food, and then he met her eyes.

"Another, love. Make it a double." His eyes were bright, his voice was crisp and unslurred, and even though six other waitresses had served him six other drinks, she had no problems serving him another. Wouldn’t do to get drunk in the punishingly human little pub, either. Though night after night, he tried.

She nodded, straightening. "Right away," she simpered, and flounced off. It should have excited him. He should have followed her. He should’ve at least *tried*, chip or no chip. But he couldn’t stop watching.

Alexander Harris. Xander bloody Harris. Walking about behind the bar as if he owned it, down to the last smoke-darkened brick. Smile like a searchlight in the darkness. That sheaf of sable hair falling oh-so-attractively over his eyes, making all the girls at the bar coo and reach for him to brush it back. And he, Xander, Xander of the unexpected muscles and the tolerably-colored clothing, always stood just that fingertip’s-length out of reach. Smiling as he did.

And when the hell had this happened, then? Had it been when the boy lost his job? Six-month shutdown, they said, summer and a little over. Suddenly gone were the Hawaiian shirts, as if he’d never worn them in public. And the khaki pants so soft and baggy that he could’ve hidden Red and the wolf and the Slayer in the pockets without even trying. Maybe that meant a bit of coin spent on some new threads, sure. This night’s model outlined him in soft, dark reds, which didn’t help. Standing in the dim bar, moving through overhead spots, he glowed like light through a ruby, all pale skin and dark eyes and dark hair and...This wasn’t helping.

Of course he’d had to make ends meet, that was a fact of all life, even the walking-around-dead sort. Of course he’d had to take another job. And maybe that was when. Maybe that was *exactly* when. Because Xander Harris, monster magnet, Xander the blunder-boy, Xander the whelp and the marching soldier at the end of the toy parade...he hadn’t been *this* man. He hadn’t had this level of...confidence. Self-assurance. Fashion sense.

*Swagger*.

Spike took another sip of whisky, sighing to himself. This was becoming his definition of hell. Of course it wasn’t the first time Spike had thought the boy attractive. Xander broken was a draw, Spike was man enough to admit. The boy broken, the boy a bundle of raw nerves, the boy with the big puppy eyes...the boy who, after everything, *still* had the sharp-as-razors wit...that was a draw; that pulled on him, he could say that. To himself, at least. He wasn’t a fool, and Xander’s definition of hell, he found, was a very seductive one.

But *this* version...Half the time he served folks before they’d asked him. And he’d seen it, night after night--even if they hadn’t wanted it, they paid for it. They gave it a try. And, whatever it was, more’n half the time they liked whatever it was enough to stick with that for the night. Confidence. Assurance. *Moxie*, even, and when the bloody hell had Xander bloody Harris developed *moxie??*

He was doomed.

Maybe that was when. Because Xander knew, when the hiring freeze was over, when they let the temps back in, he’d get back on the job. In fact, Spike was pretty sure he’d be handed his own crew, eventually. Maybe knowing that, knowing that the way men know things, deep down on that level where they’re so sure of it they don’t *have* to talk about it...maybe that was what started the backbone growing. The backbone he had full evidence of, now, in living color and more besides.

Spike knocked back his last whisky, preparing to leave. By God, if he couldn’t kill the boy, he’d be damned if he’d sit here night after night and *watch* him. That way lay madness, right and simple. He’d lived with madness for a good long while--in the lovely shape of Drusilla--yet he wasn’t quite ready to do it again any time soon. Striking out for the door, he kept to the shadows as much as possible. There was only one moment where he might be easily seen--the patch between the jukebox and the entrance. With any luck--

"Hey," came the soft voice from behind the bar. Spike sighed and looked over his shoulder. Guess his luck had gone.

"What now?" he said, his voice bored and just a touch irritated.

"Off in five," Harris said. He finished washing the glass he was on, scanning the bar for new customers, before picking up another glass as smoothly as he set down the first. "You c’n walk me home."

"Don’t need your pity, boy." In violation of pub rules, he struck a match on the hard brick wall, puffed a cigarette to life during the flare. He glared the challenge at the bartender.

The bartender only shrugged. "No pity. S’been bad out there the last few nights. I’d rather not fight my way home for once."

Spike’s eyebrows lifted. A dozen acid replies rose to the surface of the soul he didn’t have and died on his lips. Finally, he shrugged in return.

"Be outside, then. Don’t be forever about it."

***

After the first five minutes, which were devoted to no thought whatsoever and leisurely smoking two cigarettes down to the fingertips, he leaned back against the brick wall and grimaced. Why, exactly, was he waiting here for the sodden git? It wasn’t like he had nothing better to do. Or, well, he didn’t have much better to do, but that wasn’t the reason! And it couldn’t be because he liked the boy...He’d *never* liked the boy. Especially not when he’d been tied in Xander’s musty basement. Listening to him breathe. Unable to move, twitch, do anything but...*listen*...

"Bollocks," he spat, and jolted away from the wall, one smooth forceful move. Like hell he’d sit here and rot while Xander was off closing down the pub and doing fuck-knows-what-all in the process--

"Hey," said the soft voice. Spike slumped, defeated, against the cool bricks. "Thanks for waiting."

"Don’t mention it," he muttered, and set off into the night. Let the boy founder behind him. *He* certainly wasn’t having any of--

Xander kept up, miracle of miracles. Moreover, he managed to keep quiet, which was even more surreal. Spike snuck glances back, whenever he got the opportunity, but Xander seemed content merely to stroll along, hands in pockets, breathing in deep lungfuls of the night air. Couple of times Spike heard growling noises off in the shrubbery, and looked as menacing as he was capable--which, for a white-blond vampire with a known rep and a fetish for a certain black leather trenchcoat, was pretty soddin’ formidable.

Nothing happened, absolutely nothing, which got as unnerving as Xander’s untoken silence. Usually, by this point on a summer evening, he’d have dispatched a few demons, maybe dusted a vampire newbie or so, be covered in a reverse rainbow of fluids and patches of ash, and be desperate for a bath. Which, some nights--*most* nights, he allowed--was the cold water from the hose in back of the cemetery caretaker’s shack.

But outside of a few posturing yips and growls, no one accosted them, no one crossed their path in any way. All too soon they were standing in front of a modest apartment building, Xander leading the way up to the second floor. Didn’t seem much to do but be as gentlemanly as he knew how--undead or not, he still knew the rules--and walk Xander to his door. He couldn’t resist a parting shot, however. Keyed up as he was, his nerves jangling, he knew he’d be looking for a fight on the walk back to the crypt. Hoping beyond hope he found one. Deal with some of this unwanted...*tension*...he’d worked up walking the lad home.

"So," he said, conversationally. He looked around, raising an eyebrow. "Bad neighborhood, then?"

Xander shook his head, clicking over keys in his hand. "Not so bad. Quieter than I expected tonight."

"Oh, this i’nt a normal walk home, then?"

In answer, Xander lifted up one side of his shirt. There was a long, ragged scrape from his third rib down to his hip, mottled in deep purple and rising burgundy-green. Spike blinked, his mouth dropping open.

"What--"

"Muktari demon," Xander said, cocking his head to one side. "You know, the grey ones with the--"

"Long claws, right," Spike said. He reached out, running a delicate fingertip just above the slice. He couldn’t seem to help himself. Xander just watched him.

"That’s going to scar, love," he said, absentmindedly. Xander shrugged.

"One more won’t matter."

"One more." Spike looked up, pulling his hand away. "How’d you know it was--"

"Muktari? Well, you know, they have that cry going into a fight--‘I am Muktari, I eat your eyes, I tear your guts, I step on your feet--’"

Spike snorted, looking away quickly. "It’s ‘step on your *spleen*,’ actually. It’s much more impressive in the original."

"Oh. I didn’t know that." Xander dropped his shirt and opened the door to his apartment. He glanced back over his shoulder.

"You speak Muktari?"

Spike shrugged. "I speak a lot of things. Helps me along in the world, an’ all." He peered in as Xander stepped inside. Blinked, as he looked around.

"Hmm. Smallish."

Xander shrugged again. "Didn’t figure I needed the big place...you know, without An..."

"Yeah..."

For a few heartbeats--Xander’s, not Spike’s--they just stared at each other. Then both men sighed and began speaking.

"Well, I should probably--"

"So, you wanna come--"

They both trailed off, staring at each other again.

"Go?" Spike finished.

"In?" Xander asked.

Spike blinked again. "You’re inviting me in."

Xander smiled, just a hint, just the slightest lifting around the corner of his mouth. "Well, not if you’re gonna stand there and ask me about it all night."

"Oh."

Spike swallowed. He thought about it. Beholden to the whelp. Another little scrap of kindness from the Scooby table. Enough to gall a prouder man into choking on the scraps. Still, when did he have enough pride in him to refuse such gestures? Never, that’s what it was. Not in him not to.

Then, with a little shake, Spike stepped inside, looking around. It was different being in a place by invitation. He’d had an invitation to the basement, but...Xander hadn’t treated it like home, so it wasn’t like he did. It was just a place. To be tied to things. Here, though...this was Xander’s home. Little touches--retro lamps obviously bought at some thrift store, but all wood and dark metal, the wood polished to a honey-amber sheen. Furniture bought to match, but no two pieces alike, indicating more trips to the thrift store. Bright Mexican throws on everything--Xander’s idea? Or Anya’s?

Simple things hung on the walls--a rubberwood African mask, narrow and dark; a piece of silvered driftwood over a collection of shadowboxed shells; a collection of antique woodworking tools behind glass in a handmade frame. In fact, there was a lot of woodwork visible--most in that honey-colored range the boy seemed to favor. One or two pieces were walnut, left plain, and one was a startling yellow pine--the coffee-table, made in an Arts and Crafts style, blocky top and latticed sides.

"Nice," Spike said, and meant it. Surprised that he meant it. Xander nodded, moving into the kitchen.

"Want a beer?" he asked. "Or...well, I don’t have any blood, but there’s iced tea...?"

"Beer’s fine, mate," he said, grinning. He picked a handy place on the couch to sit and plopped down, placing a foot on the coffee-table. Xander’s eyebrows raised at that.

"You’re gonna do that, you’re gonna take off your shoes."

"What now?" Spike asked, out of instinct. He watched Xander struggle not to smile. It was interesting.

"Shoes," Xander said patiently, after a bit. He brought two beers over, the caps cracked off but resting atop the necks. "You. Take off. Your boots."

Spike blinked at him, looking the challenge up into those chocolate-dark eyes. Xander stared down, holding the beers, then cocked his head to the side, grinning.

"Please," he added, and Spike sat up, pulling his feet off the table. He grinned back, then grimaced at himself to stop it. Looking away, he bent down, untying his shoes carefully, toeing them off, setting them beside the coffee-table. Black socks went with them, tucked into the tops of the boots. Then, carefully, he set his feet back atop the table, crossing his legs at the ankles.

Xander stared at his feet for a moment, head still cocked to one side. "Better," he said softly. "Now the coat."

"What?"

"Okay, have we moved to the land of long explanations? How much did you have to drink tonight, anyway?"

"Not hardly enough," he muttered, but shrugged out of the coat. Defiantly, he didn’t rise, just sat there, raising his arms, lacing his fingers behind his head. Xander grinned again, handing over the beer.

**Bollocks,** he thought, sighed again, and then leaned forward, grabbing the bottle. He flipped the cap off, watched it sail across the room, mostly to see Xander’s face screw up in the expected grimace. Which it did, satisfyingly so, before it fell back into those calm easy lines that were so unnerving. He wasn’t used to the boy being *calm*. At least, not calm around him.

"Cheers, mate," he said softly, clinking his bottle against Xander’s.

"Cheers," Xander echoed, looking around. His voice was slow when he said it. He chose the side chair over the couch, didn’t put his feet up. Took a couple swallows of beer, watching Spike do the same, and then leaned forward.

"So. Why I invited you in."

Spike nodded. Yes, here it came, the price for all the largesse. He was good at paying prices, yeah. Paid everyone’s, eventually. His eyebrows raised as he stared the boy down. Hard to do from a seated position, but he’d had practice. Hell, he’d had practice staring Angelus down from a *kneeling* position, and if he could do that, a little bit of couch wasn’t about to hold him back.

"Yeah, couldn’t’ve been out of the goodness of your heart, now, could it?" he asked, his voice a low, sardonic drawl. Xander blinked at him. He watched Xander consider it, then let it go, painting his face back into those implacable lines of calm serenity. Well. Probably for the best, anyway--it was a smallish barb, not hardly well aimed at all. Such a little thing, it would quietly stagger to the edge of perceptibility and fall down. Decently expire in silence, never to be heard from again. Best thing for it, he thought now. He shrugged, drinking again, then set the beer down. Xander winced, just a bit, and then went back to staring at him.

"Right. So why *did* you invite me in?"

"Why’ve you been watching me?"

Spike’s eyebrows shot up. "Watching you--?"

"In the bar." Xander shrugged again, staring at Spike. "I’m dense, sure, but eventually I catch on, I see enough blond hair ordering from the back row."

Another dozen acid retorts were ruthlessly suppressed, while Spike mused over what he truly wanted to say.

"You’re...interestin’."

Damn, that wasn’t it. He watched as Xander’s eyebrows went up, and he sat back against the chair. One leg rose, ankle laying across the opposite knee, and he stretched a little, beer in one hand arching for the ceiling. He watched as the beer came down, set on the table by a loose-jointed hand, watched as the hand came up and waved in front of his face.

"Earth to Spike."

"Sod off," he muttered.

Xander ignored him, but he did pull his hand away.

"Why am I interesting?"

Spike shrugged. Wasn’t there any way he could get out of this conversation? It was making his skin itch. Handy Fyarl demon through the window, now, that’d be a good distraction...But Xander wasn’t letting up on the calm staring, and that was *really* starting to get under Spike’s skin.

"I like watching you," he muttered.

"Kinda gathered that. Why?"

"You...don’t wear the loud clothes anymore."

Xander looked down, eyebrows shooting up again. Spike found himself wondering if that shirt was as soft as it looked. Boy looked touchable, now, not like some mutant nightmare children’s toy abandoned at the foot of the bed, all palm fronds and hair askew. Boy looked...damn. Not like a boy.

Spike shot to his feet, setting the bottle down on the table, and moved towards the door. He barely heard Xander move, but at the last moment, he remembered his boots, and they were as close to him as the trench was. In fact, the trench was also lying on the couch, abandoned like a throw when he’d stormed to the door. One or the other he could’ve walked off with, but without *both*--

He turned, inhaling to speak, though he hardly needed the air anymore. But Xander was right there, standing in front of him. Spike froze, startled enough to flinch back a little, and his back hit the door of the apartment. Xander didn’t seem to notice--or fit it right in, part and parcel, with the rest of the night. He took one single step forward, looking at Spike.

"Maybe it has something to do with this," he said softly, stroking a fingertip along Spike’s jaw, tilting his head up. Then Xander leaned in and kissed him.

In the deepest, darkest part of Spike’s dead heart was a long-dead poet, and on rare occasion, he still thought in poetic terms. He came up with lines comparing his lovers’ eyes to moonlight on water, or banked coals at midnight, or any of a thousand ridiculous things that true humans would never believe--let alone say out loud. This swept all the namby patter away, reducing his entire being to lips and tongue, taste and sensation. He stuttered a breath when Xander broke away, uncontrolled, shaking, and all he could taste was the chocolate on Xander’s tongue, coffee, and something strangely dark and spicy he couldn’t identify. He leaned in, pressing against the wide, soft chest, feeling hard muscle underneath, and moaned.

"Oh God," he heard, realizing he’d heard it before. Xander had said it before. "What am I doing...?"

Dimly, words came, and he said them without thinking.

"What you want to, love...What you want to..."

Xander kissed him again and Spike slipped his hands across that soft material, curling his fists into it at Xander’s sides. He pulled, and Xander came willingly, trapping him between hard muscle and harder wood. He pulled again, pulling the shirt free of the brown-red pants, so nicely tailored, and now his fingers were on flesh, his palms cupping the shifting muscles along Xander’s spine. Heat like fire, almost scorching, and he didn’t care, he didn’t *care*--

He broke away again, looking at the ceiling, having to breathe, hating himself that he had to. It was always the way. He’d gotten in trouble for it, too, surrounded by chests that never rose and fell past the first trembling year with fangs. Him? Every time he was emotional, every single bloody time. Angry. Enraged. Hurt. Excited. Every single time.

He felt Xander’s gaze on him, and blinked, looking at the boy. ‘Boy’. Pfaugh. Just because he was young. Just because it was an easy way to dismiss him. ‘Boy’. When everything on him, from the kiss to the hands now snaking over his hips, said--

"Don’t you want to get away from the door?"

"What now?" He supposed he could be forgiven for having trouble focusing at the moment. Xander shivered and Spike quirked an eyebrow.

"You’re, um..." Xander swallowed, grinning. "You’re cold."

Spike grinned back. "Dead, love. Been dead quite a while. We’re not keen on the body temp."

Xander’s eyes grew even darker, looking at him, and he leaned in, inhaling along Spike’s neck, the curve of his throat.

"Yeah. I’m thinking about that."

"Active imagination, have you?"

"Something..." The tip of his tongue snaked out, curling along the lobe of his ear. Spike moaned again, arching into Xander. His fingers traced over ribs, over muscles pulled taut, lightly over the deep, jagged slice, lower down on that side. He curved his hands in, tucking his fingertips into Xander’s waistband, pulling him just that one small step closer. Oh. Yes. Right there, right where he could count the number of heartbeats Xander had by the throbbing below the belt.

Xander gasped, pulling away enough to look Spike in the eyes. Spike looked back, hard-pressed to keep the grin from splitting his skull in half along with his face. Xander just shook his head. "We," he gasped, pulling up Spike’s t-shirt, "need to," stroking his hands up the ribs, touching each curving length as he went, "find," touching his fingertips to Spike’s nipples, making him writhe against the door, "a *bed*."

He paused, staring into Spike’s eyes. Then nodded.

"I’m pretty sure about this."

"Yeah, you could be right," Spike gasped.

Xander licked his neck, pulled him in for another kiss, one of his hands moving to Spike’s belt. The blond shot out a hand, stopping him.

"What?"

He swallowed. "You do that, love, we won’t *make* it to a bed."

Xander thought about that for a moment. Spike could almost see gears meshing together, the machine at work, and shook his head. Xander just grinned. And knelt. And the belt came free.

"Oh, hell."

Spike watched, gasping for air he’d stopped needing in the nineteenth century, as Xander slowly pulled his belt out of the loops on his jeans. His fingers were on the zipper, his other hand parting the black fabric as he pulled down, and Spike couldn’t keep his hips from thrusting forward. Lightly, so bloody lightly, Xander traced the outline of his cock through boxers soft and old as tissue paper, and Spike closed his eyes, nearly biting through his lower lip.

"Why were you watching me?" Xander asked. His voice was so soft.

Spike blinked, looking down. "What, we back to that now?"

"Never really left," Xander shrugged. He licked his lips and Spike’s knees nearly buckled. Just for a single, razor-edged second, hurt welled in him, all the old betrayal, all the old wounds reopening. But Xander just held him, hand curving around his curving length. Waiting. So calm. So *calm*. His cock nearly in the palm of Xander’s hand, and he was so fucking *calm*...

"So fucking *calm*," he repeated aloud. "When did you get so fucking *calm*?"
And Xander smiled, one of those sunshine-breaking-through clouds smiles, as warm as his hands.

"I’ve been watching you, too."

It hit Spike like a hammer, bringing him to his knees, one fluid motion of fall braced by the boy on his knees. Spike caught Xander’s neck as he went down, wrapping his fingers around it, pulling him close enough to kiss. Xander didn’t seem to mind; more, wrapped him in muscled limbs, bearing him completely to the floor, laying full-out on Xander’s fever-hot flesh. Or so it felt, anyway, and Spike was just a bit too gone to care. All he was interested in was kissing Xander, swiping his tongue for the last bursting flashes of chocolate taste, and that elusive, barely-present spice.

Xander-taste. Heavy on his tongue. That must be it. Xander tasted of coffee, and chocolate, and something else, something only briefly perceived while passing by certain Old-World bakeries. He remembered it from Prague. Cardamom, maybe, or coriander, and even knowing that didn’t stop his tongue sweeping over Xander’s, flicking along his palate, licking delicately along his teeth.

Suddenly Xander tensed, pulling away, hands pushing at Spike. Spike shook his head, growling first, then hurt taking over, staring at Xander with blue eyes gone dark and round.

Xander just shook his head. "No," he said, standing up. He held out a hand to Spike. "No. Not happening."

"You started it, love," Spike said, resentment bitter in his mouth. Xander shook his head again.

"*No*," he said forcefully. "Not like this." Grabbing Spike’s hand, he pulled, pulled until Spike went with him, led like a pet on a chain. Spike kept trying to get mad, and having the mad thoughts run out through his bare feet, because mostly, mostly...he was just mystified. What had he done wrong? What had *gone* wrong? What had--

The door opened, when Xander turned the knob, and Spike blinked as he was led inside. Shelves lining all the walls, holding books and action figures and how-to volumes and CDs all in a row. Posters from various places, mostly advertising Tahiti and the Virgin Islands, scattered across the bare wall space left when the shelves stopped. And in the center, Xander’s bed, the sheets untidy and dark red as his shirt, comforter red and black and tossed down to the foot of the bed.

Oh, thought Spike. He looked around, and then looked down at their hands. *Oh*.

Grinning like a fool, resentment evaporating like dew, he pulled his hand away. He stepped close to Xander, staring at him, challenge and more in his eyes.

Xander blinked, holding his gaze. "Bed," he said. He swallowed, and Spike followed the motion, watched his throat move. Licked his lips before meeting Xan’s eyes once more.

"You said that." He could laugh now, he could smile. Because it wasn’t refusal. It wasn’t rejection. It was nothing but...*urgency*, and when was the last time he’d made anyone that...*urgent*? Years, at least. Decades, even. He couldn’t remember the last time.

Xander swallowed again, shivering all over when Spike’s eyes dropped again to his throat.

"I did say that," he gasped.

"Right, just so we’re clear, mate." And he pushed Xander down, hands on his shoulders, so that he sprawled on the bed. Standing just out of reach, he pulled off his shoes, his socks, moved to those rich red dress pants, sliding them off tanned, strong legs. He knelt, then, hands sliding up each of Xander’s insteps, up his calves, curving around the backs of his knees. He rested a moment, inching closer, watching Xander’s hands clench in the sheets.

"God--oh, God--"

"Not hardly," he purred, and moved up across the strong thighs, sliding towards the dark boxers Xander wore, the fabric silken under his palms. He inhaled, stroking the material again, and swallowed down a gasp. It *was* silk. Boy had definitely learned to shop since the layoff.

Didn’t matter, though, not when they were no more than an obstacle. He slid his hands under Xan’s hips, raising them up, and Xander obligingly helped. Was the work of half a moment to pull them down those long legs afterwards. The delicious sound of silk over skin made Spike shiver all over again. He looked Xander up and down, pursing his lips.

"Mm," he said. "Still have your shirt on."

"Yeah--" Xander gasped. "I--"

"Didn’t expect it to get this far?" Spike asked softly.

"Thought you might toss me through a handy window, yeah."

"And you on the second floor."

"Would’ve hurt."

"That it would." He watched as Xander leant up unsteadily on his elbows, pulling off his shirt, wincing at the pain in his side the motion caused. Spike shook his head.

"Just lay back, love," he whispered. He wrapped his hands around Xander’s cock, the tip already wet for him. He leaned in enough to brush the head across his lower lip, making Xander whimper, watching him. "Just relax."

"Relax," Xander snarled. "Oh, *right*. How’m I supposed to--God!"

"Well, you’re not calm now," Spike said, nearly laughing, and oh-so-relieved when Xander didn’t take offense. Which was wonderful, because Xander taking offense now--well, it would prevent Spike from leaning forward, once more, watching Xander watching him. He braced his arms on either side of Xander’s hips, and swallowed him to the root, Xander’s salt and spice painting his tongue all the way down. Expecting Xander’s frantic buck off the bed, he guided him back to the sheets, listening in adoration as the boy shouted incoherently. Shouts. For *him*. For what *he* was doing. Oh, yeah. He hadn’t lost his touch. Or forgotten how much like silk stretched over steel swallowing a cock was. The pulsing along his palate, the vibration when Xander, overwhelmed, thrust into his mouth, over and again...it was all coming back, and it was bloody wonderful.

Thought struck him, though, halfway through things, powerful enough to pull him off Xander’s ready flesh. Xander whimpered, eyes dark and shocky with need, and Spike shook his head.

"No, love," he said softly.

"No?" Xander echoed.

"No. Don’t want--" He swallowed, the thought, the *urge* unspeakable, but he wanted, he wanted perhaps even more than Xander wanted his mouth back, right now. Didn’t want to be denied. Didn’t want--he was scared of what he *did* want, he supposed. Hell.

Before he could change his mind, he shucked off what was left of his clothes, climbing on the bed next to Xander. Xander, breathing hard, sat up on one elbow, watching him.

"Tell me," he said, as softly.

"Want you--" Spike swallowed again. He laid a hand on Xander’s chest, and the look of them together, his pallor, Xander’s golden tan, nearly undid him, removed all words from him. He shuddered, closing his eyes.

"Want you in me," he whispered, and clenched his eyes shut. He didn’t want Xander’s reaction. In fact, when the bed moved beneath them, Xander getting up, he flinched at the first touch of Xander’s fingertips to his cheek.

"Open your eyes."

"I--no, love, it was just a thought, *bad* thought, don’t worry, I’ll--"

"Open. Your eyes." The calm was back, structured now with an implacable steel, an edge to the words. Spike opened his eyes. Looked at Xander. Face calm, face open. Serious, one might say. No revulsion, though. No anger. No rejection. Barely an expression at all, save for the night-darkness of his eyes, and maybe that was the dead giveaway he thought it was. Xander maybe wanting him that much, *needing* him that much, killed the normally expressive face, took it into a whole new realm of...*calm*. Could that be it? All along, Xander watching him? Xander...*wanting* him?

Huh.

Xander looked at Spike, looked up to his eyebrows, down to his face, down to his chest, his cock, still ready in spite of everything, his legs, folded neatly beneath him. His bare feet, long, the toes nearly prehensile, curled beneath him.

"Vampires don’t do that, do they?"

"What?"

"Sleep with humans."

Spike blinked. "What, you think this is just tea and cakes, then? You think--"

One hand shot out, capturing Spike’s chin, holding him still for Xander’s measuring gaze.

"Not like this. Vampires don’t...they’ll *take* humans, but they don’t...they don’t let themselves *be* taken...right?"

"Been doin’ your readin'," Spike muttered.

Xander shrugged.

"Here and there. Giles shoves enough books under anyone’s nose, they’re bound to pick up a few things along the way. You know. Just for self-preservation’s sake, if nothing else. Kinda had a high learning curve, what with Will and all."

"Yeah..." Spike didn’t really care, he found, but he wasn’t about to tell Xander that. He was falling in love with the sound of his *voice*, suddenly, and when had that happened? When had any of it happened?

Another one of those long, measuring gazes traveled over Spike, this one taking so long he nearly felt Xander’s gaze like a physical touch.

"Okay," he said.

Spike blinked.

"Okay what?"

"Okay. I’ll do it. Um. Turn over."

"*What*?"

"Oh, so you’re not so calm either," Xander said, grinning.

"Bugger off--"

And Xander grabbed him, turned him, pushed him down on the bed. Before Spike could sit up again, rail at the human pushing at him, a rough kick parted his legs, Xander kneeling between them. He laid a hand at the base of Spike’s spine, and it took every ounce of willpower Spike had not to arch against it.

"Be sure," Xander said, and was there just a hint of a tremble in his voice? Oh, would that it were so.

"I’m sure," Spike said, and there was no mistaking the tremble in his.

"Okay. Top drawer, on your left."

"What?"

Xander sighed. "Top drawer, on your left. By the bed. Reach out."

Mystified, Spike reached out, realizing he was just within reach of a little drawer in the table beside the bed. He pulled on the drawer, and reached in, at the limit of his extension. He pulled out something that crinkled in a square packet.

"Condoms?" he asked archly.

Xander snickered. "Really really doubt you’ve got anything you can give me," he said. "No. Lube. We need lube here."

Oh. Ah. Right. Spike flailed a bit, trying to remember what lube bottles looked like these days, and his hand curled around a cylinder he thought was the right shape. He pulled it out without looking, tossed it over his shoulder, hearing the *whock* as Xander caught it out of the air.

"It’ll work," he said, and snapped the top open. The scent of pineapple and coconut filled the air, smelling edible, not chemical. Spike tried to peer over his shoulder.

"You wanted to smell like a fruit salad?"

"Not so much. Taste though...yeah."

"Taste--" Spike said, unthinking, and then cried out gutterally, as Xander licked down his spine, pushing slick hands, slick fingertips, between the globes of his ass. He arched against the touch, Xander using his knees now to move his legs farther apart. And then Xander leaned in, the feel of his hot breath maddening over such sensitive areas. Just the tip of his tongue grazed down the split, and it was enough to pull a moan from Spike, long, ardent, drawn-out.

"Fuck," Xander said, breathless. "God, you taste good."

"My new tropical drink arse?" Spike said, wriggling. He stopped when Xander leaned in again, lapping at him.

"Fuck no," Xander said, pulling back. "*You*, man. Just...*you*."

Oh. *Oh*. Bloody hell. Xander leaned in again, licking at him, *probing* now, tongue where he’d never thought it could be, never thought he’d want someone’s tongue, and proceeded to turn him inside-out with little licks, little bites, deep, thrusting pushes against his ass. One hand curled around Spike’s hip, holding him up when he tried to thrust against the bedsheets, and Spike was too far gone to do more than whimper in near-pain.

"Shh," Xan said, breath like warm steam against him. "I’ve got you. Not much longer now..." He pulled back enough to stroke around the pucker with his other hand, pushing in fingertip by fingertip. He leaned in, licking the flesh and his fingers both, and Spike groaned aloud. Every muscle Spike owned had started trembling but one, and that one felt like someone’d welded a bar of cold-cast steel to his frame. He heard his voice saying something, couldn’t even make it out, there was a roaring in his head. Even his eyesight had gone hazy. Xander...*owned* him. And wasn’t that a terrifying thought?

More fingers, feeling so full now, and Xander still licking, licking, pouring on more of the tropical-scent lube and *humming* against him. His other hand snaking back to push *those* fingers into him, and Spike hearing himself screaming now, screaming, pounding the bed in frustration and want and desire and frustration, did he say frustration, and--

"Shh," Xander said again. "It’s okay."

"Bloody *hell* it is--"

Xander breathed out, swallowing. "Oh, man. Oh, fuck."

Spike turned his head, eyes blurring, staring at Xander’s blurry nude form. "What?"

"I could...Fuck, a little more work, I could push my whole hand in here..."

"*AH*--!" Spike seized his cock, gripping hard around the base, breathing as if he’d still been alive, and run the last thirty miles dead out.

"*Warn* a man before you say things like that! *Bloody* hell!"

"Sorry. Sorry. It’s just--"

Swallowing, Xander pulled his hands away, pulled his fingers out, and carefully turned Spike over, laying him flat on the bed.

"I just...I want so much. I want to *do* so much. Maybe too much."

"Wouldn’t be too much," Spike gasped. "Never be too much."

"Yeah, you say that *now*..."

Even as they spoke, though, Spike felt the tension in Xander. His legs were lifted, parted, and he watched, open-mouthed, as Xander guided himself in, pushing into him. It was slow, it was too fast, it was forever, it was over too fucking soon, Xander in as far as he could go and holding, just holding, breathing carefully, eyes closed for a moment.

"You’re in, love."

"Yeah. I’m in."

"Now what?"

Xander bent his head, snickering. "Well. We could play a few hands of poker...?"

Spike shook his head. Then he grinned, leaning up on his elbows.

"Well, you know. Waitin’ for it. Gettin’ bored, is all."

"Bored?" Xander said, and his head came up. His eyes were nearly black now, and Spike froze. He hadn’t ever seen that expression on Xan’s face, and he’d been watching him for a good five years now, maybe, off and on. That...*intense*...look, almost *angry* look...and Xander was looking it at him.

And then he grinned. "Can’t have you *bored*," he said, in a distinctly challenging voice, and Spike swallowed, staring at him. "That would be...*wrong*."

Sliding his hands up to Spike’s ankles, he took each one in a firm grip, and pulled almost entirely out. He cocked his head, still grinning in that unsettling way, and thrust inside. Fast. Faster. In and out, more and more, harder, *harder*, until Spike was screaming again, and he didn’t even know for what. Those black eyes, not Xander’s eyes, burning into him, and Xander changed his angle, tilting just a little, and Spike arched, throwing his head back. Oh, yes, *right* there yes, right there *yes yes yes*--

Xander bit him.

Didn’t bite through, didn’t even really do more than pinch the skin, but Xander leaned down, biting along Spike’s corded neck, and that was all it took for Spike to splatter come all over himself, all over Xander, probably over the entire room, the way it felt. And while he was struggling to pull his brain together, kill the shivering through his limbs, Xander picked up speed, just that *little* bit more, and groaned his name, over and over. Picked up his legs, wrapping them around his waist, and fell on him, thrusting, breathing like a bellows, panting against him. Spike was all over Xander sweat and Xander scent and he found he didn’t mind a bit.

One final thrust was all it took, and Xander came inside him, scalding jet of fluid, *fuck*, he might actually have internal burns from it...and he didn’t care about that, either. He wrapped possessive arms around Xander, pulling him down, kissing his face, kissing his throat, for once in his miserable new existence *thanking* the chip that wouldn’t allow him to tear that sweet throat apart...and finally, finally, opening his eyes.

Xander. Sweet chocolate-brown Xander eyes. Staring down at him with enough concern to break his still heart.

"What?" he asked. Softly.

"Sorry," Xander said, Xander whispered.

"For what?"

"Wanted it to...last longer." He shrugged, a move made infinitely more complex by being wrapped in Spike’s arms.

"Ah, love, it’s never as long as you want. Fact of life, innit?"

Xander nodded, miserably, hanging his head.

"For what it’s worth..."

Xander looked up.

"I’m anythin’ but disappointed."

Xander blinked. Thought it through. Trucked it back again to think it through a second time.

"Oh," he said, but his smile more than made up for it. Spike kissed him for it, just to feel that smile against his lips. Because some things were worth it, he thought. Getting fucked by the whelp, now...unexpected, but definitely one of his better ideas. Oh, yes. He nodded to himself, hands moving over Xander’s warm, warm skin. *Oh*, yes. Worth a bit of turning over, yeah? Brought good things, hadn’t it?

He leaned up, licking at the boy’s lips, feeling them curl again into another smile. Beautiful.

"Besides," he drawled, speaking only a hairsbreadth from kissing him again. "You don’t think we’re done yet, do you?"

Feeling Xander shudder in his arms...*priceless*.


END
*****************
Kelandris the Mad
if I didn’t love you would you make me feel so


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