Chocolatey Goodness

Part 12: Dark Hours

rated R

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There'd been one of those silly dreams. You couldn't call it a nightmare. He was standing in front of April Fools. The prom shop in Sunnydale, and in the window there'd been Buffy, dressed in pink taffeta, leaning on the left edge of the frame, and Angel in a tux, looking extra-buff, with that tiny smirk on his face that wasn't a real honest Spike smirk, it was just Angel's sneaky little I-know-something-you-don't-know face. I'm so much better than you at everything, Xander Harris, and I've been everywhere you've been or wanted to be, if it was worth going there, and I was there first. Hey, even Anya thinks I'm large and glowery.

And right in the middle, there'd been Spike. In a tux, too, and one eyebrow raised, the one with the scar, and that smug little smile on his face, and Xander was almost sure this was gonna turn into one of those good dreams, the ones he had sometimes and he'd wake up with a hard-on. Last time it had happened, there'd been suddenly Spike's hand on it, and a low whisper in his ear of 'Somebody's awake, now, isn't he?' If Buffy and Angel would just leave, he might walk in that door andUntil Spike pulled off his tux jacket, slipped off his suspenders, and dropped his pants, in the middle of the April Fools display window, and people started lining up outside to see. Willow, and Tara, and Giles, and Jonathan, and Mrs. Thompson, his mom's bridge partner…

Xander had frowned and shook and blinked and woken up and even laughed a little, and burrowed deeper into the cushions and drifted and then it hit.

*****

He's running. He's always running. Slap, slap, Reeboks or Keds or Thom McCann shoes with the little velcro straps when he couldn't quite get down the art of knot tying, slap, slap on pavement or sand or gravel. Louder than the sound of his own heart, almost louder than the sound of whatever is or isn't following him. From where, from what, oh, that changes. Sometimes it's from clowns or sharks with knives or his history class laughing, and he's in his underwear again, and those are simple to get away from. Run to awake and then stop. Laugh and breathe and go back to sleep.

Sometimes, though, it's from the kitchen, and the sound of smack and thud and thud and thud down eleven steps exactly and the sickening crack against the concrete floor below, the crack that never really came, but it could've, and him just standing there, watching. Watching. Sometimes it's from something big and dark and nameless that wants to eat the whole world, and him first. He's met too many of those to be afraid anymore. Not the running dream terror kind of afraid. He just stops and turns around and lets it wash over him, and wakes silent and a little more knowing.

Sometimes it's from some deserted building, some circle of stones, some piece of desert or beach, doesn't matter, and they're lying there, dead all around him. Willow, Giles, Buffy with a stake in her hand and her hair falling into her face, dead blue-green eyes staring at him, others. The ones that change. Oz, Cordy, Tara… Anya… Even Angel, he's seen sometimes, though Angel's not his friend, he doesn't give a damn for Angel, he hates Angel. And they're dead because they counted on him, and he just stood there. Watching. Because he's the only one who can't do anything, no brilliant intellect, no witchy stuff, no Slayer strength. Not a werewolf, not a vampire, not even Cordy who sees things now, just him. Just Xander and he's the last one standing, because he's nothing special, and there's nothing he can do, and he runs, from his dead friends. Slap, slap, scuff, slap.

Sometimes it's from a scuzzy little motel room, and it's the second time he's been there, and there's still stars swimming in front of his eyes, little gold eye-bugs and his throat hurts and he's safe, because Angel is standing in the door, so why is he running? But he is, he's running past Angel who should never have to save him from something this humiliating, and she was going to do it, her hands on his throat and half of him welcomed it when he screamed in his head, and half said no, nononono no vanillnokinksnochocolate pleaseIjustwantedtotalk and she was gonna do the other thing, too. The one where killing him was the nice part, she was gonna take what he gave her for free the first time, and he wasn't sure if it was before or after she'd killed him or if he even cared, and he can still hear her laughing at him as his feet slap slap slap down the street.

Sometimes, and he runs and he shivers in the pines where the sun never shines…it's this one. Slap, slap, slap on the sidewalk and the Bronze is behind him, unlit and silent, so why can he hear the music in his veins as he's running? never forget never forget never forget you… I don't dream at all… It's dark and it's over his shoulder and it's not the place he goes in all the time without a blink and with a smile and his friends on his arms. It's another place, the one that only lives in here, in his head. How he can walk back in when he wakes… because it's another place. Inside, if he turns around, it's there, but he won't, because he's running. Slap, slap, slap on the road, past Willow and Buffy, though he didn't really run, he walked and they talked and nothing will ever be the same again and somehow he got home, though he doesn't really remember whose bed he slept in or why he could taste waffles and maple syrup on his lips in the morning when his mother never cooks.

It's dark and he's running, from what, he knows but to what or who he's never quite sure. He's hot, sweat's dripping off him, his pants are dirty, wrinkled, his shoes are scuffed and he can hear that music behind him now, and he's running as fast as he can. It's Brookside Park in front of him, with caves up behind it that he's not supposed to go in, and the sandbox and the little bugs and horses on springs, and the swings. He's running to the swings, because if he can just swing high enough, it can't get him, what was back there can't find him, he won't have to watch. A Watcher scoffs at gravity. He jumps over the corner of the sandbox, jumps high because sharks live in there, it's the ocean, they used to play that way, Xander and Willow and nononono we don't say that name here when we're running for the swings but it's too late and it's right behind him and there's somebody on the swings. No empty one for Xander, and the sun comes out and he can see, though the dark is still behind him, burning the music down his back.

He's running, slap, slap, slap over the crunch gravel scuff soft grass, and there's the ones in the swings. The one in tweed with the soft gray-greenish eyes and the glasses who tilts his head and says "Come here, it's okay" but the words don't carry over the music and Xander can only see the lips moving, and then there's the other one. The other one, who sneers at him once, and then smiles and it hurts, it hurts his chest and he can't breathe right and he can feel it behind him, a hand on his shoulder and if he turns… So he looks straight ahead and there's leather and tweed and blue eyes open and arms with the black leather on them open and he's running, running, reaching for and it has him and he's still reaching for

*****

"Spike…" he called out with a gasp of breath that should've woken Cordy, should've woken Angel across town, should've woken Buffy and Riley in Santa Barbara, but somehow it didn't, though it at least woke Xander, and he reached out for Spike… who wasn't there. One hand hit something soft and firm that definitely wasn't Spike, the other hit nothing, and dropped back down to Xander's leg. Blinking, still breathing hard, he let his eyes adjust to the almost total darkness in the room… he wasn't in the basement. No red LED numbers on the clock radio, no creaky bedsprings, no Spike wrapped around him sleeping the sleep of the undead.

Face pressed up against the back of Cordy's couch and a pillow over his head… And that would explain the total darkness, moron. He was in L.A. Xander wiped at his forehead with his left hand, which was trapped between him and the sofa back. Covered with sweat, and dripping it all over Cordelia's nice furniture. Just that dream. One of the nightmares, and he knew which one, though the final images were fading, as they always did. He was used to it, though it hadn't come back since Spike had shared his bed.

Anya… Anya couldn't handle them; they'd freaked her out. She said she couldn't find him when he was asleep, and that made as much sense as anything that he'd been dreaming about, but he'd never found any words to say back to her on the subject. Hey, I'm fucked up. You're sleeping with me. What exactly does that make you? Yeah, like that wouldn't have started the Anyafight to end all Anyafights.

Funny, that he didn't have nightmares every night, just some, unless he was with Anya. Then, without fail… There'd been sex, and it was damn fine sex, enough to wear him out sometimes, like Anya was trying to make up for losing eleven hundred years in an immortal body by pushing her little human one to the limits, and taking him with her. Then they'd fallen asleep, Anya snuggled up to him, and it had felt nice, to have somebody there, but somewhere in the night, he'd roll away, and he'd get lost in one of those dreams. Running. Running. The dark started to close in on him now, and he forced his eyes open. Cordy's place. Central air, or she had some kind of deal going on with Phantom Dennis where he did the Sixth Sense thing, and she saved on heating and cooling bills. Xander shouldn't have been sweating, but he was, and cold air hit his back, and suddenly he was shivering.

Breathe, Xander. Just breathe. Spike's in a chair four feet away from you, and you're… Not speaking to him. Right. Because he… Because he dropped his damn jeans for Angel, to find out what the stupid tattoo was. Christ, Spike, it's Tigger. Get over it. Christ, Xander, you knew he'd do it. Get over it. You're sweaty and scared and Spike's four feet away from you and it's okay. It's dark and nobody can see you if you go over to the evil guy and ask if you can cuddle.

But he didn't. Didn't pull the pillow off his head and roll over to see if Spike was asleep or watching him, or staring out the window. Because the evil guy would see him if he went over there and asked if he could cuddle, and he was supposed to be a man, dammit. Of course, being mad about something as stupid as Spike mooning Angel and flashing Cordy, and then Spike not knowing why Xander was mad… It definitely screamed Arnold Schwarzeneggar at the top of its lungs, didn't it. Possibly Peewee Herman. More likely Jack, from 'Will and Grace.' Or Grace, see above. I am woman, hear me sulk.

So Xander just shoved his head further under the pillow, soaked with sweat already, and tried to breathe. Tried to listen to his own heart beat slower as the dream faded away into that half-real place where that dream always went, until he couldn't remember much more than running, and what he was running from. Something that, if he'd turned around, would've looked familiar, like somebody he knew a long time ago, and familiar, because it would've looked just a little like Spike.

You're dating a demon, by the way, Xander… his brain gnawed at him. Yeah, he knew. Sometimes this little voice came up in the middle of the night even with Spike there, holding him. It wasn't a dream; he was wide awake and he knew he was crazy. He killed two things for you today, Xander. Or maybe it was yesterday. Two things that wore jeans and drove a pickup truck, and it was because one of them put his hand on you. Sure, but… Buffy kills things, he argued back,and that's okay, and anyway he killed them 'cause he likes to kill things. Whether they walk on two legs doesn't matter. Which of course made everything alright. Because Spike wouldn't kill… oh, say, Willow, or Giles, or Buffy, or Cordy, if the chips were down, so to speak. Would he?

If Spike was holding him, he could shove that voice away, but Spike wasn't holding him. Smaller. If he could curl up smaller, he could shut that voice up. He was thirsty, and he wanted a drink of water, or Pepsi, and Cordy had Pepsi in the fridge. Not diet, but the real thing. Maybe for Wesley. But Xander wasn't about to get up and get a cold Pepsi, wasn't about to taste cool sugar sweet caffeine sliding down his throat, because then he'd have to look at Spike, and Spike wasn't holding him, and Spike always held him. Always when two weeks was suddenly a lifetime and who was Anya again? That girl he had to call in the morning to see if she was still alive, because he'd forgotten there was somebody before Spike. Who wasn't holding him.

Why would something that lived, or existed, anyway, to kill, want to hold him? Fuck him, maybe, if Spike was bored, insult him, sure, play with his head as he'd accused one Sunday morning all of twelve days ago. But why would a demon, who couldn't do the luuurve thing, really, 'cause he had no soul, but beautiful, so damn beautiful, and no wonder 'cause demons are just fallen angels… Why would something that had drunk the blood of a thousand people just like Xander… hold him? Tickle him? Smooth his hair and feed him pudding and spank him if he asked nicely for it and almost rock him to sleep that one night when he'd asked for too much? Whywhywhywhywhywhy… Why did he trust Spike, just because Spike said he could? Why?

He couldn't breathe, and it had to be just the pillow on top of him, the heat, so finally, finally, Xander shoved the pillow over just a little, off the front of his face, and let in a blast of cool air. He brought his right hand, the cold one, the one that had been resting on his jeans, to his face-- and smelled chocolate. Unclasping the fist he'd made in his sleep, Xander slowly uncurled fingers that were so tight they actually creaked when they unbent. White chocolate, in a scratchy metal wrapper against his lips. He hadn't gone to sleep with candy in his hand, with a Hershey's Hug wrapped in his fingers. Somebody had put it there. He still couldn't breathe, and he was still shivering from the cold on his sweat-drenched back.

Xander shoved the pillow off, heard it hit the sheet that he'd kicked off with a soft thuf sound, and then he could hear. Quiet shush of the central air blower coming from the vent, and Spike, talking to somebody, in the chair by the window. Xander turned to face him, and there was a little light, just a little streetlight glare coming in the blinds that he supposed Spike had closed after Xander had fallen asleep. It turned Spike in the chair into a silver shadow of a sharp face, eyes closed, slumped down and talking to nobody.

"Fucking bitch… you made him go…" Spike muttered, and his voice was full of nastiness-- no, not nasty. Nasty meant Spike could control himself. This was fire and poison, and the torn edge of a sob, almost. Though Spike couldn't cry, could he? "Again. You made 'im leave again! Hate you… Shh… pet, s'alright, I'll take care of you. I'll… I'll protect you, luv. S'my name, y'know. Means… Dru? Pet, don't hide from me…"

No mention of his name, just the ghosts of Spike's past, and Xander wondered why it didn't matter. It was the sound of that voice, low and so obviously a man's voice, but almost kidlike, that was freezing Xander there on the couch. Not just the words.

"Hell, where's everybody gone? Don't…" and it was down to a whisper now, so soft that Xander had to strain to hear it. "Don't leave me…"

Lost, and it chilled Xander more than the air in the room, more than the fact that he wasn't afraid of ghosts anymore, more than the idea of Drusilla sinking her fangs into his neck had, on Valentine's Day, 1998. Spike couldn't be lost. He was the biggest, baddest, dickheadedest monster around, and if Spike was lost… If Spike's lost, how will he ever find me? He drew in a ragged breath of his own, he couldn't help it. You had to breathe sometimes, if you hadn't hit the obituaries yet.

"Xander?" And he thought he'd woken Spike up… but the eyes were still closed, shut even tighter now, and it was his name, his name on Spike's lips, in Spike's voice. In Spike's sleep. In Spike's nightmares. "Where've you gone, luv? Xander?"

And Xander tumbled off the couch, bare toes digging into the sheet on the floor, scrambling for the chair. Crawling up, his hands on Spike's knees, creak of that fake leather chair, hands on Spike's shoulders, softly shaking the vampire awake. Anything, anything not to hear it like that, that voice, that lost place. If he couldn't find Spike…

"Spike, wake up," he choked out. "Wake up."

A little cough, a shake of Spike's head, and white fingers reaching for Spike's forehead, to rub at sweat that hadn't formed there. As if Spike had nightmares long enough ago that he still expected his body to react to them the way a human's would. Then an arm snaked out and pulled Xander down to Spike's lap.

"S'matter, pet? Bad dream?" And like, that, Spike was awake. Boom. The voice Xander knew. Solid, in control, maybe a little amused at him.

"No…" he lied, though it had been, the worst of them, but that wasn't what sent him over here, was it. "You. You were." He wasn't speaking in complete sentences, of course. English as a first language had never been his strongest class. Or French, or math, or… "You were having a nightmare."

Spike's eyes were open, glinting a little in the tiny stripes of streetlamp light across his face. "Nah, not me. I don't have bad dreams, kid. I'm a vampire."

"Liar…" Xander said softly, laying his head down against Spike's shoulder. "You told me yourself. You had one that first morning, after we… after we did it."

Spike chuckled. "Did it? I'm sorry, how many candles on your last birthday cake? Seven? Eight?" But he found Xander's right hand, and… "Erm. Chocolate. Squished chocolate. Nummy. For me?"

"From you, right?" Spike licked the melted chocolate off Xander's fingers, not answering.

"Fine, then," Xander added after a bit, when the feeling of Spike's tongue on his fingers was replaced by Spike just holding his hand, and there was still no answer. "After we made love."

Oh, and there was a really quiet quietness. Is Xander allowed to use that girly phrase, ladies and gentlemen? Without saying 'lur-ur-ur-urve' or snooting it out in a fake French accent? To Spike, whose favorite word for it is 'shag', like it was carpet-laying, or something?

Apparently so, or maybe Spike was just distracted, because Spike's other hand was around Xander's back, pressing against the wetness of his sweatshirt, and Spike rubbed circles there. Frowned, and when Spike frowned, you could see it even in tiny silver slivers of light.

"No bad dreams, eh? I bite 'em, you stake 'em? Liarliarliar…" Spike whispered.

"I didn't," Xander lied again, and Spike brought a finger to Xander's lips.

"I'm evil. I'm allowed. You're a White Hat; you're not s'posed to lie."

Xander bit at that finger lightly. "White hats give me hat-head. When've you ever seen me in a hat?"

"Pizza delivery. And it did. Y'looked like a Shi Tzu with an electric line up its arse." Spike ruffled Xander's hair, which really didn't want to ruffle, soaked with sweat as it was.

"And thank you for that image, which I'll carry with me to my grave…"

Still cold and hot. Still shivering, even in Spike's arms. Still couldn't breathe right. Xander raised his head up, lifted his mouth for a kiss, hoping it was there and waiting for him, and it was. Spike bent his head and their lips met, and Spike was soft and slow, but Xander was sucking away as if he could draw Spike into himself if he tried hard enough, his tongue exploring every space inside Spike's mouth, chocolate-flavored again. It was hot and cold and it made him want to do something, but he wasn't sure what, and there was nothing he'd be willing to do in Cordy's living room, anyway, and he broke away. Put his head down again. Whywhywhywhywhy Spike? Why are you so fucking nice to me? Why do I want you to be? Why do I care? Do you wanna get a cat? Xander wondered if Spike knew any of the answers, but he wasn't about to ask. Wasn't gonna ask.

Spike reached a hand down, stroking Xander's thigh. Slow and soft and easy, and… yeah, that hand was creeping there… and Xander squirmed a little, wanting it but not, wanting the feel of Spike inside him, him inside Spike, any of the touching of places that had come to feel so good so fast… And knowing it wasn't what he needed, somehow.

"Spike, no…" and he tried hard not to make it come out as a whine, as a little kid's voice. "Just… no. Not here, and…"

"What, then? And…" Spike half-mocked. "And I thought you weren't speakin' to me."

Oh yeah. That little thing. "I'm not. This is just another bad dream," Xander said with something like a laugh.

"Thought so," Spike answered, moving the hand on Xander's back down, just a little lower. Traveling steadily south.

"No!" Xander said, louder than he should've, but there was no noise from behind Cordy's closed bedroom door, and nothing thrown at them by her pet invisible ghost, so maybe not. "No, you… and I realize I'm sounding a little bit Dr. Laura here, but you can't fix everything with sex."

And he meant the bad dreams, but Spike took it otherwise, Xander guessed, because there was that frown again, and something of that lost voice in a sigh that should never have come out of Spike's lips, and Xander couldn't take it.

"I'm sorry," he said, way too desperately, and was there an echo in here, or did Spike just say the same thing, same time, like a bad duet of 'You May Be Right' screamed out at the top of their lungs in a moving car?

"You?" Spike asked, turning Xander's face up, forcing him to look right into those eyes that held his own reflection, though Xander's eyes would nevernevernever show Spike. "What the hell're you sorry for?" And Xander broke away from that touch, and buried his face against Spike's t-shirt, because… He wasn't supposed to do it. He wasn't supposed to do it, and Spike was never supposed to see it, but why was Spike sorry? Why did he reach out for Spike, for the bad guy, for the smartass who made all their lives miserable, and why did Spike have him here in cool, strong arms, whywhywhywhywhy and

Spike's lips against the top of his head, and "Boy, why are you crying?"

And even I know that one, dumb Zeppo Xander, 'cause you can't grow up with Willow Rosenberg reading you bedtime stories since you were three and not know that one. And who's Peter freakin' Pan here, huh, Spike, who's never gonna grow up?

"Fuckin'…shadow's come off, an… can't stick it on with soap…" he choked out. Wasn't that the right answer? Were they playing Tag-line? He couldn't stop. It didn't make any sense, not that anything in his life did, really, Hellmouth, Buffy, Anya, Spike… but he couldn't stop, and he was shaking into Spike's chest, and geez, you'd think at least this would make Spike give it up and laugh at him, but no.

"Yeah, lost boy, got that bit. Ten out of ten. Why're you crying, Xander? What'd I do?" Spike still thought it was about the tattoo, about Angel, about…what?

"Nothin'. You didn't…" And he couldn't even talk anymore, just leaned his head against Spike and sobbed, as quietly as he could. Don't wake up Cordy, she'll see us, and there'll be eews, and possible staking… Getting Spike's t-shirt as wet and salty as the back of his own sweatshirt.

"Then what's wrong, pet? Tell me. Tell me an' I'll make it better, whatever it bloody is."

Nononono, Spike wasn't supposed to say shit like that, Spike was supposed to laugh, or smirk, or light up one of those menthol cigarettes that would smell so good right about now, but he wasn't supposed to say that.

"What's the matter? Aw, please Xander, just soddin' tell me," Spike pleaded, his arms tight, way too tight around Xander, and finally Xander drew in a hiccupping sob, and got a breath, for a second.

"I don't know, okay? I just don't…know." But he did. He did, and as Spike laid the side of his face against the top of Xander's head, resting there, rocking him, really rocking him this time, he just tried not to lose every ounce of fluid in his body, and cried. Because… because it was Spike, and…

And I love you, dammit. I love you, and I don't know why, and I don't know what it means…and I'm scared. And Spike just held him there, shushshushshushing at him, like he'd done this with crazy Dru, maybe, so he was used to it, slowly rocking back and forth, softly creaking the chair, never letting go.

*****

You can only cry for so long, before your throat starts to hurt, and your head starts to hurt, and you have to stop so you don't get too much snot on Spike's shirt, though it was really too late for that last one. Xander drew in a breath, and it was slow, and came kind of clear, and didn't break in the middle. And let's throw caution to the winds and try another, folks… And the next one worked the way lungs were supposed to work, too.

Spike didn't let go, but he slowed down his movements back and forth. Just a tiny little rock, just the sounds of Spike kissing him on the ear for a minute.

"Better, luv?"

It hurt to swallow, Xander found out pretty quickly, but it was that or try to talk with that lovely crying-phlegm in his throat.

"Yeah…" Which maybe Spike could hear, with his super-bat-hearing, or something, but it didn't sound very loud to Xander.

Spike turned Xander's face up again. Oh… now… no, don't do that, don't make me look at you… Long fingers, with the suddenly blunt ends, with the silver punky heavy-metal rings, traced tear-tracks up and own his face, for a long time.

"What're you doing?" Xander asked, forcing out enough air for that. His chest still hurt, for some reason, and it tickled when Spike's fingers traced over his eyelashes.

"Remembering…" Spike answered, his voice coming as if from far away, and then he was all there, in a snap of a finger's time. "Shh, luv, I've got you."

The vampire shifted Xander a little, so he was laying completely against Spike's shoulder, his legs across Spike's lap, and the movement set off another ragged indrawn breath, like maybe he could cry some more? Oh, God, he hoped not. Enough was enough.

Spike heard it too. "What can I do?"

"Drink from me." He wanted it, wanted that closeness he'd felt when Spike had done it that one other time, just a little bit, like he was part of Spike. Needed it.

"Xander, that's not a great idea. Not in the lion's den, and you're not exactly… I don't need it, ducks. Really."

Xander shook his head. "I.. for me. I need it."

His lover looked at him. Silver shadows. So fucking beautiful, so fucking crazy strange. "You? You need it?"

"Mm-hmm. Please." Silence. "Please?"

Spike put his hands on Xander's chest, loosening his hold. "You… need me to drink from you."

"Yes, Spike!" God, what did it take, a big sign on his forehead that said 'Victim, get your victim here' ? Spike never had given him a straight answer when he asked if there was one already there, a million years ago in the basement.

He could've sworn he heard Spike gulp. One of those 'My adam's apple is suddenly too big for my throat' gulps. The kind you get when you've been crying for way too long, but Spike wasn't crying, Spike couldn't possibly cry, and his face was dry. His face was changing, into that monster face that really wasn't scary at all. Not on Spike, though somewhere back in the bad place Xander had been when he was sleeping, it was scary on somebody else.

Xander turned up his neck. Just like that. How fast do you learn to offer yourself up to something dangerous? Two weeks? How fast do you come to believe it's not dangerous at all, except to your heart? Two weeks? Months? Years? And kisses, warm against his skin, that chin with the stubborn jaw digging into his collarbone. When did he start to hear what Spike heard, the thump-rush-hiss of blood in his own veins? Sharp, sharpsharpsharp teeth. Sharks live here. Soft… so soft, so slow into his skin, just like needles, though he'd never liked needles, but this was fiery little cold-hot-sweetsweetsweet inside him. And then Spike sucking at him. Slow, slow as hot fudge sauce pouring out of a jar, and Xander lay there, and all he could think, all he could feel, was

Heneedsmeheneedsmeheneedsmeheneedsmeheneedsme…I love him. Love Spike, and at least… he needs me. And he drifted, floating, in Spike's arms. Warm and the --strange-- safest he'd ever been. Drifted…

*****

"No, you don't… Xander, wake up. Wake up!" Spike's voice was calling him out of somewhere nice, but it was Spike's voice, after all and maybe wherever Spike was it was nice too… Xander blinked, looked up into frightened blue eyes.

The lamp by the chair was on, casting a dim gold glow over the room that had been silver before. Spike was wearing his human face, and it was… mmmm, nice to look at. Everything was…nice…

"Xander, how many fingers am I holdin' up?"

Fingers? Spike was holding up fingers? Hmm… One… two… was that three, or was there a little pink worm floating in the air between Spike's fingers, and Spike was flipping him the British bird?

"Um… three?" Spike shook his head.

"Wrong answer. Shit. Fuck. Xander, what'd you eat today?"

Um… Geez, if he'd known there was gonna be a quiz, he would've taken better notes. Blink. Blink. Maybe if he just got a little sleep, he remember…

Snap! In his face, and Spike growling. Human growl. "No you don't, I said. You can't go to sleep, Xander. Talk to me. What'd you have to eat?"

"I don't know… sucker. All that Cadbury's stuff. Moon Pie. Big dinner at the diner… Nothin' could be finer…" What, Spike was the only one allowed to be a poet? "Pie. Lots of pie. Hugs…" He grinned faintly, and gave Spike a half-hearted hug. Well, it was all-hearted, really, but his arms didn't seem to be working right.

"Little bit of your blood, when we were… y'know… makin' lur-uurve…" He was sure there was something else. "Oh yeah. Pie. Lotsa pie."

"You said that already," Spike said, and he didn't sound any less worried.

"I like to repeat myself. It makes it seem like I have something memorable to say," Xander said seriously.

Spike looked at Xander and seemed like he wanted to smile, but maybe it was just gas? No, that was for babies, not vampires who didn't even have working digestive systems. And just where did all that people-food go, anyway? Poof? Maybe that was where Spike got all his extra energy. Straight down the throat and into the blood. The sneaky-snuck somebody else's blood. Do not pass Go, do not go through the icky human intestinal tract, and neither shall ye say 'look out kidneys, here it comes…'

"Hey Mom, guess what, I'm gay…" popped out of his mouth, and Spike's eyes almost crossed.

"What was that?"

"Non-sequiter tennis. Willow and I used to play it on the bus on the way to grade school. We were the only two kids in second grade who knew what a non-sequiter was, I'll tell you that. Course, I just lost, 'cause I explained it to you."

Spike lifted him up and set him down on the chair, standing over him.

"You're babbling. "

"Yeah, well, just call me Alexander…"

"You're really babbling. Sit there, and don't fall asleep. Hell, all that ghost-food from the diner wasn't real. All you've had to eat today is chocolate and soda, an' that's long gone. I'm such a bloody moron," Spike said, smacking himself on the forehead. He disappeared into Cordy's kitchen, but he was back in a few seconds. Could've been a few hours, actually, since Xander was just kind of sitting in the chair staring at the wall. Nice print of… was that cows dancing? Maybe Spike had been holding up two fingers, after all.

"Here…" and Spike was back at his side, holding a cold can of something to his lips. "Drink this. You're prob'ly completely dehydrated. Humans." Mutter mutter. What was that? "Humans… never did this with a human before…"

"You never… what," asked Xander, his mouth full of Pepsi, and suddenly he needed to drink and drink and drink because yeah, there was nothing left in his body but dry salt. Can drained, and… Oops, we made a noise that vampires don't usually make, because we just drained an entire can of carbonated something and that means we burp. Humans do that. Heck, maybe vampires do that too, when they've just had a nice juicy human and they've drained him in three seconds.

"This one too…" and there was another, something cold, in a glass this time. Orange juice, yay healthy Cordy. Ho-ho's? Do I get Ho-ho's, too? I just donated blood, it's only fair, it's traditional… He drank it, Spike holding it too, though really, he could've held it himself. He could focus on the print on the wall now, and it was something with ballet dancers, Degas or something like that, and Spike was holding up an empty glass.

"You never what with a human?" Xander asked again, a lot more coherently, as Spike handed him something soft, that smelled really good. No Ho-ho's in Cordy's place, but what, chewy chocolate chip granola bar? Oh yeah, sooo much more healthy. Just 'cause it's got oatmeal in it…

Something Spike had never done? Couldn't be drinking, draining, he'd done that a million, zillion times.

"Drunk from a human with their permission, brat. When I wasn't tryin' to kill 'em." Spike wiped the sweaty hair off Xander's forehead, crouching down next to the chair.

"Just me?" Just him? Nobody but Xander had ever given Spike anything of his own free will?

Spike set the empty glass on the little table next to the couch, the one with the bowl of candy on it that you could reach even from the chair. Then he picked Xander up again. Hurf… granola crumbs on Cordy's floor, and wouldn't she be overjoyed. And how did Spike just… swoop and do that? He's shorter than me, dammit. Unfair. Vampire… so-and-so…

The shortish dead guy who could pick him up and carry him like a baby, or maybe like Scarlet O' Hara, moved over to the couch and sat Xander upright at one end, and Xander… whimpered, in spite of himself. He was awake, and he was… more or less conscious, and he knew what a damn stupid thing he'd just done. Giving blood on an empty stomach. But he didn't want to go back to sleep again with Spike in the chair, didn't want to fall back into that place, wanted… wanted Spike's arms around him.

"You can't sleep in that chair…" he said logically. 'You'll get fried when the sun comes up." Spike smiled at him.

"That's what designer mini-blinds are for. But I'm not gonna sleep in the chair." And Spike sat down at the end of the couch with the pillow, leaned back, and drew Xander back against him. Arms close around him. Safe. Nuzzled his neck, and Xander giggled. The light was still on, and that was good too.

"You okay now?" Spike asked, and maybe he was talking about whether Xander was gonna slip into a coma or maybe he was talking about whether Xander was gonna slip into the nuthouse and start crying all over him again, but either way, yeah. Xander was more or less okay. Scared, shaky, and wondering what the hell he was going to do about the fact that he was in love with… Spike… oh yeah. That. Maybe not so okay. He let his head fall back against Spike, and lied again. Half-lied.

"Uh-huh. Sorry I scared you."

"You're sorry? Hey, what the hell were you sorry about in the first place?" Spike wrapped his legs in around Xander's, and they lay back against the pillow, just feeling the cool air.

"Sorry I brought you here. I didn't mean to…" He didn't mean to stick Spike in the middle of something that would tear him up inside, whether there was anything to be jealous about or not. Still mad at Spike about dropping his pants, though.

"S'okay. Me an' Angel… Can't say we're the best of friends, but I'm not gonna kill him. Really."

Killing him wasn't what Xander was worried about, but somehow with Spike's arms on him, Spike's face pressed against his, it didn't seem important right now.

"What're you sorry about?" Xander asked. Spike had said so. Said he was sorry. Maybe he'd figured out the whole tattoo thing after all. Spike ran one finger down the side of Xander's face. Cool. Cool on his skin, and it felt good.

"Sorry I just about sent you into low-blood-sugar-shock, f'r one thing."

"No, before that. Don't think you're gonna get out of it that easy."

"Oh. Er. Sorry for whatever it was I did that got you pissed off in the first place?" Spike was wheedling now. Meaning…

"You still have no idea, do you."

"Not a fuckin' clue. Wanna give me a hint? You speakin' to me now, by the way?"

"No, I don't wanna give you a hint, and yes, I'm speaking to you. And yes, I'm still pissed." He didn't feel all that pissed, but it was never a good idea to let Spike get away with something. Because next time… Xander was positive he could work up some righteous indignation in the morning. Assuming Spike woke up in time to stop Cordy seeing them together on the couch.

"And I suppose me just saying I'm sorry ain't gonna cut it?" Spike tried again.

"Nope."

"You could always… turn me over your knee and spank me…really hard, since I obviously did something unforgivable."

"Nice try. You wish."

"Really really hard? Cover girl's got a nice big hairbrush in 'er room."

"I'm so not spanking you with Cordy's hairbrush. That's beyond the city limits of wrong. You think she'd wanna brush her hair with something that's touched your ass?"

"You've touched my arse, and she gave you a bloody kiss goodnight. I didn't get a kiss goodnight."

"Good Night, Spike." And Xander gave him a kiss goodnight. It lasted a while.

"G'night, pet. Still pissed-off?"

"Yup. Don't worry. I'll think of something suitable. Good Night, Spike." Which meant another kiss, of course.

Silence, and Xander was almost asleep, almost sure he'd be safe from the running dreams, and..."It's maple wood…"

"Good Night, Spike." And since the precedent had been set, there was a kiss, where tongues played around a little, but Xander was awfully tired, and…

"I'll buy you one when we get home, Spike."

"I know," Spike said, petting his hair like he was a puppy-dog, or maybe a cat, though Spike was supposed to be the cat, and there it was, the … hmm… rumbling purr deep in Spike's chest, that sent Xander sleepward.

I love him… he thought helplessly as he fell back into that soft, low sound. God -- and I really mean God, if you're there -- I love him. What do I do?