Chocolatey Goodness

Part 8: Pillow-Talking

rated NC-17

__________________________

Spike was getting awfully bloody tired of missing Passions. Which was a bit sad, in its own way, since he'd started watching the thing to while away the boredom of being trapped in the Watcher's flat instead of out spreading mayhem. These days he kept sleeping through it, or shagging through it, and though the shagging was a much nicer entertainment, it still irked him that he was losing track of who was doing what to whom.

He'd tried to catch up today, and really made a concerted effort to pay attention, but his eyes had slowly unfocused, lids falling shut as he tried to blink away sleep, to no avail.

Behind those eyelids, east coast met west, and the towns of Sunnydale and Harmony merged into one bizarre suburban amalgam. Ethan Crane -- wait, something not right there -- was trying to choose between taking Buffy or Giles to the Prom, the fact that Giles still looked like a Fyarl demon apparently having no effect on the young man's dilemma. Spike was rooting for Giles, himself. Bugger needed a hobby, and the clean-cut Yank, village-idiot though he was, might just distract Rupert from his mid-life ain't-got-a-job moaning.

Charity, the little goody-witch, was afraid of some vision she'd had that the Hellmouth was going to open up again. Spike, suddenly in the action and dressed in a completely unfashionable copper's uniform, was trying to comfort her. He kept having to kick Timmy away, though, as the annoying little golem insisted on trying to bite him on the ankles. With a frustrated growl, he finally went game-face on the brat, who then faded into the woodwork with a cheshire-cat's grin.

The blonde bint ran off into the night, and when Spike followed, the sun rose on him. Didn't burn. Just stayed up there being all bright and cheery and...well, sunny. Glancing around the downtown streets, he noticed someone standing in front of the ruins of the bombed-out high school. Somebody in a leather duster, with bleached blonde hair, his thumbs curled over the buckle of his belt, a shit-eatin' grin on his smarmy-arse face. Damned fine-lookin' vampire. Spike shouted over to him: "Oi, then! Seen a girl, so high? Dark hair, answers to Faith? Or... No, Hope, I think?" His double flipped him the two-fingered salute, and lit up a fag, leaning on the dented bus-stop sign in front of the school.

"Here, you, just 'cos you've got my face doesn't mean you can slag me off..." Spike called out angrily at Spike, and crossed the street in a few quick strides. He narrowly escaped being hit by a beat-up white Citroen lurching along at breakneck speed, with Willow's little girlfriend in the passenger seat, and nobody driving. When he reached the front of the school, the other Spike offered him a puff on his cig, which uniformed Spike declined. "Second-hand smoke. Don't want to give the boy lung cancer..."

His double snorted at him. "So you've started fancying boys now, have you?" the other Spike sneered.

"Not boys.. A boy..." replied Spike defensively, thinking he'd had this conversation before, somewhere.

"Yes, that makes it alright, then. Still, it's all rather sick and disgusting, innit? You worrying about giving somebody lung cancer? Rip 'em out and clean 'em, if you're that concerned."

"Can't. Rip out his lungs, he'll know I love him, " Spike sighed.

"You're right, there. Might stake you or somethin'. Sure sucks to be you." The other Spike made his last comment in Buffy's whingey little voice, and winked. Blew a perfect smoke ring at Spike, which spread out and billowed into his face until he was coughing up a storm. By the time Spike's vision and his suddenly working lungs had cleared, his twin was wearing a hat. A beat-up fedora. But it wasn't the other Spike anymore, standing next to him. This bloke's leather coat was a jacket, not a duster, and he had the most amazing blue eyes. Which Spike was bloody well aware he possessed too, but these were attached to a rugged face and a chin you could chisel out of Mount effin' Rushmore with a shitload of dynamite and a cheerful heart.

"You'd get things done a lot easier if you'd stop listening to him so much," Indy commented, waving away a bit of residual smoke. "He's a complete moron."

Spike nodded, wondering if you really could bounce rocks off Professor Jones' chest. Sure as hell looked like it. "Yeah, but he's got a point. Sucks to be a vampire these days, if you've shacked up with a human. Even rent-free, there's still laundry to do."

"That would explain it, I guess," Indy commented, pointing down at Spike's clothes. Bleedin' short trousers and green Hawaiian shirt, and no duster to be seen. Which meant no cigs, just in case he changed his mind.

"Nah, these're his. Thought I burned 'em, but I guess he did the soddin' soul-restoration spell on 'em. Which would be fine, if they didn't keep goin' mad and murdering gypsies every time I wear 'em to bed." Spike plucked disgustedly at the nasty Banana Republic shirt.

Indy gave him a grin. "You make things so damn hard on yourself, don't you, Will... Head thicker than my Dad's. Isn't that your buddy over there?" He pointed to the magic shop across the street, where Giles, no longer a demon, was arguing heatedly on the pavement with Willy the Snitch and Julian Crane over whether it was going to be Valentine, Paul Revere, or Epitaph in the third race.

Spike shook his head. "S'my bloody father-in-law, innit. Not that he thinks I'm good enough for the boy." He turned back to Indy only to find that while the hat and the jacket and the coiled bullwhip were still right next to him, the toasted-honey eyes beneath the brim of that battered fedora belonged to Xander Harris. And the boy was smiling like only a great bloody idiot would, right at Spike.

"He won't mind, as long as you treat me right and don't hog the covers. He doesn't have any room to talk anyway." Xander reached out a leatherclad arm to touch Spike's chin with soft fingers. "Well? Aren't you gonna kiss me? That's the way these things usually start."

Spike moved closer to him, studying the shadows that the hat made on his face. Realizing that on this pavement, for some reason they were the same height. He leaned in to brush his lips against Xander's, putting his arms around his lover's waist, pressing up against leather and cotton and the warm smell of a human male. A specific human male. Only Xander smelled like this.

"I would court you with more grace, if I knew how," Spike murmured earnestly against the faintly stubbled jaw, before pressing his lips once more to Xander's still-blinding smile.

*****

"C...court me?" Xander stuttered as he gently shook his lover awake, stroking Spike's back, feeling the smooth, cool skin twitch under his fingers as Spike began to return from wherever he'd been. Court me? He's courting me? Help. What the hell does that mean? "When did you start courting me? Shouldn't there have been a summons or something?"

Spike rolled over, blinked blearily at him, and stretched his arms out to either side. Xander took the opportunity to pin Spike's left arm beneath him, and put his own on Spike's shoulder, so they lay facing each other, sort of hugging, sort of not.

"You're not s'posed to be here. You're at work. You have to be at work, 'cos the sun's up. You're a dream." Spike sounded very, very serious about this.

Xander looked at the sleepy vampire in his arms, and smiled. "Thanks, you're not so bad yourself. But no, real as real can be. If you prick me, do I not bleed? If you pinch me, do I not kick your helpless ass from here to Santa Barbara? Wake up, Spike."

He's so...human, when he's still half-asleep. He still dreams. He's just a...demon. A demon in blue jeans with no shirt, in my bed. Who looks like a man. Who…makes me want to hold him, sometimes, when he's not holding me. Who wants to court me with more grace.

Spike shook his head a few times, rubbed his eyes as best he could with the hand that wasn't pinned under Xander, and focused in on him.

"Right, I'm not dreaming, or we wouldn't be in this hellhole. Plaza Ritz, or at least a decent strip club. What're you doing home before six? You said six." Spike brushed stray dark hairs out of Xander's eyes, and an odd, kind of sympathetic look came over his sharply angled face. "You didn't get the sack, did you?"

Xander was less than happy with the widely-accepted fact that he couldn't hold a job for longer than a week without getting fired. He'd stayed at this one for at least three, and... well, it sucked, like all the others, but at least it had a reasonably low suckiness quotient compared to the dog-bathing place and the fish cannery.

"No, I didn't get fired. Didn't quit, either. Just took the afternoon off, so I could come home and annoy you." He moved his face in close and kissed Spike hard, grinding his lips against the vampire's with a pissed-off intensity that softened, somewhere in the middle of the kiss, to a low heat.

"It working?" he asked when they broke apart.

"I'll let you know," Spike assured him with a grin.

"What's this 'Court me with more grace' stuff? You going poetic on me is way into the red zone on the freaky-o-meter."

Spike groaned. "Said that out loud, did I? Don't worry, it's somebody else's poetry. Just slithered its way into my dream. Much like you."

Spike was dreaming about him? Xander laid his head down on the pillow, still staring at the somewhat-more-awake man in his bed. Shirtless, cool, extremely touchable man in his bed. He was finding it suddenly difficult to keep his hands to himself and have a plain old normal conversation about Spike's freaky dreams. His brilliant idea of wrapping his arms around Spike wasn't lending itself to the concept of not doing anything further with the fingers at the end of those arms.

"You were dreaming about me? Um...bad dream? Anything I need to stake?" Xander had forgotten, he was sure, all sorts of things he'd said when he was zonked out of his mind on too much chocolate or not enough sleep. For some reason, though, he hadn't blanked out his whacko promise to stake Spike's nightmares if Spike would bite his. Didn't want to forget it, sappy as it might have been. Maybe it was working. He hadn't had any nightmares, not yet, since Spike had been sharing his bed.

"No..." Spike yawned. "Just weird. Missed the last half of Passions, too, dammit. Mixed into my dream somehow. Think I was Luis there, for a minute."

Xander had watched several episodes of Spike's bizarre soap opera addiction with him, laughing his ass off at the psycho witch and her creepy little sidekick. He sort of knew which character Spike was talking about. The Hispanic cop with the sister. Spike, as a cop? Spike dreaming he was a cop? Snarf.

"Really? In uniform? That must've been..."

"Itchy, as I recall. And khaki does nothing for my complexion."

"Yeah?" Xander raked his best lascivious glance---which was getting better, since he'd been taking notes from Spike---over Spike's still-drowsy face. "What was I wearing?"

Spike's eyes sort of unfocused, and he actually had a bit of a dopey grin going on there. Dopey. Spike. Non-game-face-Spike. I really have to wake him up in the middle of his sleep-cycle more often. He's a riot...

"Er...look, how would you feel about a bull-whip?"

Blink. Blink blink blink. Um... Okay, I come home to try something new on him and he wants to know about... um... Why could Bleachy-head always do this to him? Always, that is, on the scale of the brief time they'd been... whatever they were. Spike had this ability to throw him off his mental track with a well-placed look, or a question out of nowhere that he damn well knew he had to answer, because... Well, because it was Spike, and he'd aggravate it out of Xander sooner or later anyway, so why not answer now? Xander kept hoping something he'd do or say would surprise the been-there-done-that vampire. That was today's half-baked plan, anyway. If he could manage to concentrate on putting it into effect. If Spike didn't keep saying things about…bull-whips.

"I think... maybe if you turned me and I lived to be as old as Angel, I'd be ready to think about doing something with a bullwhip..." he managed to reply. "I was hoping we could kinda work our way up slowly on the ladder o' kink? Like... smaller pieces of leather than that?"

Spike stared at him, black pupils in the center of those too-blue eyes sort of spinning around in circles while not really moving at all, before finally clutching his forehead and bursting into genuine laughter.

"Not to hit you with, gimboid! As a weapon. There's one in that bag of fun we scored from the Dagonish's place." Vampiric snork... "Honestly, as if that wouldn't set the chip off. Nice to know your mind works that way, but... honestly!" Spike continued to chuckle, and Xander sighed patiently.

"Fine. Laugh at me. See if you get any."

"Any what?"

"That'd be telling, wouldn't it. Surprises."

Something glittered in Spike's eyes, and he purred. That silky, dangerous Spike's-voice purr, not the rumbling catlike one he sometimes came out with when he was totally relaxed. "Like surprises, I do."

"And if you're a good vampire, you might actually get some. So I had a bullwhip in your dream? Is that what you're saying?"

Spike nodded. "Jacket, fedora, whip, the whole bloody ensemble. Alexander Harris and the Basement of Doom. Looked good on you."

Spike was getting easy with the compliments. Which would make a more suspicious person believe that he wanted something from Xander, since what the hell would Spike be doing saying nice things about Xander Harris? And why the hell would Spike, the blue-jeaned devil at the door in a half-remembered country song, think Xander Harris, boy-geek, looked...good? Xander kept wondering if today would be the day they'd drag him off to the funny farm, where life is beautiful all the time, and he'd be happy to see those nice young men in their fine white coats.....

"Xan? This is the bit where you say 'Thank you, Spike...'" the pouting British voice pointed out, accompanied by... yes, there it was, the soft pink lower lip, and Xander was not going to suck on it. Not.

What was the question again? Oh. Thank you. For the alleged compliment. "Okay. Thank you, Spike's subconscious, for picturing me as Harrison Ford. Even though he's thirty years older than me."

"You're welcome. See, I can be polite, if the mood takes me. So---whatcha think?"

Xander resisted the urge to show Spike what he was thinking, which involved stripping those jeans off him and running his fingers over every inch of Spike's body...very, very slowly. And then a bit faster... What was the question?

"About a bullwhip? I think you'd have to find somebody who knows how to use one, to teach me. And honestly... can you picture it? In Sunnydale? 'Hey, Mister Vampire, 'scuse me while I whip this out...' I'd be dead in thirty seconds."

Spike pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Yeah. S'pose you're right. Still... wouldn't say no to seein' you in the fancy-dress."

"You want me to dress up as Indy?" He thought about it for a few seconds. Battered leather jacket. Extremely cool hat. Not as if he hadn't wanted to be Indiana Jones since he was in kindergarten, scaring Willow with fake rubber snakes. Big freakin' sacrifice to put one of his own little fantasies into effect for Spike…. "I could maybe do that. " He tweaked his lip up, just a little. Since Spike was in the mood to talk about fantasies… "How d'you feel about tweed?"

"Tweed????" Spike responded with a disgusted snort. "As in Henry Jones Senior? M' not your father, kid!"

This time it was Xander's turn to purse his lips. "Nooo. Not that kind of tweed. Gilesy tweed. "

Spike's dark eyebrows shot up. "You want me to dress up as Rupert? And I thought I was kinky."

Um.. No. It wasn't like that. There'd just been that dream. On the swings. That dream. The thought of Spike in Giles' clothes... It was just about seeing whether Spike looked as strangely sexy in real life in that Watchery suit as he had in Xander's dream. Maybe swinging on the swings in the park in the middle of the night. Or maybe not the swings at all. Maybe the merry-go-round? The little bouncy horses that would probably make great objects to bend somebody over… or be bent over… and he had a sick, sick mind.

The tweed thoughts...they didn't have anything to do with the fact that Giles was maybe just a little bit cute, in a no-don't-go-there kind of way, or that Spike seemed to be taking care of Xander these days. Which was awfully Gilesy. All of which had to be the most bizarre set of circumstances he'd been in since... well, his last relationship. He didn't exactly have a stunning track record.

"N... no. So not that. So very much not that..." he finally choked out, trying to mean it. "I just kinda had a dream about you, too. A while ago. Before this whole whatever it is. Giles was teaching you how to be a Watcher. "

"Erk..." Spike replied helpfully.

"Yeah, my thoughts exactly. I thought it was all about the gang passing me by, at the time... or maybe just the primordial Slayer spirit stopping by to kick my ass for good luck, before going after Buffy. Sort of the Xander-Lucky-Ass-Buddha. But...have to admit, I have this bizarro kick to see you in Watcherwear." He stroked the pillowcase absently, feeling the nubbly softness of the old, cool, cotton.

"You're a sick, nasty little boy," Spike admonished. "And if you drugged me and hauled me to the tailor's by one toe, you might be able to shove me into a tweed suit before I ripped your arms off, headache or no headache!"

"Noted. No tweed, unless I can get you completely blasted."

"Damn straight. Well, maybe a bit bent..." Spike grinned, snaking his free arm around Xander's neck and trying to draw him in for a kiss.

No. There would be no kissing yet, and no distractions, No more distractions! and no... what was the fucking question again? Shit!

An idea, slightly evil, popped fully-grown into his head. Treat it kindly, it's in a strange place... Thanks, personal-mental-Cordy... If he could totally discombobulate Spike-- then he might be able to get on with his own plans for the afternoon.

"No. Not now," he managed to say sternly, and rolled on top of Spike, trapping the vampire beneath him. Spike looked... what, a bit surprised? Good.

"No? Why not?" his lover whined up at him, attractive even when acting like a five-year-old. Or maybe more attractive because he was acting like a five year old. And he damn well knew it.

"No. Because you and I are going to have a talk."

Spike's eyes lit up. "The sort of talk where I don't have to beat you at bloody Candyland...?" He left the rest open to the imagination, and Xander's imagination had been getting a workout for the past several days anyway, so it wasn't a difficult path to follow.

"No, not that kind of talk. The kind where I ask you a question. If you give me a straight answer, and I like it, or even understand it, then, maybe, we play. " He could feel his own warm breath bouncing back at him from Spike's face, which had suddenly gone into mega-panic-mode. Yahoo!

*****

Talk? He wants to bloody talk? About non-shagging, non-Sunnydale issues? Shit. Bugger. Welcome to the undead Maury Povich Show. Where the vampire tries not to tell the human that he's arse over fucking tit in love with him, thus giving the human an unfair advantage in the ripping-your-heart-out contest.

In other words, here it came. Xander figuring out that Spike was (duh?) evil. Bad for him. A lovely way to pass a week or two in bed, but when it came to long-term whatever... Well, a fortnight wasn't long enough, but it was longer than he' d figured, frankly. Longer than he'd thought on the bleedin' morning after, when he watched the water in the shower cascade down Xander's twisted-up face and thought... Mine. Mine to bloody hold until he lets me go, and damn the Slayer, and damn Dru, and damn Angel, and damn me too, 'cos I'm already damned... Or something like it. Something like what he was thinking now, but a bit more hopeful, and not as desperate.

"Right. That sort of talk." He stretched out his arms as far as he could. They were fairly free, considering that Xander, still fully clothed in tan chinos and cabana-boy shirt-of-the-day, was lying heavily atop his chest and torso. He was suddenly feeling as if the distance between them was far more than the hundred miles of space between their lips right now. Just to make sure he didn't try reach across it, he clasped his hands behind his head, staring up at the pipes-and-beams ceiling, avoiding Xander's eyes. "Well, I told you to bloody ask if you wanted to know something, so...ask, then."

"Don't tell me what to do. Not today," Xander said forcefully. Spike glanced back down at his face. The black brows were furrowed at him. Serious. What, puppy-child's decided to take control? Spike almost laughed. Except that he rather liked it, in a suicidal sort of way, so...

"Alright. Your show."

Xander nodded at him. "Yeah, it is. Straight answer."

Spike couldn't hold back a snicker. Couldn't resist stealing a line from the moron who stuck that bit about courtship in his head, and therefore was somehow responsible for letting it slip out of his mouth. "No vampire, anywhere, ever gave anybody a straight answer. But I'll try."

"Is this more than fucking? Are we...friends?"

*****

No answer. Fuck this. Xander suddenly realized he wanted the answer. "Spike, dammit, look at me. How old are you? Five? Six? You're a hundred and whatever. You've got the biggest balls on the planet, so you're always saying. Look at me."

Spike…finally lowered his eyes. And Xander wasn't prepared for the look in them. He knew they changed shades of blue, depending on whether Spike was laughing, or pissed, or coming on to him, or any of a hundred other psycho mood swings Spike was capable of. He knew they turned yellow when Spike vamped out. But he'd had never seen them like this. Sort of embarrassed and relieved, or maybe Xander just didn't have a clue how to read Spike after all.

Don't know what the hell it means. Just that he's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my whole God damned life, and I'm fucked if I'm gonna let him walk out of here 'cause he thinks he's some badass who can't admit he likes me. Because he does. I mean, you might give blowjobs to somebody you don't like, but do you play Scrabble with them? Something was a bit off about that reasoning, but he wasn't ready to examine it too closely.

"Friends? Like 'do you want to go bowling' friends?" Spike let out a throttled laugh.

"Yeah. Like that. Friends. Insert clappy theme song here." He whistled a few notes.

"Blecch."

"For the friends? Or the song?"

"The song."

"That was an indirect answer, and does not qualify as straight," Xander said sternly, suppressing a smile. "Fine, I'll be the idiot first, since it comes so easy to me. I like you, Spike. Believe it or not. You make me laugh, and you manage to piss Buffy off without getting bitch-slapped, most of the time, which is pretty impressive. Can't stand you sometimes, but that goes for all of my other friends, too. 'Course, none of them can make me scream like you do." Or feel this way when I'm with them. Willow comes closest, but it's not the same. Like it's okay to just let go, because it's safe, it's the best place to be, it's...home.

Spike was silent for a minute. A long minute. Then he bridged the space between them. Put his other hand on the back of Xander's head, and brought it gently down to him. Whispered into the crook of Xander's neck.

"Yeah. We're friends. I bloody like you too. Don't let it get around."

*****

He hadn't had to say it, after all. Xander hadn't asked it of him. Hadn't seemed to realize it was even a possibility. Hell. Reprieved by an even more pathetic, but less dangerous admission-- that he...liked Harris. Thought the boy was funny, in his own way. A laugh to be around. A warped little perspective on what it was like to be nineteen and alive in the deadest town in California. A set of sporadically-appearing knackers that beat bloody all. You're mates, Spike. Snicker, snicker... Snarky Voice Number Two. He recognized the little bastard, by this time. Yeah. So what. We're mates. Sod off.

"Look, am I gonna get a kiss outta this?" Spike asked, finally.

Xander answered him with silent lips, brushing them gently across Spike's, then nibbling softly on Spike's lower one, which he was only too happy to stick out for the full treatment. Warm and wet, Xander's mouth covered his, lips sliding in and out between his own, tongue finally darting into Spike's mouth and staking a claim. Warm and soft and slow, tasting of chocolate and cola, and getting hotter and harder and faster, until Xander suddenly pulled back and smiled.

"What day is it, Spike?"

Spike stared at him suspiciously. "I am awake, y'know." Well, mostly awake. Kind of. Then his mind did one of those little flips, like where you realize suddenly that you're in California and really shouldn't be driving in the left lane. Not that such had ever happened to Spike. With anyone around to see it, anyway. He caught on to what the boy was talking about. "Christ. I have no fuckin' idea. It's a weekday, 'cos Passions was on, but..." He really didn't. Tuesday? Friday?

"Yeah. Me too. Didn't have a clue. I only figured out it was Thursday by lookin' at the schedule at work. We've been doing the cabin-fever thing, Spike. Fuck here, go out at night but only where nobody important can see us, I go to work, you go to sleep, come straight back and start the whole thing over. "

"Not all that terrible, was it?" Spike said, licking his lips...

"No.... guess I wouldn't trade it for shoe-shopping with Cordelia. Except for the damn Basement of Doom. But it really would be nice to see other people. In the non-dumpy sense of the phrase."

Spike ran his fingers over the too-long hair, growing shaggy, smelling of tropical fruit shampoo. Yanked gently on a lock of it.

"You gonna let me up now?"

"Hmm...Poor Spike. Did I embarrass you?"

"If I say yes, will you let me up?" Spike answered with a growl. Yes, as a matter of fact. Human idiot.

"Maybe."

"Well, then, maybe."

"Well, then, maybe we should take a nap and you can think about whether that's your final answer."

And they did. Spike was still tired, and Xander was obviously getting there, and sleep was definitely a good place to be when you had a friend in your arms.

*****

God knew how many hours later, Xander stretched and smiled and realized he was still on top of Spike. Frowned, and realized he'd gotten distracted again. He thumped the sleeping vampire not-too-gently on the head. "Hey-- wake up. Time to play."

Hallmark moment and post-mushiness naptime are over! Time to really see if he could surprise Spike. He'd been working on it for two days, after all. If he'd spent this much time and effort on his homework back in high school, he might not be a minimum-wage kinda guy these days. Then again, this had seemed a bit more important, somehow, than fourth period Social Studies... and a hell of a lot more fun.

Spike opened his eyes, and there wasn't any sleep in them now. Sparkling with devilish intentions. Too bad. It was Xander's turn for your basic non-Hellmouthy dementia. He had plans.

"If I say yes, will you let me up now ? " Spike asked.

"Yeah."

"Then yeah. Just a bit. Berk."

Xander chuckled and rolled off him. When he started to get up, however, Xander pushed him back down.

"Uh-uh."

"What?" Spike asked, puzzled.

"You get up when I say you get up, rentboy." He'd been practicing this tone for a couple of days, on the rear-view mirror in the car as he drove to work. God knows what the other drivers thought when he stopped at red lights. Spike's eyes widened.

"Oh....kay, right." The vampire lay still, a small smile spreading across his face...

"So get up. Now." Spike chortled softly at that, but stood up with a quickness that was pretty impressive in somebody who had just woken up from a long summer's nap.

"Get me that bag on the counter." Spike raised his scarred eyebrow, but complied, handing him the crinkly plastic bag, from which Xander pulled a water-treated canvas tarp. Now the other eyebrow shot up. Way up. Xander's turn to let Spike's best smirk steal over his face. Nyah-nyah... got you doin' a Barney Fife on me, and don't I wish I had the Polaroid in my hands right now...

He spread the tarp over the bed, while Spike leaned against the stairway with his arms folded over his chest, obviously interested, but unwilling to give in and ask. When every square inch of the bed was covered, with the pillows on top, he looked back at Spike. Who was now trying some kind of 'I have absolutely no interest in what you're up to' schtick, with no success whatsoever. He might as well have been staring at the ceiling and whistling.

Xander crossed his own arms. "Okay. Get your jeans off and lay down. Face down." Aha! Reward! Surprise on Spike's face. Worth every bit of aggravation Spike had ever thrown at him, just for that look. That dumbfounded look with the gorgeous mouth hanging slightly open.

Spike wasted no time in following his order, though, unbuttoning his beltless jeans, unzipping them and skinning them down to the floor. Almost too fast for Xander to enjoy the view. But not quite. Spike climbed back onto the bed, and it was an innocent pleasure to watch the muscles in his ass flex as he lay down again. Xander tore himself away reluctantly from the sight of Spike's pale backside, and the curve where it tucked in again, like the body of a guitar, before swelling into the strength of his lower back. Time enough for all that in a minute.

He went to the fridge, pulling from the tiny freezer compartment the prize that he'd brought home today, the one that he didn't have time to pick up yesterday afternoon, because it would've melted. Yesterday afternoon, he'd been... busy with other things. It wasn't quite true that he'd been coming straight home from work. He'd made a few detours yesterday and today. Sampled a few flavors, too, before deciding to go with the tried-and-true... along with the definitely new and different.

Frozen carton in hand, Xander grabbed a can from the refrigerated section below, and picked up his other bag of supplies from where he'd dropped it before crawling into bed with Spike. He plucked a large spoon from the cup-o-silverware, and almost as an afterthought, scooped up the brown paper bag he gotten at the pawn shop on College Avenue. He finally hauled the whole kit-and-kaboodle, to quote his grandmother Oh, so not an image I need in my head right now, thanks... over to the bed, where Spike was peeking around to see what he was doing.

"Did I say you could look, mister?" Xander asked forbiddingly.

Spike... giggled. Damn vampire.

"What?" Xander asked with a warning growl.

"It's just... you make such a cute little top..." Spike choked out.

"Oh yeah, very submissive. And I'm not little. I'm two inches taller than you. Unless you're implying..." Xander trailed off, with the threat implicit in his artificially lowered voice that if Spike was implying, revenge would be imminent...

"Oh, no." Chuckle. "No, not implying. Not complaining. Never complain..."

Xander guffawed at that one. "You never complain? It's tew cold, it is. C'mere and be me pillow. We're out of Weetabix. Yew fell asleep in the middle of me story. Y' don't love me anymore. The damn licorice is stale.... " He went on in a horrible exaggerated Cockney, purposely designed to piss Spike off, since the Londoner apparently had some sort of thing about not being from that part of the city. Psycho Limey Vampire. Like different parts of Sunnydale had different accents? Oh, I'm not from Brentwood Hills, I'm from Forsythia Drive. How dare you!

In his own voice, he added, "I could've made you try to chew through real ropes, y'know..."

He set his supplies on the bed, far enough away from Spike's head that the vampire couldn't twist around to see them without being obvious about it. Traced Spike's spine with the cold handle of the spoon, and was rewarded with a barely disguised jump-and-squeak-and-I'm-a-big-bad-vampire-nothing-surprises-me cough.

"So...what didn't you do yesterday?" Xander prompted his lover. His...friend, and wasn't that a kick in the ass.

"Get my end away, 'cos you fell asleep in the middle of my bloody story?" Spike offered sulkily. Xander smacked him gently on the ass with the spoon.

"Be-have!"

"Right. Sorry. I don't know, sir, what didn't I do yesterday?" Spike was halfway between playing along and his usual sarcasm, which Xander guessed was really the best he was going to get.

"You didn't ask me what I did after work, and why the ice cream would've melted, because you were too busy griping about your poor bad back. Which I did a kick-ass job on, didn't I." Silence. "Spike..."

"Yes. " Sigh… "You did. What, then, O Master, did you do after work?" The side of Spike's face was sort of smashed against the makeshift drop-cloth, so his words were a little slurred.

"Bought stuff. And surfed."

"Ergh... as in... sun and sand, stayed away from the vampire to go do the Beach Boys thing?" Spike let out a very non-bottomy growl, and Xander pinched him on the back of the thigh.

"No, not that kind of surfing. Almost smashed myself in the head with the board the one time I tried it." He took a look at his canvas, and liked what he saw. Shook up the cold can in his hand. " I can sidewalk surf," he added thoughtfully, " though I haven't done it in a long time."

"Sidewalk surf? Cruising for birds, y'mean?" Spike asked, confused.

"No, skateboarding. Master of the pavement. Well, maybe slave of the pavement, considering the number of times my face came in contact with it." Xander suddenly remembered that he was supposed to be in charge here. Damn distracting vampire. "Don't speak unless you're spoken to. I wouldn't want to have to forget all about this and beat your bratty undead ass instead."

"So... this is essentially a win-win situation for me, innit?" Spike laughed.

"Or I could just go bowling with Willow... I'm sure she and Tara could use some company..."

Silence. Good vampire. Xander popped the cap off the can of Rhedi-Whip, and began to cover Spike's lower back and asscheeks with whipped cream. Schloosch.....

"Hey! That's bloody cold!"

"You ain't seen nothin' yet. Be a good boy and shut up." Xander dipped a finger in the whipped cream and brought it up to Spike's mouth. "Open up..." Spike's tongue darted out and licked his finger. Followed by lips that sucked greedily at it until he pulled it away with a pop.

Pulling the next item out of his grocery bag, he realized he'd forgotten a bit of preparation. Twisting the cap off the jar, he hopped up from where he knelt beside the bed, to put the glass jar in the microwave for a minute. Just long enough to get the contents gooey and warm, without being hot enough to actually burn Spike. When he brought it back, he again offered a fingerful to Spike. The rough tongue that licked the warm fudge sauce off his finger was decidedly more enthusiastic now that chocolate had entered the picture.

Setting the jar on the floor, he moved on to the main event, as it were. Opening the round carton of ice cream, he used the tablespoon to slowly scoop out the entire pint of frozen confection, placing large dollops atop the cold whipped cream on Spike's skin. Ahh, ice cream. Food of the Gods, sent to Earth to torment us mere mortals into thinking about what kind of great shit they're obviously keeping to themselves up there. Spike twitched when the first very cold scoop touched his left cheek, and Xander took pity on him.

"Ye-es?" he prompted.

"What...precisely... is that?" Spike asked curiously.

"Ben and Jerry's Half-Baked---which is chocolate fudge brownie and chocolate chip cookie dough mixed together in a fifty-fifty ratio. Precisely." Xander answered amicably, and then he reached for the banana.

Which he wasn't going to anything terribly nasty with, though he half wanted to show it to Spike beforehand, just to see the expression on that face...

*****

Spike was... cold, just a bit, and far more over the edge into pleasantly surprised than he'd been when he'd first found the unopened tube of lube in the now-infamous drawer-under-the-telly. More pleasantly surprised than he'd been the first time Xander'd smacked him on the arse, and about even with the moment not that long ago when he realized he wasn't going to have to tell Xander he loved the boy. This time. This bit of happy glow, though, was unmarred by angst and stupidity. It was just... Xander's doing something fun! And I get to play too!

"Chocolate fudge brownie... y'know, I haven't had that one."

"Heathen. And you call yourself a chocoholic." Xander laid something long and heavy against the crack of Spike's arse, and he was once again... well, not exactly pleasantly surprised, because he was reasonably sure the brat was still completely clothed. So...vaguely confused, but too comfy to bother asking. Then there was the warm stuff, drizzled over him, hitting his bare skin here and there, landing, he assumed, on the ice cream, mostly. Hot fudge. Well, warm fudge. He liked where this was going.

He heard Xander shake a jar of something that rattled...

"Nuts? Please, not nuts. Don't fancy trying to chase peanut pieces out of my arse-crack..." Spike requested, breaking the no-talking rule. Like Xander was going to stop now, anyway...

"Chocolate sprinkles. And that's not gonna be an issue. Trust me," Xander replied, waving his hands over Spike's back, obviously dropping chocolate sprinkles into the concoction that was already melting its way over his skin. He could see the need for the bloody tarp, anyway. This was a bit messier than gooey donuts on the sheets.

Finally, the sound of another vacuum-packed lid being undone, and Xander placed two... somethings, on each of Spike's cheeks. Then Xander's fingers re-appeared in front of his face with another treat, and Spike figured out what the somethings must've been. Bright red maraschino cherries. Spike stuck his tongue out to taste the vaguely cinnamony candied-fruit, then sucked on it happily while Xander still held the stem. At last he bit it off, and muttered around it, "Already had this, you know..."

"Yeah? Was mine better?" Xander teased him.

"Possibly."

Xander backed off, and Spike could hear the rustling of a paper bag. The odd sound of something plastic snapping open, sliding back... Time passing…Ice cream was melting all over him, and he couldn't figure out what the bloody hell Xander was doing. Then there was a telltale schnick and a flash of bright light.

"You little son of a bitch! You took a picture ? "

Schnick! Flash!

"Nope. Two. One for you, one for me."

"You're dead."

"No, you're dead. You're Spike. I have a pulse. I'm Xander. You really are still asleep, aren't you."

"No. Who the hell are you planning on getting to develop those?"

Xander laid a small square of paper, about four inches by four, on the back of the couch, right where Spike could keep an eye on it. A Polaroid snapshot, just developing itself out of the white mist. He reached for it, and Xander tapped the spoon on his arse again.

"Uh-uh. Bad Spike. Don't touch. Remember, I have the other one, anyway."

*****

Xander looked at his creation, and found it good. Not that he was getting all sacrilegious about the unbelievably hot demonic guy in his bed, who gave a damn about Xander. Despite the fact that Spike allegedly didn't have a soul. What could be sacrilegious about comparing Spike to the world? He was just as annoying and crazy and scary and just occasionally wonderful.

The Slayerette, who was so far from thinking of himself as Buffy's sidekick at the moment, set his own copy of the picture on the table next to the bed, and began to peel his clothes off. This could, after all, get very messy, with any luck, and chocolate fudge was a bitch to get out of cotton/poly blends. Shirt, chinos, undershirt, boxers... and he was kneeling naked on the bed next to Spike, a spoon in his hand, sampling some of his evening snack.

"Oi... you gonna share any of that, or am I just a convenient way to not have to do dishes for another day?"

Xander loaded up the spoon with whipped cream, ice cream (with a nice big chunk of brownie in it) and one of the maraschino cherries, and delivered it upstate to Spike's mouth. The vampire sighed happily around the spoonful of pre-sugar-high.

"So... you done this before?" Xander asked as Spike finally licked ice cream off his lips.

"What... ate an ice cream sundae off my own arse? No, I think this qualifies as a first. Congratulations."

"It's not just a sundae," Xander corrected him, reaching back with the spoon for a piece of whipped-cream covered fruit. "It's a banana split."

Spike laughed, and that too was pretty damned good. "I was wondering. Very inventive. Full marks."

And they slowly ate their way through a hell of a lot of chocolate and whipped cream and ice cream and sprinkles and banana, and all the other interesting things that can be found in a carton of Ben and Jerry's. Finally Xander looked down at Spike and realized with a start that they'd consumed it all. Every last bite. Bleurgh. But a good kind of bleurgh. The kind of bleurgh you took Polaroids of, and then hid them in the drawer under the TV with all the other stuff your mother had better never find.

He compared the now-developed picture of Spike, covered with ice cream and toppings, twin cherries poking up from each of his asscheeks, to the vampire now lying sated (at least in terms of the munchies...) on the bed, melted ice cream dripping down his back, into the crack of his ass...

"You're a mess," he proclaimed.

"You're one to talk, you neurotic little git." Spike retorted, licking his ice-cream-coated fingers. Somehow there'd been a little fight over a spoon in there, and at some point there'd been the transferring of the second cherry from one mouth to the other, with no spoon involved at all.

"I meant, psychotic dead guy, that you're covered in gooey sloppy stuff."

"Shower?" Spike suggested hopefully.

"Well, yeah, but not yet."

*****

And Xander was... slowly licking ice cream and fudge sauce from Spike's back, swirling his tongue around in slick circles... moving down to Spike's arse, with long sweeps of that tongue, like a big dark cat licking at him. A panther... Well, a somewhat geeky panther with an extremely talented tongue. When Xander's hands firmly grabbed hold of Spike's thighs, he was a bit thrown. Just a bit. Then the soft tongue disappeared from his skin, and was used for its allegedly higher purpose, as Xander spoke, the heaviness of command once again lowering his voice past its usual cracking tenor.

"Spread 'em." And damn if that didn't send ridiculous little thrills up and down his spine, regardless of the fact that it was spoken by a nineteen year old human kid playing at being the boss for the first time. So Spike shifted his legs, being a good evil dead guy, though he wasn't entirely sure what Xander was up to. He was feeling strangely, happily vulnerable, though, as Xander's hands spread his cheeks even wider apart.

He was certainly unprepared for the feeling of Xander's tongue on him again, tracing its way down his much-more-exposed crack, and swirling around his arsehole with a torturous, ticklish touch. Wet and soft and driving him utterly barmy. Ducking down to lick the sensitive strip of skin between his bollocks and hole, which just about had him ripping matching holes in the canvas tarp beneath him. Where the hell...this was supposed to be my little surprise...how did he... Back to swirling again, just close enough to make him squirm.

Then Xander's tongue darted into him, and there wasn't a lot of wondering to be done as the muscular little snake bathed his inner passage in slick, warm sensation, and he ground helplessly against the bed. Far beyond pleasantly surprised.

*****

Xander had been...curious, but a bit nervous. Maybe a little theoretically grossed out by the concept, until he tasted the skin on Spike's ass, cool and clean except for the delicious stickiness of chocolate and ice cream. Realized he wanted more. That his diligent efforts at distinctly non-Gilesy research hadn't been completely half-baked after all. Spike was way getting off on this, and he tasted good. Like ice cream and chocolate, of course, and like Spike, a lot like the way Spike's lips tasted, only stronger. A weird kind of spicy but salty but rainy taste.

When he finally dared to put his tongue inside Spike, he found the taste was the same... just more distinct. Deeper. The feel of Spike writhing on the bed was enough to spur him on to a little action beyond just being in there, and he thrust his tongue in and out of the tight, cool space. I'm actually fucking somebody with my tongue...which, okay, done before, but definitely not there.

When, at last, he started to get a bit tired, and Spike was grinding against the mattress like he'd get off in a minute just from the friction, Xander pulled his tongue out. Replaced it with an index finger coated in spit and melted ice cream, and moved that in and out, repeatedly hitting the spot that he now recognized as the one that sent Spike off into fireworks-ville.

"Xan...der... God, luv, please..." Spike muttered into the pillow. "Gonna... come all over the bed and I want you in me when I do!"

It was just about the best request he'd ever heard, and Xander didn't need a hell of a lot of convincing. Pulling his finger out to the tune of a disappointed groan from Spike, he guided his erection, already slippery with pre-come, to the hole he'd just ravaged with his tongue and finger. Pushed slowly in until he felt his balls hit against Spike's ass. Spike pushed back up against him, and he answered in kind, feeling the sudden need to pound into his lover for all he was worth. Nothing gentle here, nothing hesitant, just him and the body beneath him, grinding in mutual rhythm, shaking the bed, creaking the damn shitty springs and probably bending that support bar back into its original back-attacking dip, and he didn't care.

He did care about Spike, who was making little animal groans of pleasure that mingled with his own in a symphony that, at this point, he could give a shit whether his parents heard from upstairs. If they hadn't heard anything else that had gone on in this basement in the last year, they were pretty unlikely to suddenly grab a clue now, anyway. Frankly, if the door at the top of the stairs had burst open and his Dad had come thundering down at them, he probably wouldn't have noticed. For a while, anyway. There was just Xander and Spike and each other, bodies pressed together, one piece of flesh, two minds. Every other moment or so, it almost seemed to him that it was the other way around. One mind. His hands on Spike's waist, Spike's hands on the tarp, doing nasty things to it, like it mattered. Like anything beyond the two of them mattered at this point, and just when he thought he was going to fall over from exhaustion, because even a nineteen year old guy shouldn't be able to do that for that long, he felt the heat finally build to an explosion. Shooting out of him and into Spike in waves that sent electric sweet sugar-rush fire back up his own nerve endings, 'til it felt like every cell in his body was being lit-up from within.

Spike was still pushing against him, and with his cock still half-hard inside Spike's ass, with his arms tight around Spike's waist, and with whatever part of his mind was still working wondering if God ever pardoned vampires in exchange for really good sex, Xander pulled that slim body up. He reached around to stroke Spike's rigid shaft, once, twice, and on the third firm pull back, Spike let loose all over his fingers, leaning back into him with a low, long growl. They sat that way for a second, maybe two... Xander on his knees, Spike pulled back against him... before they fell sideways onto the bed, with a creak of the springs and a laugh from Spike.

*****

A few minutes of Xander-breathing and Spike mentally what-the-hell-ing later, Spike rolled over to face his lover. Who was wearing the shit-eating grin that his Spike-double had worn in this afternoon's barmy dream.

"Right, you little bastard. Where'd you learn that? That was my little trick to show you, and you fucking ice-cream scooped me on it."

Xander winked at him, which would've been a bit more seductive if A) the boy wasn't still breathing hard and trying not to laugh at the same time, and B) Spike wasn't almost completely knackered. "Research."

"We'd best be talking about secondary sources here... or did the Watcher give you a little tutorial? That I could almost go for..." And Spike pictured super-dignified Rupert regressing to his not-so-long-ago youth, those silly specs tossed on the floor as he tongued into Xander, who was bent over the same sofa that Spike had slept several lonely nights on. Xander, trousers round his ankles, hands on the cushions, round little backside in the air, getting the lesson of a lifetime. Instead of the jealousy he expected, a little twinge of lust shot through his groin. Not completely knackered, apparently. Oh… get an unlife, down there. Boy's shagged out.

"You are totally disturbed, Spike. I can't begin to describe how much I don't want to even travel in the vicinity of the neighborhood where that thought might be temporarily living. I told you. I went surfing."

"Surfing? What in the name of all that's unholy are you on about?"

Xander made little motions with his right index finger. "Point. Click. Surf."

Point...click... Holy Hell, or other blasphemies to that effect... He'd gone surfing... On the net? "You went out looking on the bloody internet?" Xander? With the balls to click his way into... "Double-you double-you double-you dot rimming dot com?" Snicker. "You get the witch to help you with that one, then?"

And another naughty little scene flitted through Spike's mind: Xander at Willow's computer, the quirky-faced redhead frowning as she leaned over his shoulder to help him navigate, Xander's face as red as her hair. Spike really had to stop having such vivid dreams. They were carrying over into his waking hours, and… yeah. There it was. The lovely little warm flare of pre-getting-it-up-again, courtesy of the thought of Willow and Xander, flamey hair brushing against dark curls, looking at dirty pictures together. He really was disturbed, of course, but this was just your normal Spikey insanity, and he reveled in it. The shit that turned him on made sense to his cock and whichever deity or demon made him, and that was about it.

Xander sputtered at him. "No, I think that comes under the heading of 'Things Willow Not Only Doesn't Know Exist, But Must Never Know.' God, you're twisted, Spike! I went to the library. Where they have a nice quiet little room with semi-private cubes where you can point-and-click your way into all kinds of completely perverted sites, with nobody looking over your shoulder to see what a sicko you are. "

"And you found a site on rimming?" Spike asked with actual interest.

Xander suddenly slipped into shy-phase. Of all the times to do it, after he'd already done it. "Yeah. A… couple of sites. On all kinds of things. How to do…stuff. How to do things better. You really should see at least one of 'em."

Not that Spike didn't want to, but… Not that he was worried about it, but… "Meaning I need some pointers?"

"No, you idiot. Meaning I think you'd like it. It's got pictures. Um… good pictures."

Spike considered the idea. Yeah, maybe he could use a little spot of techno-geekiness, if it meant figuring out how to hunt-up all those nasty little images he'd heard were out there. Maybe even print 'em, so he could leave them lying around to make Xander blush. If he was going to do it, though, he would go to the little Wiccan hacker genius. Be so much bloody fun to see her face turn pretty colors when he told her exactly what he wanted to learn for. Leaving out the Xander bit, of course. Serious entertainment possibilities, there.

"What the hell put it into your mind to go and do that?" Spike asked, stretching suddenly. Because if he didn't get the hell out of that bed, he was going to turn around and shag the boy blind. Which might just leave him with a corpse on his hands. Not that he was being vain.

*****

Xander looked at Spike, who had sat up, and was stretching. Wakey-up type stretching. And… oh. Whatever sick little thoughts he'd been having about Giles…or Willow.. or… yeah. Vampires and getting it up again in minutes. That was something he still hadn't quite gotten used to. Or maybe it was just Spike, since he hadn't actually had experience with any other vampires. And he certainly wasn't about to compare notes with Buffy.

Spike wanted to know why. Aside from the simple desire to do something to make him happy? Which probably wasn't worth sharing, since Spike didn't need a bigger ego than he already had. "Wanted to surprise you. Smarmy, know-it-all, here-let-me-show-you-how-it's-done bastard."

Spike grinned at him, and stood up. White statue of a guy in the faded light of the one lamp they'd left on. It had gotten dark out there. They must really have conked out. And Spike in the pale light looked like something out of the Art Appreciation class Xander had passed with a surprisingly high average in tenth grade. Twitch. Whaddya know… maybe it wasn't just vampires.

"Well, you did. Consider me surprised."

"I consider you a complete mess. You need a shower. We need a shower. And then…"

Spike twisted his lips in that look that said 'I know you want to fuck me, so what are you waiting for?' louder than any similar words could ever do.

"And then?"

Xander got up too. Dragged the canvas tarp off the bed, careful not to spill assorted evidence, edible and otherwise, across the bed or the floor. Crumpled the thing up next to the bag of weapons he still hadn't had the chance to go through.

Out, out, out. Somewhere. They had to go out. Somewhere with people, who knew what day it was. Sometime soon, they had to actually get out. Leave the damn basement and find someplace sane to live. Or not live, in Spike's case. When Xander could be sure things would be at least…safe, upstairs, if not happy. But for now…

"We gotta get out of this place."

"If it's the last thing we ever do…" Spike agreed musically. Which was the first time Xander had ever heard him sing when he wasn't completely blasted. Spike's singing voice was surprisingly higher than his obnoxiously sexy speaking voice. Xander liked it. He could suddenly picture them singing along together in the car, if they could ever find some music they actually agreed on. Sick, weird, twisted mind, Xander. Kareoke Spike.

"Right. Wanna go bowling?" Groan.

*****

They emerged from the shower a little cleaner, a lot wetter, and both having ingested a nice bit of post-sundae snack. Desperate to get the hell out of there.

Out. Out. Xander was right. Great sex or not, Xander or not, the basement was suddenly driving Spike up the concrete walls. There was a world outside. A moon to howl at. Happy meals on legs, and if he couldn't eat them, he could at least take the piss, and walk the streets of Sunnydale with his… With his friggin' friend, Xander Harris.

He reached down for his jeans, where they lay on the floor next to the bed, and Xander stopped him with a shout.

"Hey, wait a minute!"

"What-- you wanna go out starkers?" Spike turned to him, trousers in hand.

Xander covered his mouth with one hand, and then sang in an exaggerated country accent, "Oh yes, they call him the Streak….he likes to show off his physique…" The boy broke down into giggles. No fuckin' taste in music at all.

"No," Xander said at last. "I just have a damn favor to return. Bend over."

What, three times in one night? Or were they going for a little of the other sort of fun? Whatever. Spike was game. He put his hands down on the bed, wiggling his arse at Xander and craning his head round to look behind him. The boy fiddled around in that bloody great shopping bag that had disgorged all the lovely treats, and at last came up with something in his hand. Something that opened with a half-familiar plastic snap. Then Xander was behind him, licking his arse again, which was nice, but…

Oh hell. That's what the brat was up to. Serves you right, smartarse.

*****

Xander pulled the paper backing off and admired Spike's new tattoo. It had cost him four-fifty in quarters to get the one he wanted. He was also something of a god to a little group of grade-schoolers, who had gleefully accepted the seven assorted Pokemon and Batman tattoos he'd pulled out before finally getting this one. And the Hello Kitty one for Willow...

"So what is it, then?" Spike asked with resigned sigh, twisting around to try to see it. No such luck, nyah-nyah.

Xander said nothing. Sure, Spike would pester him about it for days, but it would drive the vampire absolutely nucking futs, so it sounded like a fair trade.

"Hey, you know I can't see it in the mirror. S'not fair."

"Whine, whine, whine." The only way Spike would find out what that tattoo was would be if Xander gave in and told him, or he dropped his pants for somebody else, and asked. The pants-dropping wouldn't phase Spike in the least, Xander was sure, but having to explain how it had gotten there, and the fear of what it might actually be... that ought to keep Spike's jeans in place. Xander snickered to himself. Revenge was pretty fucking sweet, sometimes.

*****

And they made it outside without shagging again, much to Spike's surprise. The sky was covered in stars, all whispering the weather report to Dru somewhere, probably, but there actually wasn't a moon to howl at. He really had lost track. The air was still, the night was warm, the little crickety-bugs were doing their best to drive Spike crazier that usual... And what the hell was there to actually do in Sunnydale, aside from look for night-things to beat up?

In Xander's car. Driving. Just around. Trying to think of something to do that wouldn't be a repetition of the trapped-in-the-basement syndrome. Finally Xander turned to Spike, and the look in those brown eyes was more frightening than any angsty Dawson's Creek moment the vampire had ever experienced. Because he knew what Xander was going to say, with the sudden psychic clarity that only comes to the completely doomed.

"You... wanna actually go bowling?"

Spike banged his head against the dash, repeatedly. Xander... seemed to be a bit concerned.

"Or... mini-golf? I mean... this is Sunnydale. There's not all that much to do that isn't Hellmouthy. Um... movie?"

Spike stopped the banging. It fucking hurt, anyway, and it didn't seem to be doing any good. "I don't bowl."

Xander was laughing at him again, and it was beginning to piss him off. Especially since he had a sodding tattoo on his behind and no way of figuring out what it was.

"You mean you don't know how to bowl. "

Grrrrr...

Xander babbled on. "That's okay. It's been a while for me, too. Last time I was gonna go bowling, somebody hit me over the head with a microscope and dragged me off to an abandoned factory. Really oughta look that guy up and kick his skinny English ass."

Grrrr...

"We could go get the witches. Willow's not all that good at it, but she's a kickin' score-keeper."

"Grrrrr...."

*****

Tara, as a matter of fact, bowled like a pro. Willow spent the evening rolling gutterballs, keeping score, and cheering the blonde on. Possibly drooling a little bit, very daintily, over her girlfriend.

Spike, after he'd worn out the fun of bitching about the geeky shoes, discovered that he had yet another reason to swagger around town, as if he needed any more. He blew all three of them off the lanes, sending Willow into uber-cute Pout-Face.

"Undead hustler!" she accused. Which, in turn, had Spike waggling his eyebrows and quoting prices for his services, and Willow blushing and stammering.

Xander, on the other hand, with the legitimate excuse of watching an untaught master of the sport at work, was just having the time of his life staring at Spike's ass.