By Annie Sewell-Jennings
Sequel to A Lesson in Principles
Funny, but it's nothing what Xander thought it would be. He thought it'd be more fun. You know, chasing imaginary butterflies and saying funny, random things like "The glue! We have to save the glue!" But it's not like that at all. It's not funny in the least.
And it's all Spike's fault.
"Now," Giles says, pointing to a location on the map with his ruler, "from all reports we've heard from the underground, it appears that the Hydrangi nest is right here in the Halloway crypt. Apparently, there's a secret chamber that we'll have to find. Now, listen closely. This is very important. When we go in ..."
Xander tries to listen to Giles. He really does. This is big, important Scooby stuff. But it's hard. Really hard. Hard to pay attention to the shiny map or the hard voice of Buffy in warrior-mode, or even Anya's pretty, slender hand on his thigh. Hard to focus. Hard to do anything.
Especially when Spike keeps looking at him like that.
Off in the corner, back in the shadows where he belongs. Stirring his cup of blood with slow, calculated movements. Round and round, that little silver spoon in those slender hands. Long fingers. Spike has very long fingers. And he's staring at him with his eyes all burning and hot, a fiery shade of blue. Stirring. Caressing the spoon. One slender finger. Up and down. Up and down.
Just like that night.
Slim, pale fingers moving up and down the length of his swollen, aching member. The thrust of narrow hips. Long eyelashes falling down over gasoline eyes. "Know you want it, Harris. Come untie me. I'll show you how good a vampire can be."
And Spike just looks at him, that smirk growing wider, because he knows he's thinking about it again. As if he could think about anything else.
The night where Xander really should've untied Spike from that chair and let him do whatever he wanted. Smoke. Kick puppies. Whatever. Anything other than what Spike ended up doing, and what he made Xander do in the process. God. Even just thinking about it. Just remembering. It's enough to make his dick twitch. Enough to bring him almost to tears. He just wants to forget it. Just wants to go back to normal.
But Spike won't stop reminding him.
Every day. Every day for the past six days, he's been reminding him. Staring at him. Giving him eyes that speak of hunger. The kind of hunger that a burger or a cup of blood won't satisfy. Smooth, sotto voice remarks. The casual brush of a hand over his bare skin, so fast that he wonders if he imagined it, but substantial enough to let him know that yes, indeed, it was there. If he didn't know any better, he'd think that Spike was hitting on him.
And the worst part? Xander kind of likes it.
Buffy's talking now. Pointing at the map. "It's no good, this window," she says. "I mean, even if we did manage to get through it, it's too narrow. We can't fit the whole team in there. Unless ...."
Spike's doing that thing again. That thing with his tongue. Poking just the tip of it, all pink and wet, between his bright white teeth. Looking him up and down. Scouring his body with his half-lidded eyes. Like he's touching him. Those cool, flat palms, running up and down his chest, tweaking at his nipples, and down to his lap where his cock's so hard ...
"Xander? What do you think?"
Guh? What? Huh? Blankly, Xander looks up to see all of them staring at him. Waiting for a response. It's a real shame he doesn't have the slightest idea what they're talking about. "Uh ..." He leans forward and points at the map. "We could ... um ... get in here ..."
Buffy rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "We've already gone over the window, Xander. It's no good. It's a nice thought, but there's no way we can squeeze through there. I still say that the best entrance is through the sewers."
Sewers. Sure. Whatever. "And those are right here, right?" Xander asks, trailing his finger along the map.
There's a sigh from Spike's direction. Irritated and bored. "No, you stupid git," he says and stands up, leaving his now-empty cup of blood on the coffee table. He walks over to the map and kneels down right in front of Xander. So close he can smell him. Cigarettes and aftershave. Jesus. He crooks his fingers and points to a location on the map. "See, right here. That's where the bloody things are."
And then, something happens. It's just for a moment. Fast enough so that the others can't see it. But Spike brushes his fingertips over Xander's knuckles, cool and feathery, like a gust of air. Like a ghost of breath, raising all the hairs on his arms and legs, making him think of those sweet fingertips crawling down his back, towards his thighs, towards his ass ...
When Anya's dainty little fingers brush his cock, Xander jumps.
Straight to his feet, while everyone stares at him, confused. Except for Spike, of course. Spike just grins. "Um ... I ... have to go pee," he says dumbly, and Buffy gives him a solemn nod.
"Then go pee."
The minute he gets into Giles' bathroom, Xander starts gasping for air. Braces himself against the countertop and closes his eyes. His blood is racing. His body's alert and aching. Wanting. Needing. And all he can see is Spike, dancing around in his head, mocking him, teasing him, seducing him ....
"Is it time for the sex?"
Fuck. He forgot to lock the door, and now Anya's standing there, her eyes bright with hope and glee, that broad, stupid smile stretching across her face. "You have an erection," she says flatly. "I felt it. You're very hard."
"Yes," he says weakly. "So I am."
Another broad, sunny smile. "Good! Then we can have sex."
Yes. Yes! That's exactly it. He'll have sex with her. Lots and lots of sex, with her vagina and her boobies and her girl-softness, and that'll put the thought of Spike out of his mind once and for all. So he pulls her tight to him, closes his eyes, and starts to kiss her soft and slow and hard and fast ....
Cool lips sliding across his. That dart of a talented, pink tongue. Hands on his ass, strong hands, supple fingers. Hard cock against hard cock, hard body against hard body, kissing and moaning, and Spike-
The curt sound of knuckles rapping against the door, and Xander stares at it, his eyes bulging as Giles opens the door. There's an exasperated look on the librarian's face. "Oh, for the love of God. In my bathroom, Xander? My bathroom?"
Anya gives him a frank look. Well, all her looks are frank, really. "Your bathroom is very conducive for sexual behavior," she says. "It looks like a bordello."
Another wince. "Yes. Good. I think that means the meeting's over." He gives a look at Xander. "And as much as it pains me to separate the two of you, I'm afraid I'll need you to take Spike home with you again tonight."
No. No no no. This was supposed to be his free night. The night of freedom and independence. Spike would be gone, and he would have a chance to rest, and maybe have some good old heterosexual boinking to cure himself of this weird, horrible thing.
"No way," Xander says. "No how. Come on, Giles, he's stayed with me over a week, and I can't handle it anymore. I really can't."
Giles sighs irritably. "Xander, I know he's a nuisance, but there's no way around it. I have to supervise Buffy's patrol tonight so we can deal with this demon infestation, and I can't leave Spike here unattended."
Xander thinks he might start crying. "Please, Giles. Please, you don't understand ..."
Finally, Giles loses it and snaps at him. "Really, Xander. What sort of trouble can he cause?"
A weak, desperate laugh. "You have no idea."
As soon as they get out into the living room, Xander can feel Spike's eyes on him. Burning through his clothing. Burning through his skin. Anya stands on her tiptoes and puts a kiss on Xander's cheek. Spike smirks all the while.
"Well," she says airily, "since you're on vampire patrol tonight, I think I'll just go home and masturbate."
With that, she turns on her stiletto heel and walks out while everyone stares after her.
Sometimes, Xander wonders if Anya is really the lesser of two evils.
A slap on the back. Cool hand. Spike-hand. Xander suppresses a shudder. "Well, then," Spike says jovially. "Guess it's just me and the monkey again." That hand starts to wander down Xander's back, dangerously close to the flare of his ass. He doesn't have to see the leer on Spike's face. He can hear it in his silky voice. "Probably gonna do some tossing of his own tonight ...."
When Spike's hand grabs at his ass, Xander almost passes out.
But he doesn't. He manages to control himself long enough to say a hoarse goodbye to his friends, wishes Buffy the best on patrol, and then hightails it out to his car. Walks stiffly, because all the blood in his body is currently concentrated in his crotch, and Spike just whistles all the while as they walk to his car.
There's something about the way Spike flops himself down in the bucket seat that does terrible things to Xander's nerves. Sprawled out in the passenger seat, long legs all spread out, his hand absently caressing the parking brake in a sinfully phallic series of motions. Black-tipped fingernails. Stupid hair gel smell. Long, lazy smile.
For about fifteen minutes, there's total silence. Xander's grateful, because he doesn't have a clue as to what he would say to him. All his words are jumbled. He tries to keep his eyes on the road. Yellow lines. Stay within the yellow lines, and everything will be okay. Just keep driving, and ignore the pretty vampire in the seat beside you.
Xander shifts the car from third to fourth. It's not a good shift, and the car jolts. Startles Spike, and for the first time, he glances over at the transmission. A slow, sly smile spreads over his face. "Well, well," the vampire drawls. "Should've known you'd drive stick."
And that's the last straw.
The tires scream as Xander brakes hard and fast, and Spike yelps as he falls forward and hits his head on the dashboard. "Hey!" he says, rubbing his forehead as he glares at Xander. "What the bloody hell is wrong with you?"
He can't believe this. Can't believe Spike is staring at him like he's the one doing all the bad things. "Me?" he asks in disbelief. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
"My damn head's what's wrong with me! Stupid wanker, can't even drive properly, and if I get whiplash-"
Exasperated, Xander grits his teeth and glares at him. "Not the car," he hisses. "The other stuff. The way you keep touching me, and looking at me, and talking to me."
There's that slow, caramel-drenched smirk dancing across Spike's mouth. Xander doesn't know how he does it, but all of a sudden, he's back in whore-mode, giving him bedroom blue eyes and those delicate, dangerous cheekbones. "What?" he murmurs. "You mean ... this?"
Xander forgets sometimes that Spike's a vampire. A vampire who can move very, very fast. Quicker than lightning and softer than air, Spike's fingertips suddenly reach out to touch Xander's wrist. That bare, sensitive strip of skin. Tracing the veins. Touching the fragile bones. Soft, so soft, and he just wants to melt into it.
Instead, Xander swats his hand away. Hopes Spike doesn't notice that his own hands are shaking. "God!" he exclaims. "Are you out of your mind? What the hell do you think you're doing?"
There's that wicked, happy look on Spike's face. Probably the same expression he wears when he eats babies. He giggles, high-pitched and wild, and then points a finger at Xander. "Oh, the look on your face," he laughs. "Fucking priceless. Here, keep that look. We'll stop by a convenience store, buy one of those disposable cameras. Make a smashing Christmas card, that face of yours."
Xander can't believe this. "Is this funny to you? Oh, ha-ha, big joke. I mean, are you trying to drive me crazy?"
Spike keeps grinning. "Well, yeah. Can't kill anything anymore, so I thought I'd have a couple of jollies with you. You're just so easy, you know? What with you being so obvious about it."
"Obvious about what?"
A shrug of one leather-clad shoulder. "You know. The fact that you're gay."
The fact that I'm ....
Xander explodes. "WHAT?!?" he shrieks.
Spike just rolls his eyes, nonplussed. Starts fiddling with the radio. "Oh, come off it," he says dryly. "You're gayer than a two-dollar bill, Harris. Look at you, all boiling with repression and righteous indignation, and you're always giving me those fancy eyes. Checking me out and the like."
"Hey!" Xander says. "You're the one who keeps walking around all half-naked and with the touching! If anything, I think you're the gay one!" Suddenly, a light goes on at the back of his head, and Xander nods his head as a dim realization sweeps over him. "Yeah, that's it. You're a big gay vampire, and you're trying to sleep with me."
Spike snorts. "Oh, yeah, I'm sure that's it. Just can't resist your splotchy man-boy blubber. Come on, now. Me, the gay one. Right." He frowns at the radio. "God, does every blasted radio station in this stupid town have to play this same godawful dreck?"
"You said you'd had sex with Angel," Xander points out. Ha. He's got him trumped this time.
But nothing seems to faze this guy. Absolutely nothing. Which kind of makes sense, since he's been around a hundred and twenty years and seen a lot of stuff. "Yeah, so? That doesn't make me gay."
Xander frowns. "Uh, actually, Spike, having sex with guys pretty much makes you gay."
"No, it doesn't," Spike says simply, turning the dial back and forth with those long, clever fingers. "Makes me sexual. Makes me hard. Makes me hot. See, that's the problem with you bloody humans. It's all black and white for you. Gay and straight, good and evil. Like any of that rot really matters when you get good and down to it. See, sometimes, Harris, a fuck is just that - a fuck. Sometimes you need a cunt, sometimes you need a cock."
An appraising look up and down Xander's body. That wicked, malevolent grin. One pale finger again on his arm, sliding up from Xander's wrist to his shoulder. "And you, my friend, need a lot of the latter."
Yes, yes, your cock, my cock, hard and fast, slow and sweet, and I bet you kiss like there's no tomorrow, like it might be your last kiss, you're so hot and pretty--
Xander gasps and throws Spike's hand off him. He can't breathe. Can't think. All his thoughts are getting tangled up inside, and all he can hear is the sound of the Backstreet Boys on the radio and Spike's wicked, gleeful laughter.
"But why?" he asks hoarsely. "Why me?"
It's a dangerous question. Very scary. His heart is pounding in his chest like he's got a marching band under his ribcage, and he's really not sure if he wants whatever answer Spike's about to give him. But he knows that something's wrong. Something is very wrong, and he has to know.
He has to know something.
One low, rolling laugh that churns like thunder through Xander's blood. The flash of fire, one spark of bright illumination in the car as Spike lights a cigarette. Hand cupping flame. Head bowed in profile. A long, slow exhalation of smoke, and then those sultry eyes slide slowly in his direction. "You really want to know, Harris?" he murmurs. That voice. Like honey. Like hell. "Fine, then."
He's close. Suddenly so very close. Face right in front of his, so close that he can smell the cigarettes and the bourbon and that delicious leather coat. Long eyelashes, so dark, so pretty. When he speaks, Xander can smell his breath. Thinks it should smell stale, because it's not really breath. But it's not.
He wonders what it would taste like.
"Doesn't matter if I walk around you naked for hours," he purrs. Cocks his head to the side in that smirking, come-hither fashion. "Doesn't matter how many sexual innuendos I toss your way, or how many times I touch your dick when no one else is looking, or if I grab at your ass in public. Doesn't matter how bad you want it, because you'll never have the guts to take it. And in the meantime, you want it so bloody bad that it's killing you."
You're not too far from my lips. Come a little closer. Just bridge that distance, oh please, just give me one taste ....
Still wearing that wicked-panther grin, Spike moves away, back to his seat and takes another langorous drag from his cigarette. "That's why I do it, Xander," he says. "Because you'll always be too much of a ponce to take what you want."
Xander stares at him. Stares at him for a good long minute. All those words sinking in, all that blood churning in his body, and it's true. It's horribly true. He wants him. Wants Spike. And he'll never take it because he's scared, and lonely, and insecure, and ashamed, and-
"Oh, fuck it," Xander mutters.
He leans over, takes the cigarette from Spike's hand, throws it out the window, and kisses him.
Hard and fierce. Tongue and teeth, invading, tackling. His mouth gnashes against Spike's, and he obviously caught him off-guard because for a second, the vampire doesn't respond. Gives a strangled little noise in the back of his throat, and Xander just keeps kissing him. Oh, God, he tastes so good, like cigarettes and alcohol, like blood and sex. Like forbidden things. Things he's not supposed to have, but that doesn't matter, because he's got a fistful of Spike's leather duster in each hand and a soft, angry mouth pressed against his, and it feels so good that he's going to explode ....
With a gasp, Xander pulls away from him. Stares at Spike with wide, terrified eyes as his heart races and his blood pumps fast in his veins. Spike just stares back at him, his own blue eyes the size of saucers. Deer in headlights. He looks flabbergasted. Shocked. Stunned beyond belief.
Oh my God. I just kissed Spike. Me. Kissing Spike. He's going to kill me now. The chip doesn't matter, he's going to rip off my head and throw it out the window and steal my car and--
Suddenly, Spike's kissing him back.
He'd wondered about it, the past six days. Wondered what it would be like to kiss Spike. Now he knows that no amount of fantasy could ever describe it. It's like kissing chocolate. Like making out with caramel. Long and luxurious, but all the candy's on fire, and his mouth burns. His dick burns. Everything burns.
Spike's hands are all tangled up in Xander's sweater. Hungry, blunt teeth nip at his lower lip, and Xander moans and wraps a hand around the base of Spike's neck. Long, slender neck. So pretty. Soft, cool. Little curls at the top of his spine. A whimper. Whose? Doesn't matter.
So hard, oh God, Spike's kissing him so hard and his cock is so hard. Xander feels like he can't breathe, and when Spike pulls away, he gasps for air. But then Spike's mouth is at his neck, kissing and sucking, and Xander arches his hips, begging him for more. "Oh sweet Jesus," he gasps. "Oh sweet Jesus."
"Yeah," Spike hisses. "Oh, yeah, you brilliant boy, taste so good, and it's been so long ..."
Gasping, moaning. Blunt incisors scraping at his jugular, and Xander writhes and shimmies as Spike presses him harder against the back of his seat. "Not for you," he gasps. "Harmony. You had Harmony."
Up his neck, to his jawline. Kisses that could leave bruises, and probably will. "No," Spike sighs, "not that. Been so long since I had this."
When Spike's hand closes around Xander's erection, he gasps and jerks, stutters and moans. Sensation everywhere, and that knowing hand with all its crafty, sly fingers, wrapped around Xander's dick. Feels hot, feels dizzy. And Spike's got him in his grasp now, got him right in his clutches, and Xander can't say no.
He can't say anything at all.
More kissing. Hungry, animalistic. It's not like Cordelia's prim kisses, or Anya's frank, greedy make-out sessions. It's more like that time with Faith, that first time, when he'd been going out of his mind with lust and she'd scratched her claws down his back. Yeah, it's kind of like that.
But this is better. Harder. Nothing soft or compromising here. When he pulls Spike's shirt out from the waist of his pants, all he feels is hard, sleek muscle. Skitters his fingernails across Spike's abdomen, feels him gasp and jerk. Runs a hand up his chest, up towards his taut nipples, and Spike bucks and curses and says bad things.
"Oh, fuck, you bloody bastard, you sweet boy!"
It occurs to Xander that this is wrong. Very wrong. They're parked not ten minutes away from Giles' front door, in the middle of Main Street, and he's making out with Spike. Really making out. And he thinks that this isn't going to be enough, and he's going to have sex with him. Big gay sex in a car, with a Backstreet Boys song on the radio, and a vampire practically in his lap.
It's really a shame that the stupid steering wheel is in the way.
Gasps for breath. "Spike ... we have to get ... backseat. Now."
Deep, panting moans. "Yeah," Spike rasps against his throat. His hand still stroking Xander's cock. "Oh, yeah. You and your sodding Geo Metro."
"Don't ... oh God, your nipples ... make fun of my car ... oh, Spike ..."
He's not quite sure how it happens, but there's a bit of tumbling and some grunting, and then they're tangled up in each other in the practically nonexistent backseat. Spike's underneath him, his arm at an awkward angle, his eyes practically black with lust. Xander takes a moment. Looks down at him, panting, and for a moment, he pauses.
If I do this, there's no going back. If we have sex, or whatever it is we're about to do, there's no way on this earth for me to take it back.
But Spike starts kissing him again, and Xander stops caring.
Has to get out of these clothes. The jeans are too tight. Has to get Spike out of all that black, so he can see all that white skin. He tugs at Spike's duster and gets his arms out of the coat, so they're lying on top of the leather. When he can't seem to leave Spike's mouth long enough to take off his tee shirt, he rips it with his bare hands and makes the vampire groan.
"God, you're incredible," Xander gasps. Traces every sharp muscle with his fingers, feels them bunch and tighten under his hand. "So fucking incredible."
That dirty smirk. "Oh, love, you ain't seen nothing yet."
Another lightning-fast move and now Xander's on the bottom, and his sweater went somewhere but that doesn't matter. All that matters is that Spike's mouth is everywhere. Mouth and hands, how does he do that? Open-mouthed kisses on his collarbone. Little nibbles on his shoulder. When Spike bites down ever-so-soft on his nipple, Xander feels his dick jerk violently and almost comes.
"Now," he gasps. "Touch me, I don't care, I hate you, but touch me."
Fumbling with belt buckles, muttered curses at snaps, and then Spike's cool hand reaches in and grabs his cock. Cool fingers gripping the too-hot length of him, and the contrast in temperature makes Xander buck and swear. Ecstasy sparks through his veins, and Spike's face is cool and shadowed in the backseat, his mouth open and his eyes rolled back as he strokes. Over and over again.
"Like that night," the vampire hisses. "Just like that night."
It occurs to Xander for the first time that Spike hasn't forgotten that night, either.
Spike's hands are smooth. Smooth like silk, wrapped around his shaft, stroking so rough and tight that Xander can't think. Everything in his brain has been scrambled and fried, and all he can think is guh. Fingers cradling his balls, rotating the aching organs around in the palm of a cool hand, and Xander thinks he might be crying, it's so fucking good. Aching and arching, moaning and screaming, over and over, as the fire moves faster and the world explodes around him.
When Xander comes, he screams Spike's name.
It feels like the orgasm lasts forever. Over and over again, spilling himself in Spike's hand, gasping and arching and twisting in his grip, until everything is spinning and he's left gasping, blank and completely, utterly dazed. He feels Spike sag on top of him, his bright head buried in his shoulder. Gasping for air the guy doesn't even need. "Christ," he rasps. "Oh, fucking God, you sweet, stupid boy ...."
With a fumbling, shaking hand, Xander reaches for Spike's crotch. "But you ... you didn't even ..." Spike tries to jerk away, but his knuckles brush the denim and find it wet. Sodden, even. Soaked through with oh my God, I just made Spike come in his pants.
Xander opens his eyes, shocked, and sees bewildered blue looking right back at him. It catches him, that gaze. Electric blue. That's the color. Usually dancing with mischief, or hard with malice. But now, they're blank. Wide open, like a summer sky. It makes him think of that saying. You know the one. The one about the eyes being the windows to the soul. And even though Spike doesn't have one, not really, he can see right through to the core of him.
He sees that Spike is truly, terribly shaken.
A waver in that darker-than-wine voice. "Fuck," he whispers weakly, shaking his head against Xander's bare chest. "Oh, bloody, buggering fuck."
Xander knows exactly how he feels.
Neither of them say anything. They just silently get dressed. Spike won't look at him as he shrugs into his duster. Has to wear it bare-chested; the tee shirt's gone for good. Just a scrap of torn black on the floor. Did Xander do that? God almighty.
His fingers tremble as he grips the steering wheel and drives them back home. Spike's sitting as far away from him as possible, staring out the window, a cigarette burning between his fingers. Xander doesn't comment on the fact that Spike's hands are shaking, and he's getting ash all over the place.
Oh, God, I am so screwed. Literally.
About a block away from home, Spike finally breaks the silence. "So," he says in a dull, flat voice. "Gonna take me back to your pit and tie me up again, then? Back to normal."
He should tie him up. Should lock him up in a closet somewhere, where Spike can't be seen or heard. He's dangerous. He's bad. He has beautiful eyes.
Xander's voice sounds very small, even to his own ears. "No," he says. "I don't think I will. I think ... I think-"
"I think we're going to have to do that again."
He sighs. "Yeah. Oh, man, yeah."
Oh, yeah. Xander's definitely losing his mind.
More silence. Just a moment. And then there's a quicksilver grin from Spike's direction. "God, you're so gay," he says. Xander rolls his eyes.
"Oh, shut up, Spike."