By Minim Calibre
Story Notes: Spoilers through Conversations With Dead People
Disclaimer: Belong to Fox, ME, Joss, etc. Not mine.
He knows he's dreaming. For starters, he's sitting in his parents' basement, wearing just a novelty thong from his Oxnard days. Second, Oz is in the room with him, slouching in a ratty chair, his face blanker than usual.
"Hey," he hears himself say.
Oz looks up. "Hey."
"Hanging out in my subconscious again?"
Xander's been having this dream a lot lately, ever since Spike moved in. Repeat viewings somehow fail to make it better.
"Look, Oz, I said I was sorry last night."
Oz shrugs. "Your dream, not mine."
"I just... I never managed to make it up to you."
"Yet somehow, you keep trying. Weird, isn't it?" Oz sounds bemused by the whole thing. He shouldn't be; they've been over this.
Xander hates his subconscious sometimes. Often. Always.
He gets up off the edge of the bed and moves towards Oz, his hips swiveling and jerking like the bastard offspring of Elvis and one of those Hula girl car ornaments. Trust his head to come up with something even more humiliating than going to class naked. He loops his hands behind his neck, arms thrust out to the sides to balance him as he gyrates, pelvis grinding into Oz's face.
"Your definition of 'make it up to me' is kind of weird," Oz comments as the bow-tie on the thong brushes his nose.
"He's repressing again." Xander looks over in the corner, where Larry sits with his head twisted awkwardly to one side. "It's really okay," Larry adds. "Sorry I never got around to putting that announcement in the paper for you."
He's trapped. It'll loop until he wakes up, and when he wakes up, he'll be as stiff as a two-by-four.
Spike never knows who the visitor will be, though it's most often Buffy, sometimes Dru. Tonight he wishes it were one of them, one of his victims, anyone but the figure in silk and leather that's standing in front of him with casual malice. Dark eyes burn holes through him, leaving him in cinders and ash, reducing him to nothing.
"Don't kid yourself," Angelus says with a grin. "You've always been nothing."
He tries to curl into a ball beneath the thin cotton sheet, tries to hide his face and cover his ears to block out the knowing leer and sneering words. Knows it's useless, tries anyway—the life and unlife story of William the Bloody in five short words.
A sound like an off-key scale fills the room, slides beneath his fingers and floods his head. He knows the sound well—the slow descent of a zipper and the soft thud of Angelus releasing cock from cage. He drops his hands, lifts his head. Readies himself for his punishment. It will be prolonged, and it will be harsh: Angelus has never been one to make it quick or spare the rod.
Angelus takes hold of himself with one large, white hand and starts stroking as he speaks. "Doesn't matter what you do, does it Spike? I've always been there first, and I've always done it better. Violence, women, repenting. You're just a cheap imitation. There's no art in you."
Spike can't look away from the engorged cock, thick and dark with stolen blood. When it comes to Angelus, he's always been a voyeur. Stolen glances from the confines of his wheelchair while Dru screamed for Daddy, careful observation from rooftops and through windows.
"You think those noises and screams were something, Spike, you should have heard her the first time." The hand moves a little faster, fingers maneuvering the foreskin so the eye flashes a vulgar wink in Spike's direction. "Hell, you should have smelled her. So much blood, and that was before I bit her."
Envy fills him, followed fast by shame as he realizes the thought of Dru helpless and violated arouses him. "Shove off. I'm not like that."
"You were. Not that you were any good at it; like I said, there's no art in you. You always needed me to break them in for you."
"That isn't true."
Angelus laughs at him. "Face facts, Spike. Best you've ever been able to do is my sloppy seconds. The only reason Dru and Buffy ever looked twice at you was because they were already broken. You'll never know what it's like, having the real thing. Buffy was so fresh, so young. Just how you like them. Little lacking in skill, but she made up for it with enthusiasm." He thrusts his hips as he says it. "She even had a maidenhead to break. I wasn't expecting that; it was just frosting on the birthday cake."
"SHUT UP!" Spike reaches blindly beside the bed, finds a beer bottle and throws it at his tormenter...
...who vanishes as the bottle shatters against the door.
He's letting Oz and Larry take turns fucking him when he hears the sound of breaking glass and wakes up. It's coming from Spike's room. Great. The night has gone from bad to more bad. Xander doesn't bother putting on a robe; Spike will just have to deal with the tent in the old Harris boxers.
Xander will just have to deal with the tent in Spike's sheets. He looks at the brown glass littering the floor, then back at the naked vampire.
"This is the thanks I get for letting you stay in my house? Ground glass in my carpet and beer-smell all over the place? What's next, cigarette burns on the walls?"
Spike just looks at him like he's seeing someone else, then lunges at him before Xander can get out of the way. Slim hands tug at Xander's underwear, yank it down and start stroking his cock. Maybe he's still dreaming. He hopes he's still dreaming—it would give him an excuse for enjoying it.
Xander can feel the carpet under his ass (cut loop, man-made fiber, typical apartment quality), which is more sensation than he usually gets when he's sleeping. He's about to push Spike off of him and go back to bed when Spike's mouth replaces his hands and there's no way in hell Xander's moving until this is all over. Beggars can't be choosers, especially when they didn't ask for the gift horse or the mouth.
It's a harder mouth than Anya's, which is the only thing he has for comparison. He may have gotten to third base with Cordelia, but she was the one on the receiving end, and Faith was more of a get-in-get-off-get-out girl. He tries to think about it rationally, about the fact that he's on his back getting a blow-job from someone he hates, but Spike sucks a little harder, digs his fingers into Xander's hips as he pulls him closer, and all Xander can think is that he needs to get laid more, because he's missed it.
A firm tongue traces the head of his cock, gets that little part just below and teases it while the suction increases. Vamp strength also applies to the mouth, and for once, it's something Xander's happy about. Spike's still an evil, disgusting, dead, untrustworthy thing, but it looks like Buffy and Anya were right about what he's good for. On that thought, he comes—hard. His hands tangle in Spike's hair, keeping his head in place until Xander's wad is thoroughly shot.
When his mind clears, he shoves him away in disgust. "This never happened," Xander says as he backs out of the room.
Spike looks up at him, his mouth smeared with evidence to the contrary, but he doesn't say a word.