Work Text:
Xander dropped into a neutral stance, weight balanced and arms ready. Nothing like spending six months training Slayers to drum the basics into your system. He'd unconsciously turned his back to Spike and, when he glanced over, he noticed that Spike had mirrored his position.
The part of his brain not focused on the vamps was stunned. "He trusts me. He thinks I've got his back." The majority of his brain was cataloguing their targets. Hmm...the males were dressed in cargo pants, and one girl vamp was wearing a Juicy sweat suit. Comfy and trendy, their clothes wouldn't hinder the fight. He'd helped Buffy with too many vamps in funeral clothes to underestimate wardrobe in a scuffle.
"Guess who's coming to dinner, " said the vamp with the nose and eyebrow rings. The tone was menacing, but the way his eyes shifted to the rest of his crew revealed his lack of assurance in his command role. And that gave Xander all the confidence he needed.
"Wow, a film major. Haven't run into many of those, though the up all-night and hanging out in darkness, bit of a natural fit. So, did you guys draw straws for the leadership role? Cause I'm thinking if Pinhead's planning is as lame as his threats, well, I was hoping for a fight is all."
Pinhead's eyes flashed at that blatant attack to his skills, and he leapt forward without backup. Xander had been watching for that and moved his arm forward to match him, letting the vamp impale himself on Xander's extended stake.
And then, right on schedule, all hell broke loose. Well, not all hell, but...
There were fists and feet to dodge; a few of them came at him, snarling but with no skill. He stepped away from Spike in order to get room to swing the battle-ax and do some beheading. *poof* *poof*
"I love the sound of dusting in the evening," he drawled.
Spike grinned and continued the line without a pause. "Sounds like...victory."
The vamps' numbers had dropped from eight to two. Both he and Spike were playing with the last ones when suddenly he felt a burn on his left thigh.
"Hey! No fair using knives. Aren't supernatural speed and strength enough of an advantage?" he huffed indignantly while ending the fight with another beheading, and heard another poof from Spike's side.
"And the Surgeon General recommends thirty minutes of cardio per workout. How long did that take us? Eight minutes? Damn," Xander inhaled with a hiss. This was just so not his night. Possessed Tupperware and now knife-wielding vamps. "I'd hoped for a little more action, umm… of a workout, but guess I should take care of this." He turned to Spike for agreement.
"Harris, when did you pick up some fighting skills? Good moves there, and your banter's better than the Bot's."
"Like that's a compliment. No marzipan in MY pie plate, and I really don't want to know what she thought that meant."
"You're bleeding, pet."
Xander just rolled his eyes at that comment. "Yes, I'm bleeding. No, it's not that deep. Just need to clean it because, while I know you keep your weapon clean--this lot? They could barely keep human face. Fledges." Xander spat out the last word.
"Getting a little discriminatory in your battles there, aren't you, Harris?" Yup, amused Spike was in the house, and nope, a white boy from Sunnydale just couldn't say that. "I don't know what type of gunk I've got back at the apartment."
And that comment sounded...concerned? It took Xander a minute to translate.
"Oh, first aid stuff? The Council's apartment's well stocked. I'll just head back there. Guess it's an early night."
"No cabs in this neighborhood. And should you be walking on that?"
Concern was good. Babying, bad. And the pain in his leg was letting its presence be known.
"It's fine, MOM. Trust me, after eight years of being sidekick, I know my injuries." He stormed off down the street. Then, having a Homer "d'oh" moment, turned back to Spike. "Um, where are we?"
****************
After an acceptable amount of ribbing from Spike, they found themselves outside of a modern condominium complex, all glass and steel.
"Quite the digs," Spike commented dryly.
"Council had money and real estate everywhere, kind of like the Hellfire Club, but without Emma Frost or the Chess leadership structure. I thought it would be more stone and wood and, Council-like, you know, but..." and, with a shrug, Xander wandered into the building, pausing only when he realized he was alone.
"Aren't you coming up?"
"Thought Angel's crew was on the outs with you lot. Sure about this?"
"Hmm, something to piss off Angel AND Giles at the same time? To use a Spikism, 'are you daft?' 'Course you're invited. Plus, the Council so owes me after not warning me that I was being replaced." The last part was muttered as Xander headed toward the bank of elevators.
Should have known better than to mutter near a vampire. Or maybe he had. Spike had been--companiony and a bit with the kisses. Maybe he wouldn't laugh as Xander lost yet another job. He could always go back to construction, he guessed. Nice daylight work, no Hellmouths or demons. Or no attacking demons. A crypt for two danced across his brain, but that must have been the pain talking.
"Come again, pet?" There was an unexpected harshness in Spike's voice, jolting Xander from Fantasy Island before Tattoo showed up shouting "De plane, de plane!".
He sighed. All he wanted was a hot shower and some painkillers. But no, he'd decided to try and show off to the bleached, annoying one. Not that the condo was his. So not even reflected glory there, but-- yeah, he'd been showing off. Xander has the stones to face down the Council. Like, right. He hadn't even called to clarify why they'd replaced him.
"It was stocked by the tweed crowd, so I think there's some scotch. Not sure about JD, but I think Andrew left a couple of Zimas behind." Distract the vamp with alcohol. Hey, it was a plan. Maybe not a good plan, but goody for him to have any plan because this cut was now at the lovely throbbing stage. He just couldn't wait to rip the denim off it and start the blood flowing again. Funness all round.
"Right hospitable of you, what with it being other people's alcohol, but what's this about a replacement? Here to lick your wounds, are ya?" Yup, snide Spike was in full effect.
They'd reached the door to the penthouse suite. The Council may have been stuffy, but they'd had great taste in real estate. "Come on in, Spike."
Xander paused inside the threshold, trying to see the place with new eyes. The living room with its overstuffed oxblood leather sofa set, connected to the kitchen with a breakfast bar. A flat-screen TV was situated on one burgundy wall, while the floor-to-ceiling windows completed the room. The floor was a dark wood covered with scattered oriental rugs.
Spike let out a low whistle. "And we've been hanging out in my dump of a place, why?" he asked as he headed toward a lit cabinet filled with bottles.
Avoidance was one skill he'd perfected early. "I'm taking a quick shower." He hightailed it to the master bedroom's en suite bathroom. Intent on reaching the shower stall, Xander barely felt something move under his foot until--
"DAMN!" He wouldn't cry. He'd just slipped, crumbling on his sore leg, and hey, watch how the might-less have fallen. It wasn't like it hurt. It was just one more indignity heaped upon him today. Before he could get to the wallowing, there was a thump on the door.
"Harris? You okay?"
So did not need a mother hen vamp right now.
"Harris!"
"Fine, I'm fine. Wet towel, bad depth perception. Yet another prime moment for the Zeppo."
In his rush, he hadn't locked the door, a small fact that Spike just caught on to.
"Hey, personal space! Look it up!"
"Sounds like the last thing you need is more space, mate. Here, let me have a look at that, then." Spike gently pulled Xander's leg straight, so that he could examine the cut.
"You're right, not too deep, doesn't look like it'll need stitches."
Stitches, he hadn't even considered stitches. Not so good with needles, a fact that the missing buttons on most of his Sunnydale shirts could attest to. "Whatcha going to do, kiss it better?" he sneered. And, in a moment that made a Terry Gilliam film look normal, Xander almost could have sworn that Spike would.
Then thoughts of that blond head bending over his lap, and licking... Snyder in the shower! Uncle Rory in the shower! Spike can smell arousal. Stupid body. He glared at the floor, blinking away tears of frustration. How many more ways could he look like a fool?
A cool hand cupped his chin, forcing him to look up into eyes that didn't hold the pity he expected and feared. Rather, they held something closer to...understanding? And, in answer to his earlier question, there was at least one more way to look foolish. He burst into tears.
Arms were around him, rocking him. He heard, above the god-awful sound of his hiccupy sobs, a shush-shushing noise interspersed with "there, there" and "I've got you, pet". He cried his anger at being betrayed by the gang, his fear of returning to mere doughnut boy for the heroic, his frustration with his lack of normal vision, his fear of always being left out or left alone, his disappointment with his life, his incompetence in general, and his embarrassment in letting Spike see him this way. Yup, brand new seduction method: cry like a baby. And that thought brought back his usual m.o.: laughter in the face of the inevitable.
"What are you up to now?"
He glanced up to see a truly bewildered, and mildly snot-covered, Spike.
There'd been too much talking. Too much avoidance. If his life was going to hell in a handbasket, why not take an experienced tour guide along for the ride? He leaned in and kissed Spike with all the longing, anger, frustration, and want that he'd just put into his outburst, attacking him with a maelstrom of emotions as well as lips, tongue, hands, and body. There was no finesse, no skill, just deep primal NEED.
A need that was matched and reflected back at him as the arms turned from comforting to clinging, bands of steel keeping him close.
There was heat, bodies rubbing bodies, hands running over backs, exploring muscles and trailing down to previously forbidden zones. Xander couldn't tell where he stopped and where Spike started. Their mouths were fused. Lips mashed, tongues entwined. He could taste beer and menthol and the burning of good scotch, he could taste blood but wasn't sure whose it was. He forced one of his hands upward, to break through that bicycle helmet of a hair style that Spike favored, feeling the soft curls at the nape of his neck, feeling fingers tugging at his long locks, holding his head and his lips tight against Spike's. While part of their chests were rubbing against each other, there was too much space where friction was desperately needed. Xander tried to move closer, only to bump legs against legs. He growled his frustration into Spike's mouth, feeling more than hearing an answering growl. As one they rose on their knees, Xander felt a shot of pain where his jeans pulled at his clotted-over wound, reopening it. He heard Spike sniff, and knew that if he opened his eyes, he'd be looking not into cobalt blue, but yellow topaz, eyes.
He opened his eyes. Saw blood lust and lust and then a sudden shot of...was it fear? Shame? Those emotions didn't belong there. Didn't match the kisses they'd just shared. Didn't bode well for further activities. And Xander so wanted there to be further activities. Not just a one-night stand, either. And that thought had Xander leaning back in confusion.
Some of what he was feeling must have crossed his face, because it was Spike's turn to laugh.
"Heard 'bout kissing someone stupid, but didn't believe it 'til now."
"Given your usual comments, didn't think I'd have far to go for that one," Xander retorted, letting good humor carry forward. Confusion he could deal with a la Scarlett. Tomorrow is another day. He tried to move his left leg and groaned. Yup, so not up for sexcapades of any sort.
"Looks like that leg needs tending to."
Funny how that voice could make parts of him leap to attention. Looking into Spike's dilated eyes, Xander thought fuck it.
"The shower stall's big enough for two. Want to help?"