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Notes: Contribution fic #...5? zandra_x requested Spander, any way. Sunnyside up, scrambled, poached...whatever. Here's the first part of an AU Spander PWP that fills that bill, I hope. May or may not be continued, depending on the usual things: RL, time management, sanity levels. This is deeply, deeply unedited,and it combines elements from about four other Spander stories I've written. It also includes porn. For those reasons--it's a mishmash of stuff, it's porntastic, it's messy--and because I am totally shameless, I hereby christen it: Gloryhole NC-17 AU Spander PWP OMGWTF?
Gloryhole part 1
When the end of the world finally happened for real, it wasn't so much an "end" per se, as an endlessly repeating coda, a sort of subliminal, hummable tune that got into your brain and made everything less than a pleasure from there on out. President For Life Marsha had her shit together; nobody could doubt that. The problem was, she had her shit so very much together that life under vampire rule was even more boring than it had been when humans ran the show. The trains arrived on time and humans were cattle. Hoo bloody ray for the vampire nation, Spike reflected, flipping another quarter into the shot glass on the far side of the table. Now they could spend eternity holding down jobs and tutting over the latest episode of The Blood and the Beautiful. Just like humans used to do. More or less.
"There's a reason they had such bloody boring lives," he said aloud, to nobody in particular. He was alone at the table. Forsythe's clientele was a different sort--most of them didn't have two-tone hair or leather coats or black fingernails. Most of them were clean, expensive, upper-class vampires: women with blow-outs and simple manicures, man with metrosexual hair and black turtlenecks under their suit jackets. Modeled after the elite of human society, circa the end of the world. It was getting to be an old look by now, but Spike probably wasn't anyone to cast stones in that department. He was a holdover from an even earlier era, albeit one who'd made a few changes along the way. Anyway, he stuck out in the Forsythe's crowd like a mutt in a litter of Weimeraners, but it was okay, because Forsythe owed Spike a sizeable amount of money, and that gave Spike the right to drink whatever he wanted, at any table he wanted, as long as he wanted to be there.
He didn't actually want to be there very long. Forsythe's was stifling, boring, the worst of the new vampire world. He usually did his drinking on the other side of town, in the rocker bars, where there was at least one knock-down drag-out a night, and where the bartenders all knew he drank whiskey with a blood chaser. He only came to Forsythe's on occasion, to check in on his investment and do a little breathing down Staunton's neck. Staunton P. Forsythe, P. for Percival. A lot of people reinvented themselves when they turned. Sometimes it was hard to understand the logic.
"Spike!" That was Forsythe himself, hurrying out in a neat grey suit, looking every bit the nervous, craven twit he'd always been, his little pink fingers running over his tie as he came. "So great to see you!"
Spike leaned back in his chair, legs spread, and surveyed little Forsythe with heavy-lidded eyes. Forsythe had a crush on him; he knew it, Forsythe knew he knew it. It was fun to play with that. "Forsythe. Where's my money?"
Forsythe gave a nervous laugh and glanced around, while his fingers relentlessly smoothed his tie. "Why don't you...let's take this into the back, shall we?"
Spike nodded at his glass. "Not finished my drink."
"I'll have them do another for you." Forsythe turned and snapped his fingers; the bar lackey dove for the bottle. Whatever else you said about him, Forsythe inspired a respectable amount of fear in his underlings. That was why Spike had lent him the money in the first place; he was a born businessman, a safe bet. Nothing ranked higher in Forsythe's stunted worldview than status, and these days there was no quicker path to status than money. Third verse, same as the first.
Spike sighed and stood up. He was about six inches taller than Forsythe, which was nice for both of them. Wasn't often Spike got to be taller than other men. Wasn't often Forsythe got to tremble deliciously like that.
"I have something I think you'll enjoy very much," he whispered, leaning forward slightly on the tips of his toes. His breath smelled of mints.
"My money back?" Spike drained his glass in one go and banged it down on the table. A couple of people looked over with frowns.
"Something else," Forsythe whispered, his eyes widening and flickering yellow. "I think you'll be very...intrigued."
The back halls of Forsythe's were a labyrinth, full of white-suited waiters bussing trays, black-shirted bouncers in important cell phone conversations, impatient pantsuited women studying clipboards. They all glanced up as Spike and Forsythe passed, but didn't show any interest. Everyone had a job, apparently, and knew how to do it. Good for them; it might mean Spike actually got his money back someday.
"Six percent," he said, following Forsythe with his hands in his pockets, dawdling a little, playing along. "What is that, now--been three years, hasn't it?"
"About the money," Forsythe said, running a hand over his thinning hair. "I'm absolutely ready to repay you, Spike, and I can do it right now if you like, but I thought you should know, I've come across this incredible opportunity, a man I know on the West Side is letting go of two storefronts, prime real estate, already outfitted, perfect location. And he's selling for cheap, real sacrifice price, it's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity--"
"I bet," Spike said, hooking a canapé off a waiter's passing tray. Blood jelly. Not bad.
"Well, I only mention it as a point of interest, because of course you've been more than patient about the loan, and I understand completely if you'd like to just collect now, as I said, it's no problem, but if you'd like to wait another, say, six months, I can repay you at, shall we say, seven and a half percent?"
"Outfitted for what?" They were coming up to a locked door; Forsythe took a ring of keys from his pocket.
"Well, that's what I'd like to talk to you about," he said, sorting the keys with an air of absorption. "I think it's better I show you, rather than simply telling you just like that, don't you?"
Spike watched Forsythe open the door, then raised an eyebrow at him when he turned back with an earnest expression.
"Show me what?" he asked.
Forsythe made an after-you gesture, and Spike peered through warily. The hall they'd been walking through had been clean, white, utilitarian. The hall on the other side of the door was carpeted, with dark red walls and warm lights. A large, musclebound vamp in a black T shirt and jeans stood a little way down it beside a closed door, his back to the wall, his arms dangling. He didn't look at Spike.
Spike turned back to Forsythe. "What is this?"
"I've been dabbling," Forsythe said, with a slightly mischievous air. "In gaming."
Spike looked back down the hall. Now that Forsythe said it, he could smell humans down there. There were a couple of other doors down there, all closed. Now that Forsythe said it, he could hear faint sounds coming from somewhere. Urgent, rhythmic sounds. Faint, but definite.
"We're still perfecting the soundproofing," Forsythe said, "but overall, the plans have worked out very well."
Spike gave him another look, then walked through the door. The carpet was so thick it made the footing a little unsteady, and he frowned. "What poof designed this?"
"Oh, well..." Forsythe laughed self-deprecatingly, locking the door again after them. "I did, actually."
Spike stood where he was, not sure what he was supposed to be doing. The big vamp down the hallway just stood there, not acknowledging them, his eyes on the wall opposite. The sounds were coming from the room behind him, Spike realized. He was clearly standing there as a kind of watchdog, or maybe an insurance policy. Humans weren't cheap, after all.
"You got a license for this?" he asked, realizing Forsythe was at his elbow again.
"Do you know what the penalties are for running a gaming establishment without a license?" Forsythe paused as if he expected an answer. Spike said nothing. "Well, they're steep. Yes, I have a license, for a trial period, and I have to say, this has been one of our most profitable ventures. The market for high-level gaming is more than you'd expect."
"Enough for you to pay me back at six percent?" Spike found his hands fiddling with his cigarette packet and lighter, deep in his pockets. He'd never got that second drink, he realized. Just at the moment, he regretted that.
"Oh, well, as I said, I'd be happy to do that, except there's this incredibly opportunity to expand the operation, the buildings are outfitted already, the market's there and ready to pay, it's a no-lose proposition, really. So by all means, I can pay you back today, we can go right down to my office and I'll cut you a check, or, if you're interested, six months from now I can repay you at seven percent--"
"Seven and a half."
"Seven and a half, right, sorry, slip of the tongue--but anyway, it's a surefire moneymaker, and frankly, before you decide, I highly suggest that you give the service a try."
"Give it a try." Spike found himself being shepherded gently down the hall toward another closed door.
"Sure, yeah, see what you'll be investing in. I guarantee you, you try it once, you'll be sold."
"Not only the president, but a customer?" Spike ignored Forsythe's look of polite incomprehension--some people just hadn't watched enough late-night telly, back in the day--and stood aside for another round of key-fumbling.
"Sorry," Forsythe muttered, while Spike craned his neck to look back down the hall the way they'd come. He could hear faint little cries, now--hard to tell if they were a man's or a woman's. And a lower sound, a vibrating growl. His cock started to take an interest in all this, even while his brain remained skeptical.
"Sorry, sorry, I'm working on keypads, take care of all this, should be getting them next week--" Forsythe finally fitted the right key into the lock, and opened the door. "After you."
With a strange sense of horny foreboding, Spike went through.
The room on the other side of the door was red-walled, deep-carpeted, warmly lit. It had a low, soft-looking sofa, a fireplace, a Klimt on the wall. It was laid-back and expensive-looking. Cozy. The kind of place an upper-class knob would want to come home to, kick off his shoes after a hard day crunching numbers at the abbatoirs, have a drink, and screw the missus into the deep-pile. Spike was sort of horrified to realize that the image wasn't totally repulsive to him.
"Oh, good." Forsythe was walking in ahead of him, stuffing the keys into his pocket. "They've brought your drink in."
A whiskey and blood chaser were sitting on the coffee table in front of the sofa, Spike realized. His drink, right. He stayed where he was, his hands in his pockets, resisting the appeal.
"This is the salon," Forsythe said, pouring himself a drink at the bar, and pronouncing salon in the French way. Twit. "This is where the clientele can enjoy a drink, perhaps some conversation...or just make their selection."
"Selection."
"Yes, we have a small stable at the moment, but they're all absolutely top of the line. So far, customer satisfaction has been one hundred percent. And not a single fatality in six months."
"Terrific." Spike walked over to the fireplace and soaked up some warmth. "Risky business, though, isn't it? Some yob gets a bit too excited, next thing you know your investment's ripped into little bits all over the sheets." He contemplated that for a minute. "Messy."
"Yes, but the secret to this business is, don't do business with yobs." Forsythe turned around, took an economical swig of his gin and tonic, and headed back to the coffee table. "The Forsythe's clientele is discriminating. These are people who understand the value of a front-end investment. We explain our policies clearly, and we're prepared to enforce them if we have to. We've almost never had to."
"Good on you." Spike watched with narrowed eyes while Forsythe picked up a leather-bound album from the coffee table. "What's that, the menu?"
"If you like." Forsythe held it out. "Care to see what's on it?"
Spike stayed where he was, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. Forsythe sipped his drink with a look of unconcern, then smiled.
"Come on, Spike," he said. "We both know you're interested. No commitment. Just a free spin of the wheel, and if you like what you get..." He shrugged. "We can discuss details later."
Spike said nothing. The fire was warm on the backs of his legs, and the drinks were starting to settle into him now. He had a pleasant, weightless feeling, and thought, What the hell. Life was bloody boring, and here was someone offering him a little spice. Why not take it?
"Yeah," he said, walking over to pick up his whiskey and take the album from Forsythe's hand. "Why not?"
"Indeed," Forsythe said, settling into an armchair with a look of satisfaction.
The album was divided into two sections, he saw right away--men and women. Whiskey cradled in his hand, he leafed through the women. Not that many of them, as Forsythe had said, but they did look good. Couple of them with black hair and eyes, white skin, slender builds--he wasn't the only vamp who liked that look. Each page had the woman's name, a couple of photographs, a few words about what she did best.
"Nice one, that," Forsythe said, looking over his shoulder. "Bought her off e-bay, from a Moroccan."
"Romantic," Spike said, and kept flipping.
He got all the way through the women--six in all--then went back for a second look. Maybe one of the black-haired ones... But there was something strange about it. She was beautiful, she did a few things he particularly liked, and yet he felt no rush of anticipation. No rush of anything, in fact. His cock had gone back to sleep, now that it couldn't hear sounds of actual business transactions behind closed doors. He studied the woman's photograph, thinking of Dru in Buenos Aires, that bloody linen-suited chaos demon, the roses flushed down the toilet...
"See anything you like?" Forsythe was hovering, a little eagerly, his eyes skipping from the book to Spike's face. Spike shook off the memory, slugged some whiskey, and closed the book.
"Nice business you've got here, Forsythe. Not really my style, though."
"You didn't look all the way through." Forsythe looked a little hurt, as if Spike had failed to fully appreciate the baby photos in his wallet. "There's another section."
"Like I said, not really my style." Spike started to tip the book back onto the table, but Forsythe caught it out of his hand.
"Fair enough, but you might as well see the full array of our offerings." His tone was a little abrupt, a little offended; this was clearly not how he had expected things to go. "We have a full license, we serve a diverse clientele..."
"I'm sure you do," Spike said, rubbing his forehead while Forsythe flipped through the final pages of the book. Young men this time, a couple of them practically boys, blonde and blue-eyed, then red-haired, then Asian. "Look, I'm not interested, all right? I--" He stopped, and sat staring at the book, still in Forsythe's hands. "Go back one."
Forsythe looked up, quickly assessed Spike's expression, and flipped back a page. "This one?"
Brown skin, brown eyes, dark brown hair. Shy, happy, white-toothed smile. Jug-handle ears and big muscled shoulders and no shirt on, thank God, his taste in shirts was always excruciating. Lying on a bed with his head on his crossed arms, a bad tattoo of a cross on one of them. Surprising they let him keep that, or maybe it was a kink for some people. Xander Harris. Former Scooby, former Slayerette, former white hat. Current occupation: high-class prostitute.
"Sweet boy," Forsythe said, studying the picture. "Very willing, very talented. But of course, that's not really your style."
"What's his name?" Spike asked, brain rattling along at high speed, trying to stay ahead of things.
"Troy," Forsythe said. "But you can call him whatever you want."
Spike sat there a second, thinking, Troy? Jesus Christ, they were totally shameless. But then, considering what their business was, that was probably par for the course. "I want him. But I just want to talk to him."
Forsythe eased the book closed, and gave Spike an understanding look. "Of course you do. I'll send him in."
Spike considered a retort, but he'd already made the not my style comment twice, and he didn't owe Forsythe any explanations anyway. He just sat there, turning his glass in his hand, while Forsythe got up and put the book back on a shelf by the bar.
"He'll be in shortly," he said, pausing by the door on the far side of the room. "I'll make sure Lou knows this one's gratis. When you're through, if you'd care to talk about that investment opportunity..." He waved a hand, as if that were too inconsequential for words. "I'll be in my office. Lou can tell you where it is."
"Lou?" Spike frowned, but Forsythe was already letting himself out.
Alone with the fireplace and his whiskey, Spike spent a few minutes thinking about the Slayer and her merry little band. Last he'd heard, Rupert had met an untimely end at the hands of a vamp gang passing through Sunnydale; apparently Anyanka and Glinda had gone down at the same time. There'd been that brief period when the Slayer and Red had fought the good fight all the way to LA, and almost managed to turn things around. Xander had been with them then, maybe. Maybe not. So much of this was third-hand; Spike himself had left Sunnydale a year or two before Marsha got hold of the Orb. When the big hand met the little hand for humanity, he'd been hanging out in punk bars in New York. Thought he'd got rid of California once and for all, but here it was again, in the shape of Xander Harris. Bad penny, Ancient Mariner, and now, apparently, rent boy.
The door opened and he looked up sharply, feeling a strangely nervous, guilty thrill. The first person through wasn't Xander Harris, or even Troy--it was a big, muscle-bound vamp in a black T shirt and jeans. Lou. Of course.
"Good evening," Lou said. Spike just sat there. Lou didn't seem offended. He went over to the wall by the bar and blended in, his hands clasped loosely in front of his body.
Spike didn't spend much time looking at Lou, though, because Xander had just walked into the room. He was wearing dark pants, a loose cream-colored shirt. That was a surprise, and Spike was immediately annoyed with himself for being surprised. What had he thought, that Xander was going to walk around naked all the time? That wouldn't exactly be setting the high tone Forsythe valued so much. The clothes were nice, they sat well and looked good, and he had to admit, for once in his life, Harris looked...decent. Better than decent. Handsome.
Better than handsome, really. Top-of-the-line beautiful, the kind of lean, smooth, brown-skinned body that people would pay to fuck, and he carried it with a kind of loose, slouching diffidence that only froze up when he saw who was sitting on the couch.
They stared at each other for a few long seconds. The room was silent.
Then something dropped in Xander's face, like the garage door closing over a business for the night, and at the same time, he smiled. He didn't look surprised, now. He looked like he was finally having an experience he'd seen coming for a long time. Resigned, but not bitter. At least not obviously.
"Hi," he said. "I'm Troy."
The fuck you are, Spike said. Out loud, for Lou's benefit, he said: "Spike."
"I like your hair, Spike," Xander said, still smiling. "Can I get you a drink?"
"Got one." Spike raised his glass as evidence, then just sat there. Fascinated, waiting to see how this was going to go.
"Great. Mind if I sit with you?" Xander was already walking over to the sofa. He was barefoot, Spike noticed. Well, if he never left the building, that made sense. There was something strange about seeing Harris's feet bare, though. Strange to know a man for years and then, without warning, see his toes.
Xander settled onto the sofa, his body a loose, casual sprawl, one arm extended along the cushion behind Spike's head. He was warm, and he smelled of clean skin, shampoo, and blood. You didn't run into a lot of humans just walking around on the street these days; Spike had almost forgotten that smell. He was starting to see why there was such a market for this kind of thing. A live human, clean and good-looking and well-kept. Ready and willing to pour you a drink, admire your hair, talk to you, fuck you. These days, you could probably charge a hundred dollars an hour for that kind of thing. For all Spike knew, they did.
"First time coming here?" Xander's voice was smooth, calm, friendly. If Spike hadn't just seen that look on his face, that moment of frozen shock, he'd have thought Xander hadn't recognized him. He still wore that easy smile, the one he'd never worn in Sunnydale.
"Could say that." Spike sipped his drink and glanced at Lou. "Owner's a friend of mine. First time I heard he was running a gaming operation, though."
Xander nodded. "Great place, huh?"
What the fuck are you on? Spike wondered. "Looks like a bloody Pottery Barn."
To his complete and total surprise, Xander laughed. He was pretty, laughing. Big white smile, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. Spike found himself smiling back, just a little. "Pottery Barn, yeah. I'd forgotten about that place."
It was on the tip of Spike's tongue to say, Anyanka dragged you there enough, though-- But Lou was still there, blended into the wallpaper, and so far Spike wasn't sure exactly what the rules were. He turned his smile down into his drink, and kept quiet.
"It's nice, though." Xander was looking around at the room, as if appreciating it for the first time. "They did a good job, and it's solid."
Spike glanced up. "Solid?"
"Well, you know. They didn't scrimp, they got the good stuff. It's not going to fall down in a year or anything." A brief pause, and then a charming, self-conscious smile. "Sorry. I'm kind of into construction stuff."
Spike sat there, wheels spinning. Xander was playing the I-don't-know-you game, right. Fair enough. But at the same time, he seemed to be talking in a kind of code, saying things that pointed back in the general direction of Sunnydale and his former life. Maybe he did that with everyone? Dropped bits and pieces of himself in to keep the conversation going, until the momentum picked up and he didn't have to talk anymore?
Or maybe he was doing it on purpose. Baiting Spike. Or trying to get him to say something, do something.
"Yeah?" Spike leaned forward and traded the whiskey for the blood shot. Did the shot neatly and put the glass back down on the table. "You get much chance to play builder around here?"
Another quiet laugh. No bitterness, somehow. "Nah, they've got guys a lot more qualified than me. Maybe if they need a doghouse sometime..." Xander trailed off, and Spike glanced at him. Xander's lips were still quirked, and the expression on his face was almost fond. "Can I--?"
He lifted his hand to touch Spike's face, and Spike sat stonily, expecting--he wasn't sure. Not sure what was going on at all. Xander's fingers brushed his cheek and jaw, and his thumb ran over the corner of Spike's mouth. Warm and firm.
"You had a little blood," he said, by way of explanation. Dropping his hand and wiping his thumb down the leg of his trousers. Smiling.
Spike sat in silence, still feeling the warmth against his skin. He hadn't been touched by a human in years. Not voluntarily, at least. Not gently, like that. The response was immediate, automatic--he was getting hard, his gums were itching. His body never consulted him about these things.
"Thanks," he said numbly, like a complete moron. Xander's smile turned understanding.
"Listen, the rooms here are really nice. If you like luxury, that is."
God, it was weird to hear him doing that. Talking the way he used to, glib and sharp. That was Xander Harris sitting across from him, for Christ's sake. Xander bloody Harris, who once tied him to a reclining lounger in a pestilent basement apartment, who wore Hawaiian shirts and ate Ho-Hos, who never missed an opportunity to tell Spike how little love was lost between them. Who was now politely asking him to view the back rooms of the establishment, which meant only one thing, and not Parcheesi.
Spike stared hard at Xander, trying to see something in his face that would open this up, make it all a little clearer. Trying to get Xander to make some admission, even a silent one. I see you. I know who you are.
Nothing. But Spike's cock was hard, and the corner of his mouth was tingling.
"Or maybe you'd like to take another look at the book," Xander was saying. His tone was relaxed, unoffended. "I can get it for you, if you want."
"No." Spike leaned forward, picked up his whiskey, and drained it. He was doing that a lot, he realized. "You'll do. Come on, let's go."
Lou went with them, which shouldn't have been a surprise, but which felt a little awkward nonetheless. Xander actually walked on ahead, while Lou took up what was apparently a habitual position next to the punter of the moment: in this case, Spike. It was Lou's job to outline the rules of the game, apparently.
"No biting," he said, staring straight ahead without expression. "No marks of any kind. He'll be inspected immediately afterward, and if there's anything on him, your account will be debited."
"Don't have an account," Spike said testily.
"Forsythe said this one's gratis," Lou went on, as if he hadn't heard. "You want to know the rates anyway?"
Spike shrugged.
"Either by the hour or by the piece," Lou said. "Two hundred an hour--"
"Jesus Christ."
"That covers everything. But no biting, no marks. Otherwise, you pay by the piece, and it's fifty for a blowjob, a hundred for fucking. Handjobs twenty-five. You want him to come, that's another fifty--"
"How much for you to shut up?" Spike asked, rubbing his hands through his hair. "I just want to talk to him." His cock throbbed, and he thought You shut up too at it.
Lou gave him a bored, sideways glance. "Sure. Then you pay by the hour, and whatever you do is your own business."
"And I guess you wait by the door the whole time."
"I make sure nobody gets hurt." Ahead of them, Xander turned, opened a door, and walked through, leaving it open behind him. "If I hear any kind of problem, I'll come in. I'm sure I won't hear any kind of problem, though."
"Great job you've got, there. Must hear all kinds of sweet nothings to take home to the missus."
"Use lube." Lou was holding something out--a little tube. "You don't use lube, you cause damage. You cause damage, your account--"
"I don't have an account," Spike said again, feeling a roll of combined irritation, nausea, and lust. "And I don't need lube to talk."
Lou held the tube out wordlessly. Spike stared at him. Stalemate. They were a few feet from the open door to the room Xander had gone into. Lou didn't move. He could stand there all night, Spike realized, holding out the lube like a Roman statue proffering a sheaf to the gods.
"Fine. Wanker." He grabbed the tube out of Lou's hand and started to stalk in. A heavy weight settled on his shoulder and twisted him halfway back around.
"No damage," Lou breathed in his ear. "No biting, no marks. You got that, Iggy?"
"Forsythe really gets his money's worth out of you, doesn't he?"
Lou let go of his shoulder and subsided into the wallpaper. Spike shook his arm out, jammed the lube into his pocket, and went into the room, slamming the door behind him.
"Whoah," Xander said, looking up with mild surprise. "Everything okay?" He was sitting on the edge of a nice double bed, in a nice-if-smallish room. More Klimt. Someone liked Klimt. A door on the left wall, open just enough that Spike could see a tile floor, the foot of a bathtub. No windows, no mirrors. Just the bed, and the thick carpet, and a little round armchair that Spike dropped into now.
"Fine," he said, rubbing his shoulder. "Lou's a bit of a prick though, isn't he?"
"He's kind of mother-hen sometimes, yeah." Xander was running his toes through the carpet, seeming to enjoy the feeling. "Sorry. Listen, you want me to tell him to get lost for a while?"
Spike paused, his hand on his shoulder, studying Xander through narrowed eyes. "You can do that?"
"Sure. Why not?"
"Thought he was out there protecting Forsythe's investment."
Xander didn't flinch. "He'll go if I tell him to." He stood up and started for the door. "How long, do you think--an hour?"
Spike hesitated, then shook his head. "Forget it, doesn't matter." Honestly, the fact of Lou right outside the door was a kind of investment in propriety. Or at least in keeping hold of the reins somehow. Spike was here to talk, and that was it. The lube in his pocket was just house policy.
Xander was standing in the middle of the room, hands dangling, studying him. "You sure?"
"Yeah. I'm just here to talk, doesn't matter if there's an ape on the door."
"Is your shoulder okay?" Xander didn't seem to have heard that thing about just talking--he was walking over, right into Spike's personal bubble, he was sliding his hand around the side of Spike's neck and down inside the collar of the duster. Warm, smooth skin, and a look of concern on his face. "Take this off and I'll rub it."
Xander Harris is not going to give me a neck rub, Spike thought, a little hysterically. But Xander's other hand was helping the coat off his shoulder, sliding it down his arms, and he was thumbing the sore side of Spike's neck. Firmly and gently, testing for the flinch. And for some reason, Spike was letting him do it.
"Listen," he said, his head hanging on his neck, his gaze on his own splayed knees. "I'm not here for sex, all right? No offense, just...not my style."
"Fair enough." Xander's hands were cupping the back of his neck now, stroking the muscles in firm, long pulls. Down into his back, under the collar of his shirt. "You're kind of tight back here, though. You mind if I work on it?"
Spike stared at his knees. Xander Harris had just told him, essentially, that he needed a back rub. It was the oldest line in the book. It was a classic college party pickup line. You're so tense, why don't you let me just rub you for a while? Cut to panties on the floor. Unbelievable.
And yet, at the same time, a petulant little voice in Spike's head said, I am tight back there. I am tense. I've been fucking wound up like this for years, and here's a wanker wanting to do something about it, and I'm going to say no? On account of my virtue? He had no virtue, that was the thing. And the stroking felt good, it was warm and soothing, it hit spots that hadn't been hit in months, that needed badly to be hit. Xander must know that, must know that a vamp's weak spot was his neck. Clever. And really fucking good at what he was doing.
With a sense of unease that was itself strangely delicious, Spike chose the path of least resistance, and did nothing. Xander was edging in between his knees, close enough that now he smelled not only of skin and soap, but also, very faintly, of sex. His fly was basically level with Spike's face. Probably Spike's imagination, seeing a little shift in there. A little interest. Spike closed his eyes.
"How long you been working for Forsythe?" he asked, in as neutral a tone as he could manage. He wasn't sure if they were still supposed to be talking in code; this was Xander's game. He had to call the plays.
"A year, almost." Neutral tone, right back at him. Nothing to go on there.
"Like it?"
"Sure." He could hear the smile in Xander's voice, and again, was confused by it. Where was the bitterness? "It's a great place, and they take good care of me. I'm lucky."
"Lucky." Xander's hands were kneading his lats, warming him up. Pulling him forward gently, so that his forehead was an inch, now, from Xander's belly. He could feel the body heat through Xander's shirt.
"Sure. The other humans are great, we all get along, it's kind of like a--" Xander broke off, and there was a slight hitch in his breathing, an irregularity so small that if Spike hadn't been practically face-first in his shirt, he might not have noticed it. "Do you want to lie down for this? I could do a better job that way."
"No." Spike leaned back, cutting the neck rub off abruptly. "How'd you end up here, exactly?"
Xander stood where he was, his face immobile, his eyes suddenly dark and hard to read. Spike waited. He could feel ghost warmth in his neck and back. His cock was hard, aching in his jeans.
"I was bought," Xander said slowly, his eyes fixed on Spike's face. "Forsythe bought all of us."
"Who'd he buy you from?"
"Another gamer."
"How'd you end up gaming at all? How come you didn't die with--" Spike paused, and glanced at the door. "With the rest of humanity?"
Xander just stood there, staring at him. Seconds passed. Spike started to get an unpleasant crawling sensation at the back of his neck.
"I had a friend," Xander said finally, weighing each word. A hundred pounds apiece. "She did magic. She cast a protection spell on me, to keep me alive."
Red. Stupid, smart, talented, well-meaning Red. Wouldn't have been a bad idea if the other team had won, but as it turned out, she left the Zeppo alive and alone in a world that had no point to it. That had less than no point, if you were one of the last few humans running around.
"Smart girl," Spike said out loud. Their eyes met and held.
For a moment there was something there, a husk of the old Harris, ruined and empty like the house at Revello after the looters came through. Then Xander broke the look. He glanced at the door, and when he looked back, he was smiling again. Easy, comfortable smile.
"Sorry, I shouldn't really talk about this stuff." He laced his hands at the back of his neck and pulled, loosening tension. "It's boring. How about if I work on your back a little instead?"
Spike just sat there, frowning a little. Xander sank to his knees between Spike's legs, and flashed him a grin. "Or I could suck your dick."
That made Spike blink, which was frustrating. He was trying to be unsurpriseable, unshockable, in control...and yet, his dick heard everything going on. He shifted a little, covering with his coat. "No, thanks."
"Really?" Xander tipped his head, considering. "You paid two hundred bucks just to come in here and repress?"
"I'm not repressing. I'm not interested."
Xander slid a hand up Spike's inner thigh. "I'd say you're in--ow!"
Spike let go of Xander's hand quickly. They both looked at the door. A few long seconds passed.
When Lou didn't come running in, Spike looked back at Xander and found Xander giving him a different kind of look. A little surprised, a little calculating.
"Chip's gone," Spike whispered.
That was the farthest they'd come so far, the closest they'd come to a real exchange. Not a lot of people knew that Spike had been chipped; it wasn't information he bandied about. He'd killed the doctor who'd yanked it for him. Basic insurance policy, as well as a moment of happily unrestrained bloodlust. Ironic, that the world turned into a human-free zone just a couple of months after he got rid of the leash.
"Right now," Xander said softly, "I'm hoping Lou explained the house policies very clearly."
"Like I said," Spike said. "I'm just here to talk."
"Uh-huh." Xander was leaning forward again, gathering his rattled wits, back in the game. Running his hand lightly over Spike's knee, even though Spike had just wrenched his fingers for doing that. "I bet the conversation would go a lot easier if you let me suck you off, though."
"I said no." Spike moved his knee irritably, which made his coat drop open, and displayed his hypocrisy. "Listen, I don't have to pay for it, all right?"
"You do if you want it from a high-quality human," Xander said reasonably, leaning back and starting to unbutton his fly. "You do if you want it from a place like this." He was hard--how the hell was he hard? But he was, Spike could see it through the cloth. Doing this turned him on, apparently. "You do if you want it from me."
He said that with a particular emphasis, and a direct look at Spike while his hand slid into his own fly and pulled his cock out. Red and hard, or almost hard, and as soon as he started stroking it, right up to full attention. His eyelids dropped blissfully, and he leaned further back, his legs spread, on display. Xander Harris, jerking himself off on a whorehouse carpet, for the pleasure and usage of Spike. The world had clearly come to an end.
"Never said I wanted anything from you," Spike said, but his eyes were on Xander's hand and dick, flickering up to his face and then back down, and even he knew it was pro forma. "Jesus Christ, look--"
Xander sat halfway up again, his fingers fondling the tip of his dick, his gaze frank. "Spike," he said, "stop being such a jerk."
Spike took that without flinching, or trying to defend himself. He didn't bother thinking about his little flat, his cat, the VCR set to tape Passions at three o'clock. He didn't bother thinking about picking fights at the rocker bars, or drinking blood and absinthe until noon. He didn't think about how boring and useless life had seemed lately, or how much he hated his own kind. He just reached down and undid his belt, opened his fly, and held out his hand in a come-hither gesture.
"That's more like it," Xander said, crawling forward and swallowing the head of Spike's dick.
Human mouths were hot and wet, jungle-silky, pink as cunts. Humans had to breathe, which meant they made exciting, exotic sounds when you thrust into them. They struggled and came back, struggled and came back, determined and messy and eager, and if, at the same time as they were doing all this, they were also jerking themselves off with a rough, erratic hand--well. That was something Spike hadn't felt in a long time. Why not? He couldn't imagine why, he couldn't really think. He was leaning forward, cradling Xander's head in one arm, guiding his mouth. Feeling heat and tenderness and lust mount up in him, feeling Xander's hot damp cheek against his belly. Hearing himself saying things: Fuck, God, yeah, that's right, that's it, just like that, good boy-- Leftovers from Angelus, some of it. From being on the other side of the equation, swallowing the thick heavy head, tasting the slippery salt. Making those same inarticulate sounds of assent and agreement that Xander was making. Desperate little sounds, no real words. Jesus Christ, yeah, oh fuck--
He came hard, thrusting up without giving a damn, his arm locked around Xander's resisting neck. Long and hard, wave after wave, until Xander was coughing and gasping, trying to jerk his head free, and Spike was sunk back in the armchair, spots dancing through his eyes, his spine singing like a struck tuning fork. Gasping, himself. Barely aware of Xander coughing on his knees, wiping his mouth, wiping his hand on the carpet. But then suddenly very aware of the door to the room opening, and Lou walking in fast.
"What the--?" Spike scrambled to get upright, to get his fly done up, trying not to step on Xander, who was still heaving for air on the floor. Lou glanced at Xander, did a quick assessment, then turned to Spike.
"No marks," he said, like a teacher repeating a lesson to a very backward student. Spike gaped at him.
"You stupid wanker, I didn't do a thing--"
Lou was leaning down, lifting Xander's chin, and studying his face. "You okay?"
Xander, thank God, was nodding. Red-faced, his hair damp and clinging to his cheeks, and coughing like a nineteenth-century tuberculotic. But nodding. Good kid. There was come on his lips and chin--a little crazily, Spike wondered if there was some kind of rule against facials, too.
"Look, he's fine, I just got a little carried away."
Lou used the hem of Xander's shirt to wipe his face clean, then studied his lips. When Xander raised a shaking hand to rub his neck, Lou checked that out too. Then he stood up, and gave Spike a dark look.
"He's going to have bruises," he said. "Bruises take a few days to heal. He's out of work until they do. Your account will be--"
"I don't have an account," Spike snapped.
"I'm fine," Xander muttered, fumbling with his fly. "Lou, I'm fine, it's not a big deal--"
"You're marked," Lou said flatly, and without much compassion. "Mr. Spike, it's time for you to leave."
"Mr. Lou, it's time for you to fuck off."
Lou answered that by grabbing Spike by the same shoulder he'd already used once, and hauling him half off his feet. Spike went to game face and started punching, and Lou wrapped him in a one-armed bear hug, then jacked him in the head. Stars went in and out. Vaguely, Spike heard Xander saying something. Fast, conciliatory. Good kid.
Then he was out in the hall again, dragged by his scruff, kicking and unable to find his feet until they stopped at a doorway. Lou paused to open it; Spike shot to his feet and braced to bolt ahead of him. When the door opened, though, it was full of Forsythe. Smiling placidly, first at Spike's face and then at his fly, which was still wide open.
"About that investment," Forsythe purred, stroking his tie. "Perhaps you'd like to talk a little more about it now?"
