::.. Witlingville ..::

Gloryhole part 3

So now he'd fucked Xander Harris in the ass. Spike gave a lot of thought to that fact over the next week or so, waiting for his next appointment to roll around. He sat in a lot of bars with a whiskey and blood in front of him, zoning out on that fact. He'd fucked Xander. Before the world came to an end--and hell, even after--he wouldn't have laid money on those odds. Xander Harris, of all people. It verged on unbelievable.

Spike did most of his more thoughtful thinking on the subject in bars--the less thoughtful thinking took place in bed or in the shower, his own hand working his cock, the backs of his eyelids painted with vivid images of that brown back twisting beneath him. The feel of his dick meeting resistance, then shoving into tight, human heat. The sound Xander made when Spike thrust too hard, or at the wrong angle--half pain, half pleasure, mostly buried in the pillow. The wetness on Spike's fingers when he touched Xander's dick afterwards.

During those times, the ones that made his brain flatline and his heart struggle to beat, Xander didn't seem like a strange phenomenon at all. His body was familiar. Those hands, knotted in the sheets--Spike had seen them lots of times, shelving books and hammering nails. The back of Xander's neck--he'd seen that, walking behind him on some forced Scooby errand, wanting to plant a stake in it. There was a particular curl, right at the base of his neck... A little different now, because his hair was longer, but still recognizable. It made sense, it made perfect sense, and when Spike was done, his fingers running in the last languid pattern through the wetness on his belly, it felt...comfortable. Right. Gradually, it started to feel wrong that Xander wasn't there with him all the time, in his own bed at home. Waiting for instructions, ready and willing. Spike started to feel, faintly, that Forsythe had stolen his Scooby.

That was insane. He reminded himself of that fact while on his way back to Forsythe's for the third time, on foot this time through a driving rain. He'd crashed two bikes since the end of the world, and got tired of healing up afterward. The DeSoto was in the basement of his apartment building, functional but dusty. He'd stopped thinking of it as transportation and started to think of it as a trophy, or a time capsule. A leftover from a prior age, when humans walked the earth.

"Lovely to see you, Spike. Come in, it's fucking pouring isn't it, the usual to drink? Get him the usual." Forsythe was glowing ,expansive, overseeing operations at the desk. The new locations were doing well. Making money. "I'm going on Thursday to look over a new shipment of prospects, supposed to be some real beauties, one of them's a former insurgent, I'm thinking of doing a sideline in resistance appeal, any chance you'd care to come along--?"

There was no chance at all that Spike would care to come along. He shook water out of his collar and gave Forsythe a stony stare. Forsythe's smile faltered.

"No, of course not, you're a busy man, let's get you dried off--"

"It's not that I'm busy," Spike said, wiping water off his forehead. "It's that I'm not dating you."

There was a moment's pause, while Forsythe stood frozen and the receptionist's hand hung in midair over her phone. Then Forsythe gave a crackling, painful laugh.

"No, of course not, that's not why you're here, wasn't asking you on a date anyway, we're business partners though, aren't we? Just thought you'd like to see the prospects you're investing in--"

"You're the pimp," Spike said flatly. "I'm just the punter." Then he smiled to take the edge off.

Again, Forsythe took a moment to process that.

"He ready?" Spike said to the receptionist. She nodded without glancing at her book or asking who he meant; she was good. "Ta." He started down the corridor without looking back. Squelching only slightly.

"Okay then, Spike!" Forsythe called after him. "Good talk!"

"Good evening," Lou said, in a tone that was more, What is this crap I've discovered on the sole of my shoe?

Spike slumped deeper into the couch, legs spread and glass of whiskey on his knee. Only a tiny fraction of his brain registered the fact that Lou went and stood in the usual place by the wall; most of his attention was on the door, which was still standing open. It was the strangest thing--hearing Xander come down the hall was exciting. He looked forward to seeing Xander. Well, his dick looked forward to seeing Xander, which was understandable, but now that he thought about it, so did the rest of him. Which was less understandable, but which he didn't have time to contemplate, because Xander was walking through the door in front of him.

Dark trousers again, lighter shirt. This one was a little too yellow, compared to the first one. That was sort of a relief--even after the apocalypse, Xander Harris still wore crap shirts--and sort of distressing--why the hell was Spike noticing anything at all about what Xander Harris wore? Or about his hair, which was dark and soft-looking, well-cut and clean. Or about his face, which was smiling. Spike tried, on the spur of the moment, to think of all the times that Xander Harris had smiled at him before the world ended. He couldn't think of any. But apparently now they were best friends.

"Hi," Xander said, and there was that tone, just in one word, that tone of warmth and sincerity and happy surprise. "Spike. Great to see you back again."

Spike couldn't slump any deeper, so he frowned instead. Xander's smile didn't falter. He started for the couch, bringing his warm brown skin and his white teeth with him.

"Get yourself a drink," Spike said sharply, cutting off Xander's approach. For a second Xander hesitated, and Spike expected him to make an excuse, say that he wasn't allowed to drink while working--but he didn't. He turned and went to the bar.

"Anything in particular?" He'd picked up a tumbler and was cupping it absently in one hand while he eyed the bottles.

"No rum," Spike said. Partly because he didn't like the smell of rum, and partly because he was off balance. I'm the punter here, he reminded himself firmly. That meant he was the one in control. Right? "Whiskey. Take the good stuff."

"It's all good stuff," Xander said, laughing quietly. He poured himself a healthy couple of fingers, then put the bottle back. "Can I get you anything else?"

Spike shook his head. That was something he was still getting used to--Xander Harris sounding like a flight attendant. Can I get you anything? Would you like some of this? Or that? I'm sorry, that was my fault. It's great to see you again. Thanks for flying the friendly Harris skies. That, and the fact that when he wasn't running that routine, he was the same smart-mouthed prick he'd always been. It was hard to get used to.

Xander came back, rolling the whiskey in his glass, but not taking more than a ceremonial sip. "It's nice to see you again."

"Your owner's a moron," Spike said flatly. Xander's eyebrows rose a millimeter, and he nodded. "Total fucking prick, you know that?"

"He does okay by me." Xander settled onto the couch beside Spike, near enough to share body heat. "Looks like it's raining out there."

"Pissing." Spike studied his drink, and wasn't surprised to feel a warm hand brush the side of his face, his ear. When he didn't shake it off, it moved to his neck and pressed gently. "You charge for the back rubs, too?"

"I don't charge for anything," Xander said with a smile. "All the business stuff gets handled at the front desk."

"Your friend Lou keeps track, though."

"Lou's got a job to do, just like everybody else."

"Just like you, you mean."

"I like what I do." Xander slid an inch closer along the couch. "I like you, Spike. I like what you--"

"You don't like me," Spike said, moving away from Xander's hand. There was a moment of silence. The fire popped, and he turned to look at Xander straight on. "You never have liked me."

Xander's face was still. His eyes were dark and watchful, even while he forced a smile. "Actually, I do, Spike. You made me come so hard I thought my spine was--"

"You. Have never. Liked. Me." Spike nailed each word home, his eyes fixed to Xander's. Making the point. Which was: I can see you. I know who you are. And Xander wasn't stupid, Xander got it. There was something familiar in his eyes now, a familiar response. Fear.

On the other side of the room, Lou shifted a fraction of an inch. Just easing his legs, maybe.

Xander dropped his gaze. "I'm sorry," he said, soft and fast, "if I've done anything to make you think that, Spike. I'd like to make it up to you. If you'll let me."

Spike let the silence spin out half a minute, then longer. He could hear Xander's heart beating faster now. He was used to hearing it like that--frightened, in flight, looking for a way out. Lou could hear it too. That was both satisfying and irritating, for all kinds of reasons.

Finally Spike drained his glass and set it on the table with a quiet click.

"Yeah, all right," he said. "Let's go."

There was no lecture about the rules this time; Lou just held up the tube and then, when Spike reached for it, raised it a little higher, out of reach. Spike looked at Lou. Lou looked at Spike. Lou's face was thoughtful.

"Are you flirting with me?" Spike asked. Privately wondering if he'd pushed it too far, back in the salon. He didn't actually want to spark too much interest in Troy's background, or God forbid start any detective work.

"We have a satisfaction guarantee," Lou said, his tone professional but his eyes fixed on Spike's face in a way that suggested he was thinking unprofessional thoughts. "If, for any reason, your visit doesn't please you, you can receive a visit of equal or lesser value free."

"Is that so."

Pause.

"Have your visits pleased you?" Lou's eyes were one-way windows, behind which a little man was flipping Spike off with both hands.

"They've been all right." Spike reached for the tube again; Lou held it away.

"You're satisfied with Troy's performance?"

"He's fine."

"If there's anything he can do differently, you're encouraged to tell him."

"What are you, my mother?" Spike made another grab for the tube, and again, Lou raised it just enough to keep it away. "Look, I know you have to get your petty thrills somewhere, but I'm about to rip your--"

"It's my responsibility to report any customer dissatisfaction to the management," Lou said. Spike paused.

"I'm not dissatisfied."

"If Troy isn't meeting your expectations, he'll be scheduled for in-service training." The look on Lou's face was ominously flat; it was the sort of look that Mafia dons used to have when they ordered hits on that old television program, The Sopranos. Good program, that. Only reruns now, of course. And what the hell was 'in-service training'?

"Look, I said I'm not dissatisfied. I'm perfectly satisfied, all right?" Spike feinted for the tube; Lou twitched it away. "He's bloody perfect, does everything right, couldn't ask for anything more, five stars, don't mess with a good thing." Fucking hell, he shouldn't have pushed the issue where Lou could hear it. "I was just winding him up, not that it's any of your business."

Lou stood silently, considering.

"Maybe it's a kink of mine," Spike said. "Maybe I like him a little off-balance, all right?" And that was actually pretty close to the truth, which was probably why it worked.

Lou gave Spike one last look--a look that said, You are a pathetic turd and I can barely see down to your level--and handed over the tube.

"Thanks so much," Spike said, taking it. "Oh--and what do I do if I'm dissatisfied with you?"

Lou took up a position against the wall and said nothing. Spike lingered a second, waiting for a reaction, then gave up and went in.

Xander was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking small. Something about him had retracted or condensed or something--he didn't occupy space the way he had before. His shoulders were hunched up a bit, and his smile looked paper-thin. For the first time, the fact that he was barefoot made him look vulnerable.

"That guy is a complete cocksucker," Spike said, dumping his coat and walking without a pause over to the armchair. Xander's smile wavered, and his eyes flicked to the door.

"Lou's just...looking after me."

"Lou wants you in something called 'in-service training'." Spike flipped the tube of lube dismissively over the arm of the chair. "Lou's looking after Forsythe's investment."

There was silence from the other side of the room, he realized; when he looked over, he saw that Xander was staring at the door with an expression that was somewhere between total blank and low-grade panic. Mentally, Spike reran the last minute. In-service training, oh yeah.

"Don't worry," he said, "I told him you didn't need it. Said you were great, totally satisfied customer here."

Xander's eyes flicked back to Spike, and with a visible effort, he reassembled his features into a sort-of smile. "Hey, thanks. That's...great."

"Yeah, well, wasn't a total lie. You're all right." It was a skewed sense of fairness that made him say that. "Bit of a surprise, actually. I'd never have thought you, of all the--"

Xander made a startled, abortive, half-standing movement, his eyes wide and his face strained. Spike stopped. Xander stood staring at him like a dog that wanted desperately to speak. When Spike raised one eyebrow, Xander swallowed hard and nodded at the door.

Spike looked at the door. Lou was standing out there, right. And while he probably wasn't supposed to be keeping an ear out for every last dirty thing a customer whispered in bed, he could if he wanted to.

Spike turned back to Xander, held his eyes, and said calmly, "I'd never have thought you'd be this good, compared to all the other ones in that book out there."

Xander's shoulders fell an inch, and he let out a breath. His heart was racing, Spike realized.

"Never would have thought you'd be so fucking good at taking it up the arse," he went on, warming to his topic. "Or sucking cock. Like you're born to it, really. Almost like you like it."

For half a second or less, he saw something completely, totally delightful. Xander's eyes darkened, his brows came down, and his throat tightened. He looked about to shoot back something sharp, pointy, or vitriolic. Or all three, possibly. He looked seriously pissed off. Xander Harris was still in the building, apparently.

Then the veil dropped, and Xander smiled. He looked relieved and shyly flattered.

"Thanks," he said, starting across the carpet to where Spike sat. "That means a lot, coming from you."

Spike started to smile, then paused. Wait a minute--was that a jab? No way to tell, because Xander was kneeling at his feet now, smiling mildly up at him, running his palms--a little cold, a little damp this time--up Spike's legs and then slowly in between.

"You're a very accomplished cocksucker," Spike said firmly, to reestablish dominance. A little louder, with his face pointed to the door, he added: "God, yeah. Can't wait to nail that sweet arse of yours again."

"Thanks," Xander murmured, mouthing Spike's inseam. Irritated, Spike pushed his head away.

"Cut that out." He whispered that, hoping Lou didn't have a glass pressed to the wall.

Xander looked up in surprise, his fingers already working at Spike's belt.

"I said, stop it." Spike batted at Xander's fingers, and Xander more or less ignored him. He seemed to be regaining confidence, back on familiar ground. He kept his eyes locked on Spike's, while his fingers negotiated with Spike's for entry. "I'm not here for that, all right? I just came to talk."

"If you want to talk, we have to go to the salon." Xander's voice was pitched low, too, which gave Spike a strange thrill.

"Can't talk in there," he said, nodding at the door. "That bloody gorilla's in the way."

"I know," Xander breathed, lowering his face and rubbing his cheek along Spike's thigh. "That's the point."

Spike sat still for a minute, thinking. Or more like, getting used to the fact that that was Xander talking to him. Not Troy, now. Not Great to see you, love the hair, can I get you a drink or maybe suck your dick? Troy. This was Xander, or at least part of him. Stroking his face along Spike's thigh, and strategizing. And getting ready to suck his dick.

"So we talk here," Spike muttered, removing Xander's hand from his zipper for the third time. It was getting harder as he did. He wasn't made of stone, after all. At least, not all of him.

"We can't talk here," Xander whispered patiently, as if he were sharing sweet nothings with a lover. "Or, we can't just talk here." He glanced meaningfully at the door again.

"We--oh." Spike looked at the door too, his hands still absently intercepting Xander's. Then he realized what he was doing, and looked down apologetically. "Sorry."

With a faint, flat irony to his voice, Xander said, "Thanks." Spike lifted his hands free, suddenly unsure what to do with them, and Xander sighed, took hold of them, and settled them on his own neck and shoulder. Then he popped the button on Spike's jeans, eased his zipper down, and freed his dick.

"God, yeah," Spike said, with completely unfeigned appreciation, when Xander ran a warm, wet tongue down the length of his cock. "That's...that's very good." He turned his face toward the door and repeated, a little louder, "That's good."

With something that might have been a small laugh or else a snort, Xander took the head of Spike's dick into his mouth and worked with his tongue. He was good at it. That part was true, it was amazing how practice improved people, who'd have thought the Slayer's dumbass hetero builder sidekick could ever learn to treat another man's dick like this, human adaptability was a wonderful thing, and oh God, yeah, right there like that, with his tongue in that sweet spot right under the tip--

The sensation eased, then stopped altogether, and Spike opened his eyes and blinked at the ceiling. When he looked down, Xander was still kneeling there, his cheek resting on Spike's thigh, making lazy patterns with his fingernails in the few exposed inches of Spike's belly.

"What--?" Spike started, then remembered. Oh, right. They were supposed to be talking. He cleared his throat, glanced at the door, and then didn't know what to say. "Um, sorry..."

"If they find out who I am," Xander whispered, "I'm screwed." His face didn't change, his fingers didn't pause. A tingle went up Spike's spine.

"Who you are?"

Xander shrugged, infinitesimally. "Who I used to be. Who I used to know."

Right. Spike nodded. His hands were still on Xander's neck and shoulder, exactly where Xander had put them, and it felt a little stagey now, a little awkward. He took them back, and again, didn't know what to do with them. Crossing his arms was too bizarre, given that his dick was standing up in midair between them. He settled for letting them hang down the sides of the chair. Why was he worrying about his arms?

"Are you going to tell?" Xander's face still hadn't changed; he kept his eyes fixed on Spike's, flat and unafraid.

For a moment Spike considered another answer--What's in it for me if I don't?, or You never know, you play your cards right...--but what came out was just the truth. "No."

Xander didn't look relieved or grateful. His face didn't change at all. His fingers didn't stop the lazy little pattern.

"No," Spike said again, a little more forcefully. Too loud. They both glanced at the door, and Spike added quickly, "No, um, no way you're stopping now, fuck yeah, take it, that's right, take it good--"

Xander raised an eyebrow, and Spike shrugged, then frowned.

"Why not?" Xander whispered, tipping his head as if he thought he could see better into Spike's motives that way.

Spike opened his mouth, then found he didn't have an answer. Or he did, and he didn't want to share it. They looked at each other a minute in silence, and then Xander shrugged and leaned forward again. Spike instinctively put a hand on the back of his head, gentle but firm.

"Looks like you're already screwed anyway," he said, as Xander started sucking the head of his dick. For a second he felt the scrape of teeth, and it was probably supposed to be a warning or a snarky reply, but it felt like a reward, and he thrust up into it without caring. Xander gave a muffled glumph of surprise, and then his hands found Spike's hips and he settle into the rhythm. Harder and faster now, not teasing but actually following through. Wet mouth, sharp teeth, choking breath. Strong arms alongside Spike's thighs, pulling him forward and up for more. And for the first time, it was actually Xander doing it. Gasping and sucking and desperate to be used. Used or saved, one of the two. Both. Whatever.

Spike came with Xander's teeth circling the head of his cock, with Xander's hand awkwardly cupping his balls, with Xander's hair tight in his own fist. For the last spasms he pulled hard with that hand, arching Xander's head back and painting Xander's taut throat with the last of his come. It was electrifying. When he was finished it was still electrifying. Xander hung in his fist like a strangling fish, arched hard and desperate, slippery, submissive. His knees were half off the floor, he could barely breathe. And he had a hard-on.

Slowly, Spike lowered him. Eased his fingers out of Xander's hair and shook them out. Xander folded and lay for a minute or two with his head against the carpet, his back heaving. Floating in the armchair above him, Spike had a strong urge to put his hand on that back, to feel the breath moving in and the heart beating. The life, persisting. But that would have involved moving, and he didn't feel like moving for another year or two.

Finally, Xander sat up on his own. The collar of his shirt was wet, and his throat was still pearled with Spike's come. He wiped it away with one hand, the way he would have wiped away sweat in another lifetime. Like it was nothing.

"You think this is screwed," he whispered, catching Spike's eye as he got shakily to his feet. "You should see the alternatives."