CHANNELS 1
by Abbie

Xander stopped for a moment on the mountain trail to adjust the left strap of his oversized backpack, pulling it tighter so the padded belt rested better on his hips.

A young man came into his field of vision, making his way the other direction down the trail. Xander remained where he was and just watched for a moment.

The man had perfectly tanned skin, so smooth that Xander's eye just seemed to slide over it. Beautifully sculpted biceps stood out in arms that flowed from wide shoulders to long, strong hands. A rock climber, Xander decided, not a body builder, envying the man's grace and compact form. A playful wind tugged at a corner of the man's sleeveless flannel shirt, pulling up the bottom edge, exposing a creamy slice of skin where his jeans had ridden down: all golden brown and white, like a flawlessly toasted marshmallow. Xander's mouth watered.

The other hiker's clear blue eyes turned grey as he stepped into the dappled shade thrown across the trail by a grove of quaking aspen. Once there, he paused for a moment and pulled out a water bottle, stretched his head back and took a hit. His Adam's apple bobbed as he drank.

Xander couldn't help but begin to imagine what else the man might enjoy swallowing.

With a quiet pop the man pushed down the top of his water bottle and continued down the trail, smiling shyly at Xander. Five more steps brought them face to face. Xander reached out and ran a single finger across the other hiker's cheek: velvety softness tingled under his touch, and not a trace of stubble. Their eyes, then their lips met. The slightest hint of mint on the other man's breath teased Xander, making him want to taste more. He brought his other hand up, across the man's shoulders, the kiss still sweet and tame, lips merely brushing together, tasting, learning, acclimating.

Suddenly, strong fingers dug into his hips. A moan echoed between them. Lips parted, tongues darted out, met, and ran along each other. The other man's mouth was still cool from the water he'd just drunk, and Xander enjoyed the sweetness of it. Their groins pushed together, as if magnetically attracted. Xander's erection found a groove in the other man's hip, the exact right shape and size, as if it had been made for him. They shuddered together, grinding and panting.

Xander wrenched his mouth away and nipped at the other man's jaw, getting him to turn his head. The salt on the hiker's neck swept over Xander's tongue as he licked his way down the firm column. He could feel the other's heartbeat through his lips, and knew that just below the flimsy barrier of skin ran a river of heavenly manna, just waiting for him to dip into, drink, suck dry . . .

"Ouch!"

Xander stopped and rubbed his shoulder from where he'd blindly walked into a tree. The young man hiking the other direction glanced over at Xander, but kept walking.

Damn. Xander shook his head. He had to stop channeling Spike. This was the third time in as many days that a fantasy of his had been taken over by the dead, well, really-fatally-dusted vampire. Xander vowed to call Willow when he had cell phone service again. In the meanwhile, there was a potential in these hills that he had to try to talk into the Slayer fold.

With another tug at the strap of his backpack, Xander started back up the trail.

******************

Scents of smoke. Rancid beer.

Baby oil?

Spike stepped further into the strip club. The dim lights reflected his hazy mood. No mirrors anywhere, not behind the bar, or the three stages the dancers gyrated on. The music discouraged conversation, which suited him fine.

He still didn't know where he'd gotten the money he'd found in his pocket. Didn't matter. It wouldn't last. And this place was looking for a bouncer--night work, with the constant promise of justified violence--the perfect job for a souled up demon with no green card.

After throwing the bruiser they'd sent to "test" him against the wall without breaking a sweat, the slimy skeletal man who ran the club accepted Spike's qualifications. It was a cash only job, he'd get paid every night he showed up. No questions, long hours, dodgy work conditions, and no health benefits--not that he needed them.

So, now, here he was, sitting outside the door to the VIP room where the dancers stripped for private audiences, smoking, sipping a beer, and enjoying the scenery. His poor Victorian soul didn't care much for all the flesh on display, but it was a job. He'd only stay long enough to gather more dosh. Denver was too bloody cold at night, though the clear air carried on the wind from the mountains enlivened his senses. Besides, Mr. Slimy was sure to ask Spike to do something he wouldn't want to, sooner or later, rough up the girls or what not, so he didn't foresee a problem.

Still, he didn't know why he'd been resurrected in Colorado. Not much of a demon population. No traces of a pentagram or anything in the warehouse where he'd found himself that night. He had no idea who had done it, or why, but he hadn't stuck around long enough to try to find out.

He checked again on all the ladies moving among the seated patrons after their time on stage, looking for lap dances and tips. Suzy, his favorite, was only two rows up, and it looked as though she'd been lucky. She had on her baby doll outfit that night, all white lace and ribbons. Spike loved the way her legs flowed out from her hip bones. She was a tall girl, with dark hair and whisky colored eyed.

Spike let his own eyes close for a moment, and started to imagine a private dance.

They were in the back room, with shaded lights, in the far corner booth, where no one could see. He pressed his spread fingers hard against his jean covered thighs, keeping them there, being good, not touching. She pressed up against him, the cleft between her breasts teasing his chin. She stepped back a bit, then lifted one leg high above her hand. Perfectly balanced, she swayed with the music, waving her pussy under his nose, letting him scent the salt and pearl taste of her clit.

A loud thump brought him back to himself. One of the assholes to his left, college boys according to their jackets, had fallen out of his chair. Wonk, another bouncer, was already making his way over. Spike didn't have to move for a while, so he went back to his fantasy.

Gleaming muscles shone under the lace corset, open at the front and hanging on broad shoulders with mere ribbons. The scent of baby oil almost overlay the smell of the heady excited sweat pouring off the young man. He held one leg up, almost in a vertical splits, and casually humped the air in front of Spike. The g-string the stripper still wore glowed in the darkness, and the package he sported could have been split between two men and left neither embarrassed. The young man lowered his leg and danced closer, hands pressed in on either side of Spike's head, his hot breath nuzzling Spike's cheek.

"Please," came the whispered request.

The neck stretched before the vampire shone, dazzling in its purity. Spike opened his mouth, then, without meaning to, glanced down at the dancer's straining erection and asked, "Is that a balled up sock in there, or are you just happy to see me?"

"Ouch."

Spike rubbed the back of his head. He must have smacked it into the wall in response to his fantasy turning hellmouthy.

Damn it. He had to stop channeling Xander Harris. This was the third time in as many days that he'd opened his mouth, and instead of his fangs dropping, a joke had fallen out.

Hold on. There was something else there in this latest flight of insanity.

His very nice images of breasts and clits and long legs had been usurped by pictures of penises. If Spike really was channeling bloody Xander Harris, it meant the one-eyed Scooby was bent.

Almost made it worth while to contact the gang, to let them know he'd returned to this plane of existence, just to tell them the Harris boy's secret.

Because Spike, and his Victorian soul, were not interested in blokes at all.

***********************

"Oh buggar," came the soft exclamation. Rupert looked up in time to see Ethan start to collapse, his muscles letting go one by one, as if he'd had invisible strings holding him up, and they were now being cut. Rupert ran from the kitchen to the living room just in time to catch his lover before he hit the floor.

Ethan's head jerked and thrashed in Rupert's lap. His dark eyes stared unseeing as he mouthed silent words. Wide spread fingers danced in the air. Ethan's thin frame shook again and again as spasms wracked him. Rupert knew Ethan didn't have a history of epilepsy, and from the way his lover's hands moved, the watcher suspected magic. But what kind of spell was the former Chaos mage fighting? Or was he casting something?

Rupert grasped his lover's shoulders tightly, wishing he could hold the other man safe. They'd had quite a time paying off Ethan's debts, freeing his love from the web of dark magic guan xi that he'd embroiled himself in. Ethan hadn't mortgaged his soul to a demon for his powers, not quite, but close enough that it had taken the blood of three slayers as well as the magic from more than of the Devon coven to destroy the contract.

"I've got you," Rupert whispered, kissing Ethan's forehead when the man stilled for a moment. Rupert refused to lose this man, particularly not so soon after he'd found him again.

The twitching throes continued. Rupert glanced over at the end table--too far away to grab the phone resting on it, not without letting go of Ethan. He'd have to contact the coven afterwards. Because there would be an afterwards. He brought his attention back to Ethan, and struggled to discern the words the other man spoke.

Another sharp convulsion arched Ethan's body off the floor, then he stilled. Black on black eyes peered up at Rupert and a hoarse voice greeting his ears. The language had changed, vowels now slithering from Ethan's mouth. Demon tongue, ancient and powerful. Rupert felt the magical energy gathering under Ethan's skin. A series of smaller spasms followed as the force flowed out of Ethan and the language changed again. Ethan went back to just mouthing the words--Latin, possibly, though mixed with something else.

Two words, actually whispered, caught Rupert's attention.

"Tabla rasa."

After a few more strokes of his hands in the air, Ethan collapsed completely. All the tension ran out of his body. The sound of shuddering breaths filled the space between them. Ethan's eyes slammed shut.

Rupert pulled his lover up into his arms, gathering him against his torso, rocking and holding him tightly. "I've got you," he murmured again, kissing Ethan's slightly sweating temple.

Ethan raised his head off Rupert's chest. Rupert wasn't sure what he'd see when his lover opened his eyes again, but the watcher hadn't expected the intense regret that he saw.

With a trembling hand, Ethan reached up and stroked Rupert's cheek, fingers twitching against his skin.

"Sorry," was all that Ethan managed to croak out before he fell into unconsciousness.

******************

"Hey Willow! How's my favorite watcher-in-training doing?" Xander asked, settling himself back against the headboard of the bed in his hotel room. He'd already talked with the potential up on the mountain. Now the men with the briefcases would come to take care of all the legalities.

"Xander! How are you? Where are you? Are you coming here soon? Are you already here? If you're already here and are only now just calling buster--"

Xander held up his hand to stop the onslaught, even if Willow couldn't see it over the phone. "I'm still in the good old U S of A Wills. Would I make a trip across the puddle and not stop by to see you?"

"Maybe?" Willow said.

Xander couldn't read the tone of her voice. Was she joking? Or serious? He shook his head. "I'll call every time I'm in England. Even when I'm only going through the airport." The silence coming from the other end of the phone surprised him. "Promise," he added.

Willow sighed. "Okay. I know, I shouldn't worry. But I do. I worry about you. You're always traveling to someplace exotic and not safe. I want to see you. Oh! Is this a call to tell me you're coming to see me? Please?"

Xander didn't know what to do about the longing he heard in Willow's voice. He'd known she got homesick sometimes, but was she really that bad off?

"What's wrong Willow?" He had to ask.

"Nothing," she replied quickly.

"Willow, talk to me." Xander gripped the phone tighter. If only he could see her face.

"I'm just lonely. You know. Single, and . . . what did you call to talk with me about, oh-unvisiting-man?"

Xander knew enough to let the conversation drop for now. They would surely get into her lack of partners again at a later time. As it was no longer a problem that Xander shared with Willow, it did make for a sticking point between them sometimes.

"Uhm, I actually kind of had a question for you," Xander said.

"Okay. Ask away."

"Is there any chance that, well, some of the people who were taken by The First could have actually, well, survived?"

"Xander," Willow started. She paused. "I'm sorry sweetie. But no. She couldn't have." Sympathy poured over the phone.

Xander's brain skipped tracks, trying to follow the sudden twist the conversation had taken. It finally found the right groove. "Oh. Oh! No, Willow. Not Anya. Spike. Could Spike have survived?"

"Why do you ask?" Willow asked.

"Because I sort of, might of, have had some kind of dream about him?"

"Dreaming about people who have died is perfectly natural Xander. It's part of the process for dealing with everything that's happened." The relief in her voice was obvious.

"It wasn't a nighttime dream, Willow. It was more like a take-over-your-brain-while-walking-in-the-sunlight kind of dream."

"You had a vision?"

"I don't know. I don't think so. I don't know what a vision's supposed to be like. Isn't it supposed to hurt or something? Because this didn't hurt. Except for maybe when I walked into a tree."

Silence from the other end.

"Willow? Willow? You still there?"

"Shit."

Xander blinked, shocked. "What? Willow, not getting warm fuzzies over here."

"Xander, what day is it?"

"You want me to check my phone and tell you?"

"It's five days after the one year anniversary of the hole of Sunnydale. Since the last big battle with the First Evil."

"Shit."

"That's what I said. When did you have your first dream?

Xander counted back in his head. "Five days ago."

Damn. Could that be why he kept channeling Spike? Because of the anniversary? Or had someone worked magic, to somehow bring Spike back?

"You have to come back, here, to England."

"Why?" Xander didn't want to return to Watcher HQ. That place gave him the creeps. He didn't know why, exactly. Willow lived there. And Giles. He didn't need them to hold his hand when he walked into that building. Yet at the same time, he did. Something about those stone walls was just wrong.

"We need to test you. To see if you've been cursed, or if you're being haunted, or something. If someone has somehow made a connection between you and Spike."

"Willow . . . "

"I'm serious mister. You come back here. Now."

"But there's this girl in Denver, and I'm so close--"

"Now. Xander, we need to check on you. You know you've always been a demon magnet. We need to make sure you're okay."

"I haven't been cursed."

"Are you sure? Cause from where I'm sitting, it looks awfully suspicious."

Xander wanted to tell Willow no, after the job. After he found the girl in Denver. It wouldn't take but a couple of days.

"So when should I expect you?" Willow continued.

He knew how to barter for food from street vendors in India. He could figure out which Chinese boarder guards would be most susceptible to bribes. He'd even been in Mon-fucking-golia, and learned how to drink tea with Yak butter and salt in it and not lose his lunch.

But he'd never figured out how to say no to Willow.

"I don't know. I'll be there as soon as I can get a plane out."

"You better be. And you'll call."

"Yes, I'll call. Is there anything you want me to bring you from the homeland?"

"Just you, my dear."

Xander melted a little at the plaintive tone in her voice.

But he still didn't feel better after he hung up the phone.

*********************

Rupert looked up from the book he only pretended to read to check on Ethan again. It had taken about four hours for the other man to pass from the coma that had subsumed him into natural sleep. Adelaide, the head of the coven in Devon, had advised Rupert to just let Ethan rest, assuring him that his lover would recover, given time. Everyone with any kind of power had felt the magical energies Ethan had wrestled with, but no one had received any prophesy of doom. Yet.

A muted groan rolled from the bed. Rupert flew to Ethan's side. With a gentle hand, the watcher stroked his lover's hair. Color still hadn't returned to the slight man; ashy skin reflected against the cream-colored sheets.

"What the hell hit me?" Ethan asked without opening his eyes. He moved his jaw around, as if working off a physical blow.

Rupert sat on the bed gently, trying not to jostle its occupant. "What do you remember?" he asked.

"I was waiting for my tea . . . Still waiting, actually," Ethan said, finally opening bloodshot eyes. He tried for a grin, but only achieved a grimace. "Feh," he said, shaking his head. He pushed himself up into a seated position with great difficulty, head hanging, panting with the effort. Rupert knew better than to try to help. Then Ethan collapsed back against the headboard.

"And now I'm here," Ethan continued. "With a mouth full of what tastes like Gjarthan demon piss, men with steam shovels rearranging my brains, and a very worried looking Rupert."

Rupert reached out and took Ethan's hand. "Do you remember anything?"

"No." Ethan shook his head, then looked as if he regretted it. "Wait. Maybe. There was a . . . spell. I cast a spell?" He looked to Rupert to see if he'd found the right answer.

"I think so. It was--intense. Even I could discern the energies you were calling on."

"I don't remem--" Ethan trailed off and a look of what might have been fear crossed his face, quickly covered with a smirk. "Tell me dear. What's the significance of today? Is it, oh, say, the one year anniversary of the death of Sunnydale?"

Rupert hated it when Ethan did this to him. Hated the calculating "watcher" look that he knew was overtaking his features. Hated the miles and kilometers and fucking li that suddenly appeared between them. Hated that he'd fought and bribed and bled to have this man back in his life only to continually feel he was going to lose him again. Hated that the lives they'd led without each other kept coming between them now.

"Yes. Yes it is. Why," Rupert demanded, not asked, as he sat up straighter and let go of Ethan's hand.

"I--oh buggar."

Rupert watched the glib response die on Ethan's lips.

Ethan looked down and plucked at the bed sheet. "I'd forgotten. Well. Mostly. And now I've forgotten the spell. It was part of the contract."

Ethan looked up and met Rupert's stare with a challenging glare of his own. "While this has all been fun for a while, you'd best get my bags."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm too old and my head hurts too much to argue with you. I have to go."

"No." Rupert didn't know what Ethan was talking about. While Rupert hated how much he needed and loved Ethan, he hated this almost constant talk of leaving more.

Ethan sighed and looked past Rupert, out the window. He bit his lip, then finally continued, the belligerent tone at odds with the forlorn look on his face. "I took a contract. You're not going to like it. You're going to ask me to leave. So I might as well get out now."

"No. Tell me. Then we make decisions. Not now."

Ethan sighed and looked down again. "Tea?"

"In a minute," Rupert said, trying to keep the anger out of his tone. Ethan was stalling. It had to be extremely bad for his lover to not only not want to tell him, but to doubt that he'd be able to talk his old mate Ripper over to his side once he had explained everything.

"It was--it was before this. Us. I don't think I would have done it if I'd been able to see the future." A cocky smile replaced Ethan's serious expression. "Then again, I might have, knowing me."

Rupert bit his lip. Ethan didn't often acknowledge how important their relationship was--he generally tried to hide his true feelings. So Rupert just said, "I believe you."

"Right. So. It was a contract. Cast a spell on the anniversary. And, uhm, make myself forget the spell after I cast it." Ethan peered up at Rupert, then scratched the back of his head. "I don't think it was supposed to be anything that bad. I mean, I wouldn't have come back after I'd done something truly wicked to you."

Rupert couldn't stop himself from replying. "Wouldn't you have? Just to watch the fun and games?"

"Oh Ripper, you know I wouldn't I do something like that. Oh, wait. I would. But I remembered the spell up until the time I cast it."

"You just didn't want to tell me about it because . . . ?" Rupert asked, furious. He forced himself to keep his hands down in his lap, or he would be hitting Ethan by now.

"I wanted to sit back and watch the fun and games?"

"So you're asking me to trust you. Again." Rupert's anger changed his tone from husky to hissing.

The silence between them waxed and hardened. Rupert barely heard the whispered plea.

"Please."

Rupert sighed and closed his eyes, dread hollowing his stomach. He shrugged his shoulders, just once, trying to dislodge his anger. He needed to think without everything being tinted by a red haze.

A casting and a forgetting implied much more than mere amusement. Particularly if the person ordering it needed to be hidden that completely. Spells like that were costly, in ingredients if nothing else. Add to that a dividing, so that one part of the spell could be done at a separate time and in a separate place to the spell results. And Ethan was always paid well.

"Do you have any records?" Rupert had to ask.

"I am a professional. I don't squelch." Ethan glared at Rupert.

Rupert leaned forward, rested his forehead in his hands, and sighed. When would the consequences of Ethan's contract come to haunt them? Because they surely would. And what would it cost this time? If not in lives, because Ethan wouldn't have stayed with Rupert if the spell had meant lives, but in dignity? Or friendships?

He stood and walked away from the bed, looking out the window at the grey street below. He could see Ethan standing there as he had the first day he'd come back into Rupert's life, with a dusty brown duffle bag at his feet, throwing stones at Rupert's window. Rupert could see the figure just about to leave.

No. The rocks and arrows of this shite would hit them while they were together. Not apart. They would get through this. They had to.

He walked back to the bed, sat down and took Ethan's hand, holding it lightly in his own. "We'll have to keep working on the trust. But I still want to do this."

"This?" Ethan asked, twisting his hand around so he could capture Rupert's fingers in his own.

"Yes," Rupert replied, squeezing the hand holding his, unable as always to say anything that might define them, their relationship, their . . . love.

"This."

The two men stared at each other for a long minute.

"Now, about that cuppa," Ethan said, breaking the intense stare with a smile and a tilt of his head.

"Right. Tea."

Rupert got off the bed and walked to the door. He paused when he thought he heard a whispered, "Thank you," but he didn't turn back.