by Tabaqui


                "Damnit Spike!  Where is it?"

                "Where's what?"

                "My fifty bucks!  I had it right here.  Now cough it up!" 

                "Don't have it, mate."  Xander glares in utter fury at vampire, who is draped as bonelessly as a cat over his hide-a-bed.  One leg over the arm, on arm draped along the back, one hand dangling elegantly with a smoldering cigarette between the fingers, one expression of total boredom firmly in place.  The TV flickers, flickers, flickers, because the only thing that's actually moving over there is Spike's thumb on the remote.

                "Oh, so what you're saying is - it just got up and walked out of here?  It grew little legs and ran away?"  Spike's head rolls a little on the back of the couch, and his eyes fasten on Xander.  That scarred eyebrow is cocked up higher than the other in an expression of amusement.

                "Think where we're livin', mate, and then you tell me."  The head turns back to the TV and Xander fumes in impotent fury.   Too many years of being jumped by Larry and assorted other Cro-Magnon types have killed any impulse he might have towards hitting what can't hit back, but at the moment all Xander wants to do is smash his fists into something that'll scream as loudly as he wishes he could.

                "You bastard."  Xander stomps over to the Barcalounger and snatches up Spike's duster.  "You think I won't find it?  I will.  And I'll know when I find 'cause somebody wrote 'Happy Birthday' on it!  So you can't pretend its money you already had."  Spike watches him scrabbling furiously through the duster's pockets.

                "Is it your birthday then?" he asks, and Xander glances up at him when he says it, because his voice sounds so - weird - for a second.  But his expression is neutral - bland - completely devoid of whatever it was that tinged his voice and Xander reaches into another pocket, scowling.

                "No, it's not my birthday, but it was somebody's birthday and - FUCK!"  Xander drops the duster, clutching his right hand in his left.  There's blood on the tips of his fingers - blood coming up through his tightly clenched fist - and Spike is right there, a movement so fast that Xander doesn't really see the in-between bits.

                "You're bleeding," he says, and Xander snarls at him.

                "Oh, good fuckin' call!  What the hell was in your pocket?"

                "Straight razor, probably."  Spike's eyes haven't left Xander's hand, and he's standing way too close, and Xander looks at him.  And something ticks over in his brain, just a little click, but it's the first domino of a huge-ass wall of dominoes, and this one's been poised to fall for so long.  Xander brings his hand up close to his chest, and watches as Spike's eyes follow the motion, like a snake or a cat will do.

                *Say it. Do it.  Get it fucking out and get it OVER with.  Otherwise...*  Xander licks dry lips and takes in a huge breath - feels that faint, furry sensation in his belly.   Little sparkling tingles of want that have scoured over his insides for weeks.  The look on Spike's face gives him an idea - one that makes his belly clench up tight and hot.

                "Tell you what."  His voice cracks and he coughs once, dry rasp.   "You tell me where my money is, and I'll - I'll let you -"  Xander can't actually say it -isn't sure he wants to even as he wants to, and Spike goes very, very still.  His eyes flicker up to Xander's and they're not that school-boy, male-model, all-American blue anymore.  Oh no.  They're golden and feral and full of something so ancient and so malevolent that Xander almost steps back.  But he doesn't.

                "You'll let me what?" Spike whispers, and Xander licks his lips again - holds his hand out.  He's got it palm-up, now, and cupped, so that the blood that's welling from the cuts on his two fingers is trickling and pooling down into his palm.

                "I'll - let you drink it."  Those golden eyes flicker, from the blood to his face, and then the school-boy, male-model, to fuckin' perfect face crumples and reforms into the demon, and Xander's chest actually hurts from the fury of his pounding heart.

                "Will you, now?" Spike takes a step closer and they're practically touching and Xander can smell smoke and hair-gel and something like burning pine that he knows, without knowing how, is the demon; smoldering magic that has kept that body in a state of perfection for 120-plus years.

                "All right, then," Spike whispers, and he holds his hand out.  Xander hesitates for a moment but he can't look away from what's before him - can't look away from the dull-ivory gleam of fangs and the inhuman cast of brow and nose and heavy-lidded eyes.  He extends his fingers and Spike hesitates for one long moment and then dips his head down - takes Xander's hand in his and his fingers into his mouth with a soft, breathy moan.  Xander shudders all over, watching.  Feeling the cool stroke of tongue, feeling the ridges on the roof of Spike's mouth.  Feeling the razoring fangs dig very lightly into his flesh but not break it.  There is a stinging deep in the cuts when Spike sucks and Xander gasps in a sharp breath.  The sting and the cool lap and the suction send a shiver down his hand - down his arm - down his body.  To his belly and his cock and he just stands there and watches.  Watches Spike slide his mouth slowly, so slowly, off his fingers and then lap at the pooled blood in the cup of his palm.  Xander can't help it - he curls his fingers around Spike's chin and feels the vampire's throat working - feels the glide of muscle there as Spike licks and licks.  Xander is aware, in a hazy sort of way, that he is making a soft whimpering noise, and that Spike has stepped closer yet and that the hand that had been holding Xander's is now creeping up his forearm, and that Spike's other hand is on Xander's neck, curled in his hair and stroking at the back of his neck.  And oh fuck he's hard, he's never been this hard this fast, but the cool glide of that tongue, the scratching of Spike's nails on the nape of his neck, the unconscious, nearly inaudible little moan that is shuddering out of Spike's chest is so fucking good.

                So fucking good and it's so very, very wrong, and it's a shuddering, twisting snake of absolute lust and want coiling through Xander's body.  And he can't help it, can't stop it, doesn't want to.  He reaches out with his free hand and slides his fingers under the waist of Spike's jeans - tugs him close and turns him, at the same time and Spike is up against the wall, now - up against cinderblock and he's still licking Xander's palm, only now he's licking from palm to fingertip and the blood is gone, the cuts barely seeping.   Xander's hand fumbles and twists and the buttons pop, onetwothreefour on Spike's jeans, easy as pie.  Spike's hand is twisting in his hair now, pulling and tugging and his other hand is flat on Xander's belly and sliding lower, tugging at the drawstring of his sweats, scrabbling at the worn fleece.  Then they're both free, both shoving impatiently at constricting cloth.  Xander gets his hand to Spike's hip and yanks him close even as he thrusts forward with his own hips and their cocks are rubbing, sliding, trailing wet streaks of cool fluid against each other's bellies.   Xander looks at Spike, at half-lidded eyes and snarling, blood-streaked mouth and he pulls his hand away - sinks both hands into Spike's hair and yanks his head back - knocks it into the wall, just a little.

                "Change, change - Spike, fuckin' change -"   Spike snarls again, eyes wide, but the demon submerges, smoothing away, and Xander attacks Spike's mouth with his, kissing hard and deep and fucking into cool, slick moisture that tastes of smoke and salt and copper and citrus.  He wrenches Spike's head over and kisses even deeper, feeling the throb in his jaw as he pushes his mouth wide - tries to get inside.  Spike sucks his tongue and nips at it and digs his fingers into Xander's head so hard Xander whimpers but his hips come forward, mindless thrust.  Knocking Spike back into the concrete wall, 'smack' of his spine and Spike growls, down in his chest.   He tries to thrust back but Xander isn't letting him, just keeps driving his hips forward as hard as he can, fucking Spike into the wall without actually fucking him with anything but his tongue and then Spike's other hand is down there, grabbing his hip hard enough to fuckin' bruise and his nails are cutting in and he's grabbing a buttock, pulling and kneading and just taking it, just letting Xander slam him into the wall again and again while the sharp-musk scent of sweat and arousal and pre-come comes up thick between them.

                Xander can feel his fingers stinging and a slipperiness there at the back of Spike's head and he lets up long enough to look at his hand and the cuts that have started to bleed again with every flex of his skin.  Spike is arching up against him, twist and thrust of his hips and the deadly, fanged mouth at this throat now, at his collarbone and prickling kisses there that will leave more bruises.  Xander groans, letting his head fall back, letting his own hips jackhammer into Spike, this thigh up tight under Spike's balls and his own hand grabbing a little ass.  Careless of the pounding his hand is taking, trapped between flexing muscle and hard concrete but he doesn't fucking care and he feels over Spike's jaw and chin and shoves his fingers back into that coolness, into that desperate lap and suck and Spike moans, panting around the fingers that are rubbing against this tongue and pressing into his teeth.   The hand on Xander's ass suddenly digs in tight - the one in his hair pulls sharply and the fangs split his skin and Spike is whining and sucking hard and shuddering against him, cool wash of seed on Xander's belly.  Xander sinks his own fingers deeper and they slide into the cleft of Spike's ass and sink further down and Spike is mumbling something around his fingers, still sucking and licking like he's starving and maybe he is and Xander pulls his fingers out and grabs the back of Spike's neck again - pulls Spike's mouth to his neck and crushes his own flesh into unyielding bone and oh fuck, Christ, his skin is snagging on the tips of the fangs and his cock is slipping, sliding, grinding into Spike's hip, into the fold Spike has made by getting his thigh up over Xander's.  Xander pushes - feels his fingers breach the tight-clenched opening that's just there and feels the teeth at his throat breech that skin and he sobs out some sort of noise, some sort of encouragement as he feels the blood rise up to Spike's sucking mouth.  His own body tightens and shudders and lets go, orgasm that makes him slam Spike back hard, that drives his finger in deeper and the fangs in deeper and he's shuddering and gasping and Spike is groaning into his neck and coming again, fucking vampire always has to be better and then Xander just leans there, panting, getting a little zoned as Spike keeps drinking and the hand that clawed into his ass is soothing him now, rubbing his back and the other hand is stroking his hair and Spike is licking him now, licking his throat and his jaw and kissing him and whispering something in his ear, whispering 'fuckin' lovely' and 'gonna fuck you, pet', and 'mine now', and Xander agrees with him - with it all - little creels of pleasure as Spike nips lightly at the wound on his neck and walks him backwards the three feet to the sofa - pushes him down and gazes at him with an unblinking, inhuman, possessive gaze.

                "Worth fifty bucks, then?" Spike asks, fingers clever and quick and prying their way in and Xander gasps and nods and pulls that deadly grin down to him, his own blood in his mouth and it's worth all the fifties he'll ever have.

                A month later, when Xander's sick of the looks and the threats and the questions, and sick of hiding the marks and the bruises and sick of never being alone...    He's packing up their stuff and watching Spike trace out a route on an old Triple-A map and he finds that 'Happy Birthday' fifty tucked into a comic he thought he'd lost and he knows, oh he knows, and it's sweet as spun sugar on his tongue.





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