Vampires, Volcanoes, And Various Eruptions

"Watched a volcano erupt once in Hawaii with Dru," Spike said from behind the newspaper, boots on the end of the couch, head in Xander's lap. "Like fireworks, it was, all red and orange and yellow. Better than mating dragons."

"How have we gone from volcanoes to mating dragons?" Xander asked. "No, first, how have we started talking about volcanoes at all?"

Spike lifted the newspaper. "Mount St. Helens blew again. Been there?"

"Uh. No."

"Right. Guess you'd be too young to remember. It went all Vesuvius on a bit of Washington State twenty four years ago. All sorts of ash and destruction, and people screaming in terror, running away from the wall of debris and great sodding clouds of volcanic dust that blotted out the sun." Spike sighed. "Chaos. Death. Terror. Vampires walking days dark as night. Good times."

"You know, I've been meaning to ask you about that, Spike."

"Ask me what, luv?"

"Why do you keep saying 'good times' and looking all wistful about natural disasters?"

"Uh, pet. Vampire."

"Yeah, but souled. Aren't you supposed to be all good and love the humans and broody now?"

"Well, now," Spike said, and narrowed his eyes in that way that made Xander shiver, though he wasn't sure yet if it was the good shiver, or the balls trying to crawl back home shiver. "I've averted an apocalypse or two in my time, haven't I? Would you say that's good?"

"Um. Yeah."

"And I suppose you might say I'm good in bed."

"Yeah, but not where you could hear me," Xander said, and grinned.

"Right." Spike gave Xander the sodding-idiot look. "Pet, last night, the whole street heard you howling out how good I am, so don't go playing the coy maiden with me." As Xander was occupied with groaning and turning a fetching shade of red, Spike continued. "As for love the humans, I think we can all agree that that's been a bloody epidemic problem for me in recent years. What with the slayer, then you, I've lost all possible credibility as a big bad, for which I blame you exclusively."

"Me? Why don't you blame Buffy?"

"Buffy didn't bring me waffles and blood in bed." Spike sniffed. "Makes me soft."

"Hey, buddy. I don't have to bring you waffles and blood in bed. And from where I was sitting, soft was not what it made you."

"Right, right. So I may have encouraged you somewhat. But I do not, and listen to me now, pet. I do not brood."

"Uh huh."

Spike narrowed his eyes, and adopted Xander's waffle-threat tone. "I don't have to wake you with unbreathing blow jobs, mate."

Like rubber, Xander's face stretched into the biggest, fakest grin since last Halloween's jack-o-lantern. "You? Brood? What are these silly, silly people thinking accusing you of brooding?"

"That's better," Spike said. "So, the soul doesn't stop me enjoying a bit of mayhem. It's what I'm made for; fighting, fucking, and obsessing over the bloody object of my heart's desire. That's the poof's whole problem. He's all deny, deny, deny. Oh dear, I must brood some more, I think I almost enjoyed myself. If I'm not sodding careful, I may giggle and the fucking world will end." Spike snorted, sitting back in his chair. "Angel's a wanker." He returned to the paper, and cocked his head. "Pet?"

"Yeah?"

"Ever wanted to go to Hawaii?"