Xander kept his head down, as if that would keep him dry from the rain pouring over him, splashing in great gouts from swollen awnings, then splattering in droplets too big to be "just rain". There should be another word for them.

But while Xander had learned other new words in countless demonic languages, rain was not one of them.

Xander hadn't felt rain in two years.

Though he'd felt a great many other things. Wonderful things. Terrible things.

He tipped his face back with a gasp, mouth opened wide to water that tasted a little like metal and a little like car exhaust, and only a bit like the electricity that flashed through the sky. He let it soak him, soak into him, then shook himself like a dog and darted down the darkened steps into his destination.

Caritas.

Because most of what he'd learned to say in the past two years here, and however many years it had been in - that other place, he'd learned to say in song.

Xander dragged a hand through the sodden strands of his hair, over-long now, falling over shoulders and chest, curling in long loose ringlets at the end that might be girly if it weren't for the lost desperation in his eyes.

He pushed open the door, letting the warmth, and light, and the sound of the club wash over him, breathing deeply of every note, brassy, sultry, sexy jazz that seeped into his pores and through his veins like alcohol. He didn't just want, he needed, craved like a junkie without a fix.

Now he understood what it was like for Buffy, cast out of heaven. His hands shook as he took the glass set on the table before him, the bottom rattling against wood before he lifted it to his lips and drained it.

He'd been in hell. Or a demon dimension. But what difference was there between heaven and hell when Hell was soft pillows, cool water, hot jazz, a thousand sensory delights that never ended, queen to a demon king, days and nights stretched wide at his whim, slick and shaking and aching to be filled, wondering how he'd ever thought it was a bad thing.

Until he'd made his mistake.

His big mistake. And opened his big mouth for something that wasn't cock.

And the song that'd come pouring out had damned him. "There's only one demon - who's name I'd be screamin' - who'd make me a heaven of hell-" He'd sucked in his breath, but it was too late. His world went still, still as if he didn't have ten inches of demon dick up his ass, red-skinned hands curled in his hair like reins until his neck ached, and his blood went cold.

"And what demon would that be, sweet thing?"

Xander had shaken his head, resisting with all he had. "But he doesn't want me, he lives just to taunt me-"

"Well?"

"Oh hell."

Xander shivered, the notes draining from his memory as a hand lay on his shoulder, and he realized that the music had stopped in the club too.

"You're up," the Host said as he passed him a microphone.

Xander hesitated. Needed. Needed the outlet he couldn't get on the streets here without sounding like a crazy man singing to himself.

"Go ahead." He nodded to Xander, watching him over the rim of his glass, a smile playing over red, red lips that froze when Xander started to sing. "Hey wait - you know Spike?"

Xander's eyes widened, Sweet's music returning to his head in a rush. "Oh hell."