DISCLAIMER: I do not own Spike or Xander. I am simply borrowing them for the nonce and promise to return them to Joss & Co. none the worse for wear... unless they feel a bit of attraction to each other once they're back home... in which case, they can come live here forever. *grins*
RATING: 18 (NC-17)
A/N: It's 7 years in the future from S7:B... many things have changed and Andrew actually kept his trap shut.

Constructive criticism is always welcome but pure nastiness will be responded to in kind.

Original characters are mine and mine alone (meaning Elliot, Trevor, Mike the bartender and Sammy the waiter. :))

Old Enemies

by
Tisienne Blue

Part One

"Mr. Alexander!" the voice called from amongst many as he blinked in the flashing light from the cameras. "Mr. Alexander, Treecie Azure from Neverless Magazine!"
He smiled a bit, knowing the mag the woman was talking about. It catered to horror and science fiction fans. He might have a chance of getting a less inane question than usual from her.
"Ms. Azure," he said quickly, trying to point at her although he had no idea of where she actually was, considering the amount of spots in his vision at the moment.
The young woman smirked a bit at having been singled out by the author; then she let it go and looked at her pad.
"I know a lot of people have been comparing you to Anne Rice, and I already know how you feel about that, so I'm not going to ask anything so common. Besides, your work is nothing like hers."
She grinned when a good number of the other reporters blushed or looked away. Yeah, she knew they were too straight-laced to even try finding a different topic to ask about.
Mr. Alexander chuckled a bit and nodded, leaning forward in an attempt to see the woman but failing because people kept taking pictures. He should be used to it by now, he figured... but he wasn't.
"Cool," he said. "So what do you want to know, Treecie?"
The woman blushed a little herself, then asked her question.
"How did you really lose your eye?"
She frowned a little, then glared at the so-called reporters around her. "I know you don't like to talk about it," she explained, "because it might affect sales, but... your last three books made the best seller's list and at this point I think we all know you're not really the same guy as in the books, so..."
Treecie shrugged. "Please... how?"
Harrison Alexander-- as he'd been known for some three and a half years-- laughed. He actually laughed. "Meet me for dinner and I might tell you," he said with an over-stated wink that set the rest of the reporters howling with laughter. The young woman was a stunner, after all. Who could blame him?
She grinned. "It's a date. So if you won't answer that... now, I mean... what do you like on your pizza?" The young woman winked, and he answered.
"Pepperoni and sausage. What does that say about me, Treecie?"
The redhead laughed. "I don't know. That you like meat...?"
He thought she knew how right she was. As far as her imagination went, anyway.
Still, nothing wrong with fluctuating, either.
He was a confirmed bisexual, even with the media, so he just laughed. "You could say that," he admitted, most of the other reporters laughing, although he noticed a good number of them trying not to look jealous.
* * * * *
The rest of the press conference had gone off without a hitch, mostly, and Harrison-- as he was calling himself then-- was pleased to find himself at a secluded restaurant with the stunner.
They had salad and appetizers, entrees and dessert... and still, he couldn't bring himself to tell her the truth.
He was enjoying her company, though, and that's why he didn't freeze up when she asked him about his inspiration for his character "Spark" in his books.
Sure, the character was a vampire who had earned his name due to torturing his victims with the smoldering end of a fire brand. Sure, the guy had spent a load of time trying to live up to the desires of his maker and had then gone and gotten himself a soul, but...
"There is no Spark," he told her softly, trying to hide the sadness in his own soul. "It's a story. That's all. I took my experiences growing up and... made them into horror and that's where the books come from, is all."
The reporter looked at him sadly, then shrugged. "Okay. But... the eye?" She smiled. "You did say you'd tell me if we went to dinner, and... here we are. At dinner."
The author laughed loudly and lied to her face. "I'd love to say I lost it in some big, heart-rending showdown... that some evil priest put it out by driving his thumb into the socket. That would be appropriately dramatic, right? Not to mention being just what happens to Lavelle in the book. But... just between you and me?"
She nodded, for some reason actually meaning it this time. "Off the record," she promised, shutting off even her internal mental recorder... the one that she relied on most times to recall inflections.
The dark haired man smiled again and nodded. "All right... and you're the only one I've ever told this to so if I read it anywhere, I'll know where it came from..."
He chuckled softly, seeing her waiting with bated breath for some big, explosive thing.
"It's like this," he said softly. "You know how when you're a kid and playing knights with your friends, using sticks for swords... and your Mom says 'be careful or someone's gonna lose an eye'...?"
He chuckled as the young woman fell into peals of laughter, trusting that her amusement would distract her from the pain in his one remaining eye.
Fortunately, he was right.

Part Two

Harrison Alexander sighed softly as he walked into his two bedroom apartment in upper Northwest DC.
His agent Elliot had just dropped him off. For some reason, the DMV in Washington didn't want to let him have a driver's license. Possibly because he was missing an eye and possibly because of his driving record. Either way, he figured he was lucky to have become successful enough that he could call on his agent to drive him around.
Even so, it was somewhat degrading. He was able to see well enough that he should at least have been given a provisional license. Daytime only would have been fine.
As it was, he ran the risk of getting arrested every time he took his new Jag out, which was exactly why Elliot had insisted on driving him to and from the press thing. And waited while he had dinner with the reporter before driving her back to her hotel, then him to home.
Harrison Alexander. He sighed.
He knew the new Watcher's Council couldn't take a chance on him exposing them. Even with changing his name a bit, he was surprised they hadn't protested. Hell, he was amazed that they hadn't ordered him to stop writing the books.
Not that he would have listened, but still.
He'd been writing mostly as some sort of therapy, he thought. So he could find a way to accept himself and the things he'd done. Or not done, he admitted.
He'd never admitted his attraction to certain of his colleagues. Never admitted that he'd been hateful to them because he'd wanted them. First Angel, who'd had eyes only for the Slayer, and then... a little later... Spike. Even with Anya, he'd wanted him. Anya... was just another indicator. He should have...
It had taken him years to realize that he was drawn to demons. For the longest time, he'd blamed it on the Hellmouth.
It wasn't until that night... that horrible night... the night he and his friends managed to keep the world from ending...
Xander groaned and curled into his pillow, trying not to think about it. It had been six years and... he'd moved on.
He tried to force himself to sleep, and once he managed to do it even half way, that was even worse.
He saw again the fight in the old High School... saw again Spike from his eavesdropping spot at the top of the stairs before it all went fiery.
"I love you," Buffy had said, and Xander wished it was him there saying that to Spike, even though he hadn't known it then.
"No you don't," he'd heard the blond vampire respond, "But thanks for saying it..."
He remembered his heart skipping a good beat or two when Spike looked up towards where he was hiding, but then...
Then the flames came, and the long, drawn-out scream... and then Spike was gone. Eaten from the inside for a love that would never be.
And, Xander admitted privately, even if Spike had been talking to him, it would have been the same.
He hadn't truly known that he loved Spike until after he was gone.

And thank GODS he hadn't married Anya.
If he had, he'd be dead by now.
He had a sneaking suspicion that she might have had a problem with his inherent desire for lean, cut, cocky blonds of the male variety by now. Or even worse, would want to join in... assuming a different end to things, anyway.
He spared a sad, small smile for Anya, wherever she was. Did demons go to Heaven, even if they died saving the world? He had no idea.
"Gods," he said softly, and not for the first time, "Grant her happiness and peace."
His eyes closed tiredly as he slipped off completely, for some reason imagining all the things he wished he'd done before he'd lost his world.
Whether he defined his world as the blond vampire occupying his mind was another question entirely. He could just as easily have meant his hometown. He'd been very careful not to look too deeply into that question. He was honestly afraid of what he might find out if he asked himself and actually gave himself an honest answer.
Besides… he’d built himself a new world, this one with very little involvement of demons or Slayers. Except for the rare occasion when one of the old crowd called him. And he figured that was… if not good, then at least okay.
* * * * *
It was the ringing of his phone that dragged him from yet another sweaty, moaning dream and he groaned deeply as he reached for the receiver. He pressed it confusedly to his ear, calling "hello? Hello?" into it before he grunted and reversed it until the mouthpiece was actually by his mouth. "Wha...?" he said, trying again.
"Jesus Christ, Harris... do you even know what time it is? You CAN'T still be sleeping, right?"
Harrison sat up suddenly, his eye finding the clock across the room. "SHIT! I... sorry, Elliot! I overslept. Give me five minutes and I'll be down, okay?"
He forced himself to jump from the bed, then tossed the phone down once he hit the disconnect button. He didn't think he could actually shower, shave, dress and be out the door that quickly but he was for damned sure going to give it his best shot.
Fifteen minutes later he stepped from his apartment, locking the door behind him. His laptop was slung over one shoulder in its case while the other shoulder supported the carry on bag he'd packed two days earlier. There was no way he could miss this damned signing in New York. Even if it HAD interrupted a very good dream.
"Sorry, guy," he said sheepishly as he climbed into Elliot's Mercedes, "I swear I set the alarm this time..."
Elliot laughed, his pale blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he gunned the engine and headed for the nearest exit to 495. He tossed his head slightly, short blond hair bouncing with the movement as he yelled at another driver who had almost cut him off.
"It's fine, Harris," he said once he'd managed to merge into the next lane, getting in front of the bastard. "I know how hard you sleep, remember?"
The dark haired man chuckled, recalling the three months the two of them had been an item. They'd been good together, he knew, but... Elliot wasn't quite what he truly needed. Too American, for one thing... and too warm.
Besides, the other man had felt it. That he was a stand-in for someone who was gone.
Fortunately, he hadn't been angry about it. If he had been, he never would have stolen the first manuscript and taken it to work for the lead staff to read. And Harris wouldn't have had a carreer.
No, Elliot had told him that he figured it had been fun while it lasted. And the slightly younger one-eyed man had ended up being one of his closest friends, so... it was all good. A good fuck wasn't as hard to find as a good friend. And a good friend who didn't mind the occasional good fuck was even better.
Harris agreed on every level really, so when recognized the tone Elliot had used to say that about knowing how hard he slept, he frowned a little. "Okay... and this is me waiting for the punch line."
The blond had the grace to blush just a little, then laughed. "Our flight's not until eleven. I thought we could use some extra time. Especially considering how often you set that stupid clock-radio for PM instead of AM. You should just hire a service and be done with it. Or better yet, find yourself a man. Or a woman. Whichever you’re currently bothering with.” He winked.
Harris groaned, longish dark hair falling into his eyes as he looked down at his clenched hands, trying his best not to throttle his friend.
"If you knew," he grated out roughly, "how good the dream you pulled me from was, you wouldn't blame me for hitting you right now."
Elliot's pale blond brows rose and he darted a glance at Harris as he took the Dulles Airport exit from the Beltway. "Ohhh... dreaming about HIM again, were you? Guess you ARE in a male phase. So did he put it to you or were you the one driving this time?" he asked smugly. He didn't know who the guy Harris dreamt of was, but he'd be damned if he didn't want to find one like that for himself. All hunger and want... or at least in his friend's dreams.
The brunette sighed and shrugged a bit. "Doesn't really matter, does it? Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. That's what they say, right?"
The conversation fell off as Harris stared out the window of the car for the rest of the short ride to the airport. God knew he loved Elliot. The man was pretty much his best friend these days. But there were still certain things he wasn't ready to tell him. Things he'd NEVER be ready to tell him.

Part Three

He knew he was haunted. He had to be. Or else it was the bloody soul inside him.
He couldn't figure any other reason for the way his so-called life had gone since what was supposed to be the final battle.
He'd expected to die there beside his Sire... or rather the Vampire who'd acted as his Sire since Dru was too bleeding wonky to act as such. But he hadn't.
Most of the others had, sure. And he'd PLANNED on doing so himself!
But sodding Lorne had other plans for him, it seemed.
After going and telling them all how he wouldn't be back, the poncey, swishy Pylean had come out of nowhere just as the fight was reaching a fever pitch and... clocked him in the head then shoved him down a manhole into the sewers!
And apparently the bloke had made arrangements because when he'd come to, he'd been in New Mexico with a group of Crashtith demons.
He figured the others were all dead by then; even the ones he hadn't seen pass. His Sire, the thug, the ex-Watcher and the Blue Bitch. They for damned sure hadn't been around by the time he got back to L.A. to look for them. Of course, neither had Lorne... aside from a few scraps of green, lightly scaled chunks of flesh under a dumpster. Might not have been him, necessarily, but... how many Pyleans were likely to have been in that alley at the right time?
And so Spike had done what Spike had always done. He made the best of it.
He went back to the Wolfram and Hart office building, amazed that it was still standing.
He slipped inside, avoiding Hell-beasts when he could and killing them when he couldn't.
He made his way to Angel's office, then up the elevator-- miraculously still working-- to his Sire's rooms and... looted them.
It wasn't hard to figure out that the combination to the safe was the date he was turned, then the date Dru was. It was SO easy, in fact, that he wondered whether Angel had done it deliberately so his favourite childe wouldn't be alone AND empty handed.
He rather thought he might have, simply because of the order of the dates. His turning, then Dru's. Maybe he'd meant something to the wanker after all.
He deliberately ignored the thought that if Angel HAD done that, it meant he'd known about Lorne's plan... had maybe even been in on it.
Six million in cash made a bloody big parcel, even when stuffed into the bag so thoughtfully left within the safe. The diamonds made less of a package. Those he stuck in the pockets of his jeans.
That wasn't what had made him cry, though.
No, what made him cry was the ring.
Angel must have snatched it from the Master, way back in Sunnyhell and kept it hidden all that time because he'd for damn sure never seen him wear it. Still, there it was.
Spike remembered smiling as he slipped the platinum band with its tiny diamonds and huge ruby onto his index finger. "I'll make ya proud, Peaches," he'd whispered into the still, sweltering air of his Sire's home. "I'll be th' Master of Aurelius for ya, seein' as I'm all that's left."
With that he'd turned and walked to one of the huge, spelled windows and broken it by throwing a chair through it. The spells seemed to have weakened for some reason.
Then he stepped from it, plummeting the three hundred feet without anything but a smirk, groaning slightly as he landed, then straightened.
And then... he'd walked away.
* * * * *
His walk hadn't gotten him too far, he realized, dragging himself from his own memories. He hadn't even made it back to England!
Still, New York was a good way away from California.
He wasn't entirely sure of why he'd chosen New York. Maybe because he still had fond memories of Nikki, but he doubted that.
More likely, he figured, it was because it was where he'd run into the bloke who'd made his look famous.
The pissant motherfucker was an enormous wanker of course, but still... by stealing his look, the LOOK would be remembered forever.
If he was dusted tomorrow, some kid down the line would show up with bleached hair, ripped shirt, jeans, and... yeah, it was a legacy. Perhaps not one he was thrilled about but... with a soul, how could he go back to Jolly Old and kill the prat? Besides... the fuck might already be dead. He'd heard he'd lived in L.A. for a time. Whether he still did or not was another question, and not one he cared enough about to find out. He'd just believe he was dead and that would do.
That thought made him smile as he continued following the tiny-breasted blonde woman down the street. The chit had "victim" written all over her. He'd be surprised if he was the only predator out tonight. Hell, he'd STAKE himself if he was the only predator out. That's how certain he was.
Luckily for Spike, he didn't have to go to those extremes because as soon as the bloody stupid chit turned down a side street she was surrounded by three vamps without souls.
He watched for a few moments, letting the girl get good and scared, then he stepped forward into the edge of the streetlight's pool.
"Think ya might be wantin' ta move along, blokes," he said softly, pulling a slightly crumpled Marlboro from his pocket and lighting it quickly.
He squinted a bit at them, smirking as he took another step closer to the girl, his eyes locked on the alleged lead-vamp. "I'm lookin' out for this one."
It amazed him that his reputation had grown so much in less than five years in a metropolis the size of New York, but... the vamps took one look at him and even their leader turned tail and ran.
Spike growled and pushed the blonde away. Amazing how small tits and yellow hair transcended everything else. He might have saved the bint's life, but that didn't mean he wanted to bed her! And all because he'd seen how unhappy she was when she'd left the bar.
Now that he knew how she acted, he was surprised the bloke she'd been talking to hadn't hauled off and HIT her.
He pushed her off again, then faded into the shadows, still watching until she entered what he assumed was her building.
"Right, then," he murmured, "I'm off."
It was the same every night. He went out once the sun set, found himself in a bar or club or whatever. Scouted until he found the most likely targets, then... followed.
It wasn't the same as what he'd done before but he was damaged somewhat. Even his soul thought he'd done enough.
Let others save the world. He'd just save a human or two at a time.
That was enough, wasn't it...?
It would have to be, he told himself as he strode the loud, dirty streets. After all, it was all he could do these days. Especially with his soul.
It had taught him a few things. TOLD him a few things. He wasn't all powerful. He'd learned that. And he was alone. More alone than he'd ever been in his life.
First he'd had Mother. Then Dru and Angelus. Even Darla. Then... the Scooby Gang.
Lastly, he'd had Angel and his crew.
All dead.
Every last one of them. Dead.
Oh, he knew most of the Sunnyhell crew had gotten out... probably. He’d even seen that little wanker Andrew a time or two. Almost saw Buffy once, when he’d gone to Italy with the poof. But considering what they must have been going on towards, he knew they were all dead, too.
A part of him still mourned for Buffy. She'd been a good adversary when he'd been soul-less. And he missed the Nibblet. Of all of them, she'd least deserved to die... except for the other. The one who'd given him sanctuary even through hate. The one who'd taunted and hurt with his words and so-called humour. The one he couldn't forget holding onto when that pain from the lost eye burned. Yeah... he missed Xander the most. But he knew the younger bloke was dead by now. Hell. Even before the Watcher's Council blew up, they hadn't been so good at looking after their own.
Spike sighed deeply and let his feet drag him to one of the better gay bars.
He wasn't exactly gay, but... he'd feel better if he could find a tall, handsome young dark-haired man... one who'd wear the eye patch while he buried himself deep and thought of other times.
Not happier times, necessarily, but... better ones.
It was a plan, and as plans went, Spike figured he'd had worse ones.

Part Four

"Go ahead, buddy," Harris said, smiling just a little into the glass of scotch he was holding. "Seriously, I'm not in the mood to hang around with a bunch of fags and queers tonight." He winked at Elliot, knowing his friend would understand his meaning.
Elliot shook his head and finished his drink. "If I didn't know you swung both ways, that'd almost be insulting," he teased. "There's no law that says you have to get yourself picked up, you know. Come on, Harris. Have a couple drinks, dance a little... it'll be fun. God knows you could use some fun. You've been all 'work-work-work' for the last eight months. Now the book is in, it's coming out tomorrow, and it's time for all good little one-eyed money-makers to shake their thing and cut loose."
Harris laughed loudly and shook his head again. "Maybe tomorrow, El. We can make a night of it." He waggled his brow suggestively and tossed a cocky grin out there. "Maybe I'll even put on the leather," he added, sealing the deal.
"Oh, good," Elliot nearly purred, "I have my collar and leash in my room."
The brunette chuckled and downed the last of the scotch in his glass. "I figured, buddy," he said as he stood. "You give whole new meaning to the phrase 'don't leave home without it' when it comes to your kinks." He winked and ruffled the short blond hair. "Don't stay out too late, and NO riding bareback, no matter how safe you think the guy looks."
Elliot tried to look offended. "Who says there's going to be any riding at all?"
Harris snorted. "Try selling that one to someone who doesn't know you. Now go. Have fun. I'll see you tomorrow."
Elliot sighed softly, still smiling as he watched his friend make his way across the lobby to the elevators. He was going to hold Harris to his promise of going out the next night. The guy needed to decompress seriously badly. He could tell. And if that meant he got to wear the leash and eventually be ridden like a pony, then so be it.
He grinned hugely as he went outside to hail a cab.
* * * * *
Elliot leaned against the bar at the club he privately called "Homo Heaven". His first margarita had gone down quickly but now he was nursing the second. He could afford to be either tired or hungover in the morning, but not both. Tired would be more fun, anyway. It would mean he'd gotten lucky and laid.
Of course, standing at the end of the bar wasn't going to get it done, so he pushed away and started circulating, catching bits and pieces of conversation as he roamed.
"Oh, please!" he heard one reasonably attractive man saying to another of the same sort, "He SO wants to be Spark! I mean, just LOOK at him! The eyes, the hair, even the clothes! It would be sad if..."
"If he didn't do it so well," the second guy yelled back in agreement. "Do you think maybe he IS Spark? I mean, the guy he's based on?"
Elliot moved closer and saw the first man roll his eyes. "Honey," the first guy replied, "Look at him. He's WAY too young. Harrison started writing the books like six years ago, right? THAT guy would have been like sixteen and that's just... wrong." He shivered. "No, the Author would never lust after a kid. He's a good guy from what I've read."
Elliot chuckled to himself, leaving the two men to their discussion. 'The Author' he repeated silently. Harris would get a kick out of that. The guy was right, though. Harris would never even think about someone that young. Not even six years earlier. His friend had always gone for older men. A little older, anyway. Of course, he still wanted to check out this guy who supposedly looked like his friend's most popular character. Who knew? Maybe he could get the guy to do some public appearances to promote the new book, assuming he lived up to the hype.
That was when he saw him, and... oh, boy.
His eyes raked over the long, lean body, fascinated by the black denim and the t-shirt stretched tight over lithe, cat-like muscles.
The guys he'd overheard had been completely right, he realized. If there ever was a Spark, this guy could have modeled for him.
Pale, smooth skin, high cheekbones, strong jaw... eyes just the right shade of vibrant blue-- at least he thought so, considering the questionable lighting. The hair platinum and swept back from a high, almost creaseless forehead but for the one small curl that had come away from the rest...
He watched the man for a few minutes then waved over a scantily clad waiter. "The blond," he said, passing the guy a twenty, "Get him a beer on me. Whatever kind that is he's holding. And give him this, too. Tell him I might have a job for him, if he's interested." He handed the waiter his business card then leaned against one of the tall columns going from floor to ceiling. It was as good a vantage point as any.
The waiter sighed and walked towards the bar. "Hey, Mike," he called to the bartender, "Another Beck's Dark for the mystery man." He rolled his eyes.
Mike chuckled and passed him a bottle of the beer. "You're just jealous, sweetie. Nobody's even noticed your new outfit, right?" He chuckled again when the waiter stomped off. Yeah... Sammy was jealous, all right.
* * * * *
"Oh, bloody hell," Spike growled softly as yet another waiter came over with yet another beer. "Look, mate," he said seriously, "If you an' your lot keep interruptin' me, I'm never goin' ta get anywhere with this bloke, am I?" He tilted his head to indicate the tall, good looking brunette he'd been chatting up. He rested one hand on the prospective 'date's' waist, cocking a brow.
The waiter grinned a little, even as he handed the blond the beer. "Honey, I think you've got a shot at getting EVERYWHERE with that one." He winked saucily. "Besides, as long as you stand around in here, you're gonna get interrupted. You're the best looking thing to walk in here in... weeks. Deal with it."
Spike laughed. "Why, you cheeky bugger! Off with you!" He chuckled loudly as he swatted the waiter on the ass. "Nice pants, by th' way. Where'd you find purple PVC with lace-up sides, anyway? An' do they come in black?"
The waiter grinned even more. "Reversible," he announced, cocking a hip towards the man. "Want to find out?"
Spike shook his head, pulling the brunette he'd been talking to just a little bit closer. "Sorry, mate. Got a thing for tall, dark an' handsome at th' moment. An' I don't rightly care much for a Prince Albert." He nodded down at the obvious thick ring outlined against the front of the tight purple pants. "But thanks for bringin' th' beer."
The short blond waiter sighed softly, then shrugged. "Just doing my job, mister man." He winked again and started to turn away then remembered. "Oh, I'm supposed to give you this, too. From the same guy." He handed over the business card with a sheepish grin. "He says he has a job for you if you want. Um, he seemed to mean a real job, not anything... weird."
With that, he sauntered off, glad someone had actually noticed his pants, even if it was the guy who had everyone so distracted.
Spike shrugged and slipped the card into the pocket of his jeans. He'd look at it later. Right now, though... he cocked his head a bit and looked a couple inches up, meeting the wide brown eyes of the young man beside him. "So, pet... Trevor... what do you say? Care ta spend a night all... tied up, so ta speak?"
Trevor laughed breathlessly. "I, uh... think I could go for that, but... uh, is the eye patch
Spike frowned. "'s just a thing of mine, mate. If you don't want ta, I won't make you... but I think you'd like it and I'd bloody well appreciate it, myself..."
The young man frowned. Even though the blond looked about his own age, he talked... older, somehow. And his eyes... oh, his eyes were anything but young. Lot of baggage there, Trevor realized. More than he wanted to mess around with, anyway.
"I... okay. Eye patch it is." Trevor's smile was a little weak but he doubted the Englishman noticed. "Just... the tied up is metaphorical, right? I mean, you don't want to actually... tie me up, right?"
Bloody hell, the bloke was almost more trouble than he was worth. And surprisingly vanilla, apparently, the whole wanting to take a bloke's cock up his bum thing aside. He was still bloody attractive, but... somehow knowing the kid didn't really know how to play was putting a damper on things for him.
Spike sighed and shook his head, a wry smile twisting his lips. "You know what, mate? I think I might be a bit too much for you. What say we finish our drinks an' our chat an' just move on, 'ey? Think it might be best for th' both of us."
There was a time when he would have lied to the kid and gone ahead and done whatever he wanted once he had him alone and away from any help. Of course, there was a time when he would have fucked him then eaten him and fucked him again, too, so... Spike shrugged and tried not to laugh at the relief pouring in waves from the kid. "Right, then."
They talked about art for a little while, debating the Italian Masters versus the French. Finally, though, their drinks were finished and Spike turned away. "You might consider chattin’ up that last waiter, Trevor," he said in parting. "Think he might be a bit more your speed."
William the Bloody, matchmaker for gay humans. The thought alone pulled a somewhat disgusted snort from him. But the kid was okay. He might have had the look but he for damned sure didn't have the guts of the one he remembered from good old Sunnyhole-in-the-ground.

Part Five

Even the way the blond moved was like a sort of poetry, Elliot thought. Like watching water flow effortlessly over and around rocks in a stream, although water didn't have that slight sense of menace to it that the blond was obviously trying to hide.
Elliot recognized it, though. He hadn't always restricted his games to collars and leashes. Hell, before he'd run into Harris, he'd tried some truly dark things and while they hadn't really taken, he could still recognize danger when he saw it.

Still, whatever had happened between the blond and the dark haired guy, the Spark looking guy hadn't hurt the other one. They appeared to have parted on good terms, so... maybe he'd just take a shot and tell the man what he had in mind. For the promotional thing, anyway. He'd be damned if he was going to mention the other thoughts flashing through his mind.

He waited until the blond took up a spot against the far wall, obviously scanning the crowd, then Elliot headed to the bar again. "Margarita and whatever sex on a stick is drinking," he said with a grin at the bartender.

Mike chuckled and got the drinks, wondering if he could maybe hire the blond by the wall. He'd made more money on drinks bought for the guy than he ever would have believed. He had no idea of where the man was putting it all, either, but he didn't look drunk or even buzzed, really. Handy skill to have, he figured.

Elliot forced his mind to business as he approached the other blond. "Hi," he said, leaning against the wall beside him and handing him the beer. "I'm Elliot," he added. "Elliot Washburn of Hamsterville Publishing. You have my card in your pocket." He nodded slightly, carefully not looking down at the man's groin.

Spike looked at the beer in his hand and took a long swallow. "Right," he said after a moment. "Somethin' about a job, you said?"

Elliot nodded quickly. "Yeah. And wow, your voice is perfect, too. You could totally be the basis for Spark. And that's what I wanted to talk to you about. How old are you? Never mind, you're obviously old enough, considering where you are and I'm shutting up now." He blushed. Damn Harrison! His propensity for babble was obviously catching.

Spike found himself laughing. He hadn't heard that many words expelled all on one breath in years. Not since... he frowned suddenly and sighed. Would the past never stop haunting him?

"Ta for th' compliment, mate. Like my voice right well myself, too." He nodded, shaking off the sadness. "As for how old I am... I look a good bit younger than is strictly true." And wasn't THAT an understatement? "Call it thirty-three an' you'd be close enough." If you added a hundred, he chuckled to himself.

His eyes widened hugely and Elliot stared at the man. "No WAY! Jesus Christ... you must have the best genetics EVER." He sighed softly. "That is SO not fair. You're older than I am and you look like you could be my kid brother. Shit."

Spike shrugged. "I tend ta avoid th' sun, mate. I've heard that helps."

"It must," Elliot said grumpily before smiling just as suddenly as he'd frowned and taking a sip of his drink. "Okay. The job."

"I'm not doin' porn," Spike said suddenly, his brain putting together publishing, the gay bar and the concern over his age in exactly the wrong fashion. "Don't care how much you're payin', I'm not takin' my clothes off an' I'm for bloody damned sure not bangin' a bunch of blokes I don't even know for your amusement. Not on camera, anyway," he added after half a second, during which the other man was silent.

The agent blinked, his eyes even wider as he heard what mister sexy said. It took him a moment to regroup. "Okay... uh, we publish BOOKS. Not porn books, either." He thought for a moment, sipping his margarita. "Well, okay. Maybe a few of our authors push the boundaries, but it's still printed words, not pictures..." He sighed. "Okay, let me start again."

Spike watched curiously as the other blond went back to the bar and returned with two new drinks.

He handed one to the platinum haired man and stuck out his hand. "Hi, I'm Elliot Washburn and I'd like to offer you a job doing promotion for my client's new book. You look an awful lot like one of his characters, you see."

If Spike could have blushed, he would have. Instead, he shook the guy's hand and chuckled. "Sorry, mate. Read you all wrong there, didn't I? I'm Sp... Will," he said, falling back on the name he used with humans. Wouldn't want the demons around to be able to track him that way, after all. There were hundreds if not thousands of 'Wills' in New York. This way, he was just another of a group. Much less obvious.

Elliot's pale brows rose high enough that they almost disappeared under the hair hanging down over his forehead. "Spwill? Interesting name..." It had sounded an awful lot like the guy was going to say 'Spark', he noticed. Well, maybe the he was a big fan of Harrison's and was paying homage to the character.

Spike shrugged. "No, bloke. 's just Will. Will will do."

A shrug answered that statement and Elliot leaned a little bit closer, not wanting to shout quite so loudly as he explained more about the position he had in mind for 'Will'.

* * * * *

"Come ON, Harris!" Elliot demanded, leaning against the wall of his friend's hotel room. "You're already pretty enough, okay?" He rolled his eyes. God, he had no idea of how it could be taking him so long just to get dressed! "Throw on some pants and a shirt and let's GO!"

Harris looked at himself in the mirror and adjusted his new eye patch just so. It was his favourite, he decided. The subtle silk stitching, black on black, relieved the severity of the leather patch. It almost made it look like a fashion choice rather than a necessity. And the fact that it almost perfectly matched the leather pants he had on didn't hurt either, he acknowledged silently.
He slid his feet into the tall engineer boots and straightened again, adjusting the open collar of his sapphire blue silk shirt, then nodded at his image. If he was going to appear in public as Elliot's top, he was for damned sure going to make his friend proud.

"Fine, fine," he groused, opening the door and stepping from the bathroom. "I'm ready. You'd better just be glad that I'm not really your Master or you'd be hurting right about now." He grinned, then noticed the complete lack of words coming from his friend. "Elliot...? You okay?"

The blond nodded slowly, eyes locked on the sleek form of his friend. He'd seen Harris all dominating before, of course, but he'd never looked quite so... comfortable. Must be the clothes, he decided. They had to be new or he would have seen them before and why the HELL hadn't Harris gone shopping wherever he'd bought them before?

He forced himself to close his mouth with a snap of teeth on teeth. "Nice outfit," he finally said, raking his gaze over the toned shape again. "I guess you went shopping."

Harris laughed. "Yeah, well. Unlike YOU, I don't travel with a trunk-load of kink-wear. And I did promise to wear leather. Now, give me your leash and shut up. Or do you want to just stay in?"

Elliot shook his head, laughing at Harris's quirked eyebrow. "I'm almost tempted, but you know what I said last night is true. You need to loosen up. Blow off some steam. And besides... I really want to show you off." He grinned. "I'll be the envy of every guy there. Bottom AND top."

The brunette chuckled. "You still haven't told me where we're going," he said as he took the leash and led Elliot from the room.

"You'll see," the blond said smuggly. "Besides, there's someone there I want you to meet. He might make a good double for Spark, if you approve of him."

Harris frowned but stayed silent. Nobody would ever be a good double for Spark. Spark was Spike and Spike was dead and there'd never be anyone even remotely like him. But he could never explain that to Elliot.

Part Six

He didn't need the money the man was offering; that was just the plain truth. Some careful and not so careful investments over the last five years had turned his six million into close to ten times that. It was the job itself that appealed to him.

Stand around and look pretty. Let people take a few pictures. Maybe sign 'Spark' to a piece of paper or two. Simple. Easy. No drama, no trauma, nothing to make him think about anything but whatever city or town he was going to next.

Yeah, he could do that. He could do that stone drunk and with half a brain cell.

He figured he'd feel guilty about leaving his city and the humans who so obviously needed him, but then again, he'd be back often enough that things shouldn't get too out of control.

He'd meant to pick up the books he'd been told about, but the only all night book shop had been out of most of them and he hadn't wanted to start a series out of order. Besides, since he was meeting Elliot and his client tonight, he figured he could hit them up for free copies.

Just because he had money didn't mean he shouldn't get things for free, he figured. Hell, look at that Hilton bint. Millions of dollars and she still got free designer clothes. He figured she needed them because after seeing her sex tape nobody would want to put up with her clumsiness. She’d need every penny just to catch herself a bloke… or a chit, whatever the dozy mare wanted. Besides, he'd never been overly enthused about blondes, his little obsession with the Slayer-that-was aside.

Spike frowned and shook his head. "Stop thinkin' about that bunch," he grated out to himself as he finished getting dressed. "They're all dead an' gone. It's just you left, mate. You an' your soddin' ghosts."

He forced himself to think about the coming meeting with the bloke from last night and the one who did all the writing. Apparently the man's work was good and popular, judging by the web search he'd done earlier. There were whole websites dedicated just to him and his stories.

If the sun hadn't been coming up, he might have checked a few out, but he'd been tired and once he'd dealt with his usual pre-sleep erection he'd gone to bed.

He finished tying his boots and headed for his private elevator. Money didn't mean much to him but it definitely made things easier. It had gotten him his penthouse, complete with the elevator and the rooftop garden of night-blooming flowers that appealed to the poet in him. Not that he would ever admit that with his soul he'd gotten a good bit of William back. He was still the Big Bad, after all. He just did good, more often than not.

"Out for the night," he announced as he passed the bloke on the front desk of the building. "Any callers can be expunged." Spike smirked, knowing how much Andy liked telling people to leave. Bitter fellow, but good at his job. He was sure there was a story there, but he really didn't care enough to find out.

He sat in the back of the cab watching the neon flash by as they got closer and closer to the club.

Spike found himself thinking about Elliot. For some reason, he trusted the human and that should bother him. Regardless of the fact that he helped humans on a near nightly basis, he knew just how quickly they could go from thankful to mean. Still, Elliot he trusted almost implicitly.

It might have something to do with the way the bloke smelled, he figured. There had been a very subtle, underlying scent to the man. Spike didn't know what it was but it had somehow been... comforting, perhaps. Or maybe the bloke just smelled like something Spike couldn't remember. That was even more likely.

Either way, maybe he'd have a chance to figure it out tonight, between finding the guy in the crowded bar and having to suck up to the undoubtedly uptight author who'd probably want him to change his hair or accent or something. Humans got odd when they got successful. He'd seen that a million times in the last hundred and some-odd years. He doubted this writer git was any different.
He got out of the cab when it stopped a few doors down from the entrance to the bar and tossed a few crumpled up tens at the driver. "Ta, mate... have a good night. An' you might want ta clean your gun. It stinks ta high heaven. Fired it, what... two days ago now?"

Spike smirked to himself as the driver peeled away. He so loved shocking people sometimes. And if the cops pulled the bloke over, an obviously recently used gun would get him in some sort of trouble, especially considering the faint smell of blood that had still been in the cab.

He straightened his t-shirt just a bit, not wanting to admit even to himself how much he wanted this job. "Please let this bloke think I'm as bleedin' perfect as bloody Elliot does," he murmured, not sure anyone was listening or would care if they were. "I'm bloody well tired of bein' me."

That last part surprised him. How could he be tired of himself?

Well, maybe it was just that he was tired of the so-called life he'd carved from the wreckage of his earlier life. Yeah... that must be it, he figured. All the responsibility of being the head of the Aurelius line. Even without any others left, he still had to present himself a certain way. He was all that was left. How his line was perceived rested entirely and squarely on his shoulders, and... it was a wearying burden some days.

Most days, if he were going to be honest. But not right then, he decided, because he had a writer to meet, and... well, he had the right to a bit of fun, damn it.

Yeah. Couple drinks, find himself a hot, tight brunette to take home, seeing as that hadn't quite worked out the night before.
He patted the back pocket of his jeans and smiled. He had the eye patch and was for bloody well sure going to find someone to wear it for him.

Spike smirked slightly as he strolled through the door, the bouncer and doorman both nodding him through without paying the cover. He didn't notice the bit of prowl in his stride but the other guys at the club surely did.

A silent knowledge crept through the room. The mystery man was back and he was on the hunt.

The posturing and preening of a good half of the patrons went unnoticed by the object of their attentions, however, because that was when Spike's nostrils flared as he caught that Elliot-scent again, stronger this time.

He followed it through the crowd, brushing past anyone who tried to delay him until finally he found him.

"Elliot," Spike said, then blinked at the sight of what the man was wearing, not to mention the fact that he was kneeling on the floor. He laughed low and throatily. "Like a bit of th' rough, do you, pet?" He cocked his head to the side, eyes traveling from the tousled blond hair down to the collar and leash, tracing the straps of the harness the man wore which showed off his shaved skin. "Smooth as a baby's neck... or bottom, as the case may be," Spike muttered before letting his gaze continue down over the thin cotton trousers and simple shoes.

Elliot blushed just a little, trying not to preen under the way Will was looking at him. "I... sometimes," he admitted with a sheepish shrug.

Well, well... and maybe the writer he was here to meet wouldn't be as uptight as he'd thought, considering this was how his agent came to a meeting.

Spike smirked and reached down, stroking the soft blond head of hair lightly. "Sometimes, 'ey?" He chuckled. "If I'd known that last night, pet... might be neither one of us would have gone home alone. I could overlook you being blond, if… You don't have a problem with wearin' an eye patch, do you?" It was more a statement than a question, but either way it wouldn't be responded to because that was when the voice came from behind Spike.

"Hey! NO touching what isn't yours. I may have to demand an apology."

The platinum haired body froze solid. He knew that voice. He couldn't know that voice, but he did. That voice was DEAD! Had been dead for far too long, and now... now it was sounding again and he was being haunted but this time while he was awake and he couldn't take it, not for even an instant and...

"I'm sorry," he almost whimpered before running towards the men's room without even turning around to see how much it wasn't who it sounded like. He'd finally gone round the bend, just like poor Dru. Only he wouldn't subject anyone to looking after him. He had too much of a soul to put anyone through that, especially with knowing how it felt.

He leaned his head against the cool tile wall of the men's room stall and shuddered.

There was only one thing to do. The question was... sunlight or a quick stake.

Part Seven

Part Eight

Part Nine

Part Ten

Part Eleven

Part Twelve

Part Thirteen

Part Fourteen

Part Fifteen

Part Sixteen

Part Seventeen

Part Eighteen

Part Nineteen

Part Twenty

Part Twenty-One

Part Twenty-Two

Part Twenty-Three

Part Twenty-Four

Part Twenty-Five

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