Title: One Night
Author: kbk
Disclaimer: "Buffy the Vampire Slayer", “Angel” and all characters are owned by Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy and various other people and companies. Harry Potter and all related characters are owned by JK Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing etc. Not me. I make no money from this.
Rating: R
Summary: BtVS/HP crossover. Spike stops off in London for a night, on his way to Africa. He meets up with Draco Malfoy. Slash, not fluffy, bad language, non-explicit sex scene. Post Seeing Red/Book Seven (meshing the timelines). I'm actually proud of this, and not just because I've never seen this pairing anywhere else. Because it's almost third person. Because I didn't let it get anywhere near a happy ending. Because they're blonde and not-quite-evil. Because I like it.

Spike whistled jauntily as he swaggered through the alleyways of London: he had missed being home. Where a vampire could wander the streets in the middle of the afternoon, thanks to the pall of cloud that lay across the entire sky and dropped a gentle drizzle on the dirty streets below. This was good. It would be better, of course, once he had found what he was looking for. Off to Africa in the morning: but this stopover was necessary and could turn out to be enjoyable. Out of the shadows came the word: "Vampire." He whipped round to see the owner of the upper-class voice. He looked too young to be a Watcher - fusty, tweedy old chaps, the lot of them - and the piece of wood he carried was too delicate... Ah. Recognition struck. "Wizard," he replied, allowing his accent to thicken and a little of his disdain to show. The silvery-blonde young man looked down his nose at the bleached one. "I can kill you where you stand," he said in a superior and informative voice. Spike, knowing this full well, was poised to leap - but he kept his voice casual as he admitted, "Not what you'd call evil, these days," figuring the man for a youngster attempting to make a name for himself in the battle against evil. A bitter little laugh preceding the reply dispelled this impression. "Neither am I," he said, tucking his wand into his sleeve. Spike cocked his head to one side, studying the pointed features and almost emaciated figure before him. "Fancy a drink?" he said. The man laughed, amused this time. "Of?" he enquired, a gleam in his eye. Spike merely smirked at him and set a course for the nearest pub.

Draco grimaced as the alcohol tugged at the back of his throat, drying it out and making it difficult to mutter the de-alcoholising charm he had learned years before. After a moment’s thought, he reversed the charm and replaced it with a mere sweetener. He sipped again: vanilla. How remarkably far from apt. Across the table, the vampire was still talking, showing a volume of animation that amused Draco – his emotions had been further under control at the age of six. But that was a necessity in a family such as his. He warded off the incipient flashbacks by tuning his mind solely to the words spilling from the psuedo-man before him.

"...and then, once she's gone and dumped me, she calls me William, for fuck sake. I have't been William in over a century, and..."

Draco’s mind began to drift again, along paths that were probably more dangerous but less certainly so. A century. It was reasonable to assume that he could anticipate another century of life. A century to be filled with... what? Bitterness and booze? He would have to find something to make his life worth continuing; and it would come to him at some point, he was sure. But booze and bitterness were enough for such as him - for tonight.

"...and I've got this goddamn chip in my head to stop me killing people, so now they've all forgotten I'm actually evil - except the Slayer, of course, because you see I want her to forget because I'm in love with her which is just bloody typical, so she's the only one that never will..."

Spike continued to ramble on about his problems, aware of but not really caring about his companion's distraction. The whole "getting-to-know-you" thing was basically irrelevant when your transport was leaving in a matter of hours and you both knew it was a one-night-stand. And yet here they sat, at a small table in a semi-dingy pub, with a glass and a bottle of whisky between them. It was possible, he mused, as the words continued to form themselves and push over his lips, that his plans for this night would be considered immoral and reprehensible by many people; but how was it cheating when she had ended it, she was on the other side of the world, and he didn't care anyway? Of course he cared, he loved her... hated her... couldn't be sure which it was but it was something; but he couldn't care - he'd left her. He paused in his speech as the wizard – Draco – raised his head and looked at him.

"You became dark in death, correct?" he said, in a flat voice that betrayed nothing. Spike nodded assent, warily curious as to where this unexpected tangent was headed. "I was born dark," the young man admitted, staring into his glass. "I come from a long line of dark wizards, on both sides. I was born to be dark and raised to be dark and I always knew I would be dark and I... am dark, and yet..." Spike watched as the boy-man took a long swallow of the golden liquid in his glass, wondering absently at the paleness of feature in one who could walk in the sun without fear. He knew it served no purpose thinking about him; sitting together so, drinking in this mockery of camaraderie; drunkenness was unnecessary and indeed something of a hindrance for what they would later do; but perhaps it helped ease the burdens a little. "I'm evil," the man sitting across from him whispered. "I'm evil. Why did this have to happen to me?" Damn, but the boy had a lot of self-pity going on in his head.

"At least you weren't in love with the hero," Spike commented, determined to have one over on this young thing who seemed so oddly familiar. Bleak pale eyes raised to meet his, narrowed and guarded.

"Wasn't I?," Draco asked, holding his gaze for several long moments before both sought refuge in their drinks. Draco took a deep, necessary breath and began to expound on his current situation.

"I shouldn't be here. I should be at home, or in one of the wizarding communities. But what I did... it cut me off from the society I was part of, and I'm not exactly welcome in the rest of the wizarding world. My father, you see, was exposed for the malicious bastard he is and sent to Azkaban – a fact which was just a little more highly publicised than my role in the conflict. To read the accounts, you'd think the duel between Potter and Voldemort was the only thing that happened. Oh, his core of friends get a mention too, of course; Granger and Weasley give a nice romantic angle, Black proved his innocence, Professor Lupin... Draco shook himself abruptly, and sipped again from his glass. "You don't even know who they are, do you?"

Spike smirked a little. "Let me guess," he stalled. "Potter's the hero, Granger and Weasley are the male and female best friends of the hero, Lupin the mentor, Black... wrongly convicted father-figure?" Draco smirked a little in return. "Near enough." The astuteness and honesty of the vampire was both surprising and refreshing to Draco, grown cynical and deceitful at a young age. "It's a pattern, isn't it?" he questioned the older man. "The hero has friends who perform separate functions, and a major enemy to defeat, and another enemy to redeem. But redemption is painful; and only the hero is perfect enough to forgive the past deeds; and so the other enemy, at the end of the tale, is left to his own devices, uncertain and unguided."

Spike nodded slightly, eyes fixed on the bottle. "A pattern. Patterns hold us together and tear us apart. All these patterns that anybody can learn, if only they can see."

"So all of us," Draco enquired – sipped at his drink – "follow these patterns? There is nothing for us to be that is original? Nothing we can do that has not been done before?" Spike laughed abruptly. "No answers for you here, mate." The wizard nodded, refilling his glass. "Answers are over-rated", he replied, thinking back to all the questions he had asked that had been answered; by his father, by Dumbledore, by Lupin and Snape and Potter... Definitely over-rated.

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, until Draco broke it by attempting to set Spike off again. "So, this... Buffy... special?" The vampire smiled reminiscently. "Oh yeah. First time I saw her, I knew she was something. She goes from dancing with her pals to taking out one of my minions in the alley. Course, then I find out she's in love with my poof of a grandsire." The vamp took another drink, black-tipped fingers tense around the neck of the bottle, and Draco took advantage of the pause. "You've tested his poofiness, I take it?" A flash of something nameless in those blue eyes made him reconsider the wisdom of taunting even a neutered vampire – but the tone of his reply was light enough. "He fucked me good, back in the day." Draco fished into his memory to find any information he had on the man – ah. "Before he became a traitor," he mused. "Before he turned from the dark he was born to." A curious look from the vampire, now, before he drank once more from the rapidly-depleting bottle.

They were not friends, and so the silence they found themselves in once more was far from comfortable. The two men continued to drink in this silence, every once and again paying a little attention to another occupant of the bar, or to the TV in the cage on the wall. Eventually, Draco drained his glass and Spike finished the bottle. Their eyes met, with no words passing to cement the deal. They stood and left.

In the chill night air, Draco stopped to take a deep breath, away from the smoke inside. Of course, it was filled with pollution… He decided firmly that he was not going to think, and turned towards his flat, not waiting to see if his whore for the night was following. Or was he the whore? He couldn't remember. He walked quickly enough, wondering whether he would be dominant tonight. He would rather not, in the way of things. He was no quivering virgin himself, but the man following – if he was indeed following – had over a century of experience to draw on. Perhaps he could learn a few tricks. It was too much like work to be the one giving the orders, deciding what was to be done next. There was nothing he wouldn't do - if he was told to. He smiled a little, inwardly: how twisted was it that the discipline he had learned extended even to this? The smile faded as they neared his building, for it was his last chance to back out. He didn't want to, for the sex would undoubtedly be expert; but he knew he would feel dirty in the morning. Then again: that was nothing new.

Spike didn't notice his companion's quietude as they moved through the city towards their destination. He was lost in reminiscences of his days in the old London, of the many times he had returned during his preternaturally long existence: the days when the large townhouses had been occupied by a small family and their servants, when the warehouses had been used as such, instead of all being broken into little yuppie flats. They stopped at a warehouse conversion, and entered. The studio flat he found himself in was large and airy enough, but practically barren. The closed cupboards that lined one wall undoubtedly contained all manner of things – but their blank white doors revealed none of them. A four-poster bed in the opposite corner was the only furnishing: a clock on the windowsill the only ornamentation. Spike picked up the latter, admiring the intricate brass facing: and replaced at the sound of a throat being cleared. Turning to face the wizard, he raised a sardonic eyebrow. "How d'you wanna do this?" he asked.

"Perhaps," the younger man replied, removing his jacket, "as the more experienced of the pair, you should... call the shots, as it were." Spike nodded, mostly to himself – he had pegged this one for a submissive, probably a masochist as well; not that he could really indulge the latter as yet.

"Keep stripping, then," he said, watching largely dispassionately as clothing was efficiently removed and folded neatly away, revealing a pale and... honestly, scrawny body. A toss of his head sent the boy to sit on the bed, from which vantage point a pair of pale eyes watched as Spike disrobed in similar fashion. He crossed to the bed and pushed the youngster back to lie sprawled across the sheets; and set to work arousing him.

Draco couldn't help the whimper that escaped him as the vampire's cool mouth moved lower, hands with the chill of night still on them continuing to run surprisingly gently over his torso. This wasn't how he had expected it would be; this wasn't how he wanted it to be. "You won't break me," he semi-snarled, and almost immediately regretted it as almost feminine-looking hands flipped him onto his stomach with no apparent effort. He had easily forgotten the power leashed inside the slim body, despite the impressive musculature proudly on display. Nails traced slowly down his back and he shuddered unwillingly in mingled fear and delight. Slowly, persistently, the vampire pushed Draco further and further into a haze of lustful sensation. But some corner of his mind, still aware, cried out in frustration.

"You're supposed to be hurting me," he gasped. "I deserve it." The man above him stilled briefly, then simply said, "No," and implacably continued in his ministrations. Some time later, however - it could have been two minutes or twenty, Draco couldn't tell any more - he finally felt the pain he had been waiting for, soon followed by waves of pleasure coursing through his body. And later, he slept.

Having finished cleaning himself off, Spike gathered his clothes from where they lay incongruously on the bare wood floor; and dressed in silence, eyes drifting once or twice to the almost-ghostly form on the bed. It was less awkward to leave before he woke; while no emotions had been involved and the unspoken agreement had been for a few hours, it was still easier this way. He caught himself before he began to feel empathy for the boy – a bed for the night and a reasonable fuck, that was all. An occupation to stop his mind sliding into one of the many sloughs of depression that lay hidden in his thought processes. A little shelter: a little warmth. He nearly laughed aloud - warmth from a boy like that in a room like this. Of course that happened. He lifted the latch and slipped out into the lightening night.

Draco woke slowly, stretching languidly as he emerged from the first dreamless sleep he had enjoyed in many months. A twinge of pain confused him: it wasn't enough to be from sex. But his memories of the night before caught up with him - the frustrated tenderness he had been subjected to - and he looked around. His flat was as empty as ever, only the rumpled sheets and displaced clock showing that anyone had been there. Draco curled on his side, and cried.