* * * * * * * * * *
Third Position: Seven of Cups 
"Strong and sometimes conflicting desires. Witnessing or being caught up in bizarre events. Reversed: Accurate perception. A clear understanding of true desires." 

* * * * * * * * * * 

I am blood and death. 

I am the fear that hides in corners and leaps out at you when you pass. 

I celebrate your life and all it has to offer me. 

I am that shadow you're sure you see in the dark alley, the outline of which you can barely discern. 

I am pain so sweet it sits on your tongue, coating your mouth in syrupy excess. 

I am forever. Eternity. Figure eight lying down. No end in sight unless you catch me. 

Then I am impotence. My power is held now in my face and your knowledge, my gleaming fangs reminding you of your own mortality, constantly in motion, throughout your body. Your blood, a figure eight lying down. 

I don't scream or rage or even pout because I am a survivor. Except a splinter could kill me. The warm kiss of the sun would leave me breathless and I have to fight endlessly not to lose my head. 

I am as I will always be. 


But he is lost. Lost in me to a place so dark I can barely see his shadow, just the fuzzy edges against the competing darkness within me. I must find him and pull him out before he finds a match. The light would kill me a thousand times worse than his wooden nails. 

For illumination does not lead to redemption. It is heartbreak and regret. Even if he is there to pet the ragged heart of my demon's soul and tame it. 

* * * * * * * * * * 

If he weren't in such a hurry, Spike would take a moment to laugh at the selective blindness of the citizens of Sunnydale, California. He was curious as to how they explained the blanket-covered creature darting through their streets, dodging into side yards whenever a car passed. Wankers. 

When he reached the Harris house, Spike slipped around the side to the tree-shrouded window he had made sure to leave unlocked before he'd moved out. Lucky for him neither the Harris parents, nor son was usually home this time of day. This window was the closest to the basement, giving Spike a clear shot to the interior door that led downstairs. 

He closed the door at the top of the stairs quietly, his senses telling him someone was in the house, and froze when he heard voices in the basement. Bending down and sitting on a step so he could peer through the railings into the room below, Spike saw the telly was on some talk show. Then he heard the clinking of metal meeting metal and moved down another couple of steps. There, Xander was in the corner, his back to the stairs, hovering over the hot plate stirring something in a beaten up pan. 

Music from a commercial came on and Xander started to swing his hips in absent rhythm. The boy was shirtless, in a pair of jeans. Two large bruises decorated the planes of his muscular back and Spike could see that one of his elbows was swollen. But Spike only spared quick glances to these injuries as he was distracted by the mesmerizing rhythm of those slim hips canting to and fro. Spike allowed his gaze to travel back up the tan spine, following the neck's curve to rest on the bobbing head tipped in shiny dark hair. 

When the music stopped, the hips ceased their swing, but the head kept bobbing as if to internal music. Xander pulled the spoon from the pot and, as if sensing his presence, turned quickly toward the stairs. Spike caught his gaze and smiled. 

"What, no more dancing?" Spike stood and sauntered down the remaining steps, throwing his dirty clothes in the direction of the washer. 

"Wah! Spike! What are you doing here!" Xander seemed rooted in place. The spoon frozen mid-trip to his mouth. 

Though he was enjoying the sight before him, Spike smiled and walked around the frozen boy to the fridge. He opened it and, reaching into the back, pulled out the left over blood packet he had stored there the day before. Xander had turned and was watching his progress, but hadn't said any more. Spike shook the blood a little and tossed it into the pan with the soup to warm. 

"Surprisingly, I find my appetite has vanished now." 

"It's sealed, whelp. Besides, it might add some flavor to your-" Spike glanced in the pan and poked the hot contents with a finger, "Chicken 'n' Stars." 

Xander was now pointing his finger at Spike's chest and shaking it like a disgruntled matron. "You...you...you can't just waltz in here like you own the place and start defiling my food products." 

Spike opened his mouth to answer, but was struck by the sight of Xander Harris, hair tousled, broad chest marred only by a strip of bandage. Beautiful. Flaring his nostrils, Spike detected no fear, but something akin to it. Curious. He noticed the jeans the boy was wearing sported a gouged hole in the upper thigh. Tearing his eyes away from the sprinkles of dark hair barely visible through the hole, Spike raised his gaze and smirked. "Just came to check up on you, mate. Risking your life for lil ole me, you're my hero." 

Xander just stood there, staring at him, finger still pointed. When the boy made no response, Spike walked to the washer and started loading his clothes inside. "Say pet, do you have the shirt your Slayer cleaned her stake on?" He peered into the machine. "I have room; do you have any darks?" 

His attention was caught by a sigh from the other side of the room. Xander was stirring his soup again, his face a mask of disgust. "Nothing I say is going to make you leave, is it?" He pulled the blood pack out of his soup, threw it on the table, and continued stirring. 

Spike stared at the tense lines of the boy's back and wondered what was truly eating him, so to speak. Was it possible there were problems in paradise? Spike considered ways to find out. He started the machine and settled himself on the couch, changing channels to the one he wanted. "So why aren't we off sawing wood, wearing our dapper hat today?" When Xander remained silent, he continued, "I suppose that arm's not much good to you then, eh? You should have called your demon wench. I'm sure she was just waiting for the chance to play doctor, or...I guess you two have done that already?" 

"Do you ever stop talking?" Xander was facing him again, voice tight, eyes storming. 

Ah-ha. Mollified for the moment, Spike put up his hand in a gesture of peace and returned his attention to the show. Xander remained standing, spooning soup out of the pan into his mouth. At a commercial, Spike grabbed the mug he had claimed and, ripping the pack with his teeth, poured his meal out. The room was silent save for the whir of the window unit, the grind of the washing machine and the annoying jingle of a cat litter commercial. 

Spike gave a sideways glance at the tall man-child. The bandage wasn't as big as he would have thought considering the amount of blood last night. He couldn't figure out what had caused the boy to do something so dangerous. Spike had heard him yelling and had been ready to face the battle behind him. But when he had turned, there had been a blur of tropical print and a scream of agony. And then just the swirl of dust and scent of blood strong in the night's heat. 

Spike still couldn't shake the uncomfortable feeling he got when remembering Xander's bloodstained shirt. It had been an intoxicating, but at the same time disturbing, sight. Had cabana boy actually thought Spike was about to get staked? If so, why had he prevented it, unless it had been to save his own skin? If Spike had become dust, Xander would have been left with two demons to fight until his friends had shown. 

He noticed Xander absently scratching the bandage on his chest, then look down with a surprised expression on his face, as if just realizing he was shirtless. "Hurt much?" Spike inquired, keeping his voice cool. 

Xander had walked over to a pile of clothes on the dryer and pulled a white t-shit over his head before answering. "Only in the my chest has been torn open kind of way." 

Spike noted the wincing expression on Xander's face as he negotiated his injured arm through the armhole and rolled his eyes. "Stupid thing to do," he muttered. 

"Huh?" Xander walked over to the couch and sat at the other end. "What are you talking about?" 

Spike kept his gaze fixed on the TV screen. "Knew that vamp was coming, heard you screeching loud and clear." When he received no retort, Spike regarded the boy next to him. Xander was staring down at his lap, plucking at the threads sticking up from the hole in his jeans. He was just close enough to touch, stroke, hit, kiss, his toned arm burnished dark against the stark whiteness of his shirt. Spike wondered, not for the first time, if Xander would taste warm, like heated spiced rum. Shaking his head, he returned his attention to his show. 

A few minutes later, he heard Xander mumble, "Could've let me know you heard." 

"Aw, but you wouldn't have that sexy new scar to brag about then, would you?" Spike was curious as to the boy's unusual quiet. In the past he'd had to resort to empty threats to make him shut up during 'Passions'. Even the other night, as he was cleaning Spike's wound, Xander had chattered on about nothing. But now there was only mumbling and silence and extended pauses. An insult or two was preferable to this. Spike gave a put-upon sigh. "Fine. Thank you. Are we even now?" 

The quick turn of Xander's head caught Spike unaware as he tried to school his features into an indifferent mask. Xander gawked at him for a moment, brows furrowed, before speaking. "Even for what?" 

Spike shrugged in nonchalance. "I saved your life, you saved mine. I'm not so thick I don't recognize a little tit for tat when it's in my face." 

Blank look on Xander's face and Spike could almost hear the Butthead-like voice in the boy's head saying, "Huh-huh-huh, he said tit," before that goofy smile of his took over. 

"So you're basically admitting that I actually saved your life," Xander crowed, eyes alight. 

Spike held up his index finger before back flips became involved. "No. I would've saved my own without your do-gooding interference." 

Xander stood and leaned into Spike's face, grin now triumphant. "No, no. You said the words. You said, 'I saved your life, you saved mine,' I heard you." 

Spike rolled his eyes and threw his head on the back of the couch, hitting it with a satisfying thud. He did it again. This was what he'd been missing? 

Xander was now dancing around the basement, swinging his hips again, singing, "I saved Spike's shiny white bum. I saved Spike's shiny white bum." He stopped. "Wait. Why is this of the good?" he asked turning back toward Spike. 

Spike resisted the urge to smile along with the goofus. Yes, this was exactly what he'd missed. "Don't know, mate. You're the one shaking your groove thing over it." 

"No." Xander looked thoughtful for a moment and said, "It's because you owe me now. You admitted I saved your life so now you have to...be my slave or something." 

"Somebody's been watching too many reruns. Besides, I've rescued your knackers more times than they're worth, why'nt you owe me?" Why didn't anyone ever appreciate his help? 

Xander gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Oh, you're still making up for all your past evil doing." 

Past evil doing? Who said it was in the past? A knock on the door sounded before Spike could expound on this thought. Xander opened the door to reveal Tara, and looking beyond, no one else. 

Tara looked relieved to see Xander. "After Willow talked to Buffy this morning, we--I figured you weren't going to work today." Peering over at the couch, Tara blinked when she noticed Spike. 

"Hello, Ducks," Spike called out. "Came to visit the housebound then?" He saw Tara look back at Xander who shrugged. 

"He's like a rabid pet you try to dump by some highway in another state that just keeps finding its way home." Xander gave Tara one of his sweet smiles reserved for his girl-chums. "Don't mind him, he's just using me for my fabric softener." 

Spike watched the last few minutes of 'Passions', trying to appear uninterested in the softly voiced conversation taking place across the room. He heard Ducks-witch mention something about important and needing to go somewhere and talk. Xander assented and invited her in while he grabbed some clothes and went into the bathroom to change. 

Tara stepped further into the room and looked at everything but Spike. The door was still open and the light that filtered down the stairs touched her hair at the crown, giving her a halo. Her seeming avoidance of him allowed him the opportunity to study her angel's face. Sad angel, though. Not his fake-sire Angel, who was just a gloomy poof, but scared sad, with that same touch of the ethereal his Dru had had on her worse days. 

Xander came out of the bathroom in his usual daily uniform of khaki and riotous color. He stopped by the couch and stood there, as if waiting for something. When Spike decided to acknowledge his presence, raising only his eyes, the whelp just stared at him a moment before speaking, "You are going to be gone when I come back, aren't you?" 

Spike stretched in his sitting position. "Can't say. That Xena was a two-parter, you know?" 

"Actually, M-Mr. Giles asked if you could come by for the meeting tonight," Tara spoke up. 

"You mean I'm welcome again in old Rupes' home? How touching." Spike moved his gaze back the babbling inanity on the telly. "M'afraid I have other plans tonight, Ducks. Give my regards? " He waited for her response. He would go to Rupert's tonight anyway, more for the blood than out of curiosity. But if whatever was going down was bad enough that his help was needed, it could prove an interesting diversion at least. 

The adorable stutter answered him, finally, "H-he asked specifically for you to come by." Out of the corner of his eye, Spike noticed her looking between him and Xander. "It's important. You both n-need to be there." 

Xander shrugged. "Hey, whatever. You know I'm your Xan-man, ready for anything. And if you need Spike, he'll be there too, or he just might find whatever window he's been using locked the next time he wants to drop in. Isn't that right, mate?" he asked, stressing the final word. 

Spike gave a put-upon sigh. "Fine, threaten the 'harmless creature'. Tell your soddin' Watcher I'll be there," he answered, eyes never leaving the show on the screen. 

"There's a good boy. See you later, Spikey." And for a moment, Spike was sure Xander was going to pat him on the head, at which point, bleeding chip or no, he was going to smack the boy. But instead, the mighty duo headed out the door, leaving Spike to fume alone and watch humans of a lesser gene pool pull each other's hair out on a talk show. 

* * * * * * * * * * 

Spike woke with a start when the drier buzzed. Sitting up, he glanced at the evening news just ending and calculated he had another hour until sundown. He tried to recapture the fleeting images from the dream that still teased the edges of his sub-conscious, but he couldn't grasp them. 

He never used to dream. Not until the accident that had left him too paralyzed to intervene when Angelus had stepped back in the picture. Sometimes Dru would leave him in the chair for days while she trolloped with her Sire. Then he would nod off and start dreaming - of walking, of smashing in Angelus' pretty face and leaving Sunnydale forever with Dru. That's when he'd started planning. Those dreams had been inspiration. 

Now his dreams were fuzzy gray things, lacking the vibrancy of his vengeance-colored ones. These always left him reaching for something just beyond his fingertips and aching for nothingness. He hated them. 

He walked over to the drier and pulled out his clothes. They were soothing-hot to the touch, as he imagined Xander's skin would feel after working in the sun all day. He lifted the pile of shirts and trousers to his face and inhaled. He cock twitched in response to the sweet softness, smelling so like the whelp, feeling like he would feel. Spike threw the clothes down on the couch and stood for a moment, shaking. 

He didn't know what had come over him, or when it had started. And a part of him didn't care. Sneaking in here almost daily in the weeks since the Initiative had closed down, when it would almost have been easier to come by at night and bully the boy into letting him in as he had in the past. Telling himself it was just to watch the telly and clean his clothes, even the ones that weren't dirty, when he has spent most of his time lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling like a lovesick ponce. 

Spike sat back on the couch. He pulled a shirt out of the pile and rubbed it against his cheek. Soft. He wondered how much more of the wanting he could take. He wondered if Xander's cheek would feel like this rubbing against his. Spike ran his hand over the growing hardness in his pants. Xander's soft cheek; Xander's breath tickling his ear; Xander's neck emanating that sweet, salty, sweaty scent Spike had come to crave. Spike yanked open the button-fly of his jeans. Once freed, his cock came to full attention, begging to be touched. He complied, stroking himself from base to tip. 

"Xander," he hissed, imagining that dark hair brushing the insides of his thighs as the boy sucked him down. But it wouldn't feel like this, cool and dry like his hand. It would be warmth and wetness; heat overtaking him as Xander's tongue would slide further and further down the underside of his erection; teeth scraping lightly at the base, then lips closing and his cock would be surrounded by living flames. Spike started moving his hand faster, trying to create through friction the heat that would be Xander Harris. Heat from the blood-warmed body between his legs. Heat from the agile tongue curling around the tip of his needy cock. Heat from the breathy exhalations covering him from base to tip. And just when Spike wouldn't think he could take any more. Just when it would feel as if his cock would melt, Xander would look up at him with those expressive eyes and there would be fire in them. Spike moaned as his orgasm shook his body, cum coating his hand and making it slick. 

He rested his head on the back of the couch for a minute before looking down at the mess on his hand. Using the shirt still pressed against his cheek, Spike cleaned himself off. Looking at the now-dirty shirt, Spike sighed, a real one this time. "Bloody hell, Xander, what m'I to do with you." 

Part Two

After dropping one pile of clean clothes - plus one sticky shirt - at his crypt, Spike walked over to Scooby Central. He managed to make the trek, using as many side streets and detours as possible, without encountering any of his recent tormentors. Hopefully there would still be blood at Giles', as Spike wasn't ready to do battle at Willy's just to obtain some. Since cursing the Initiative had become repetitive and dull, Spike entertained himself during the walk imagining all the wonderfully torturous ways he would celebrate his inevitable comeback. 

He opened the door without knocking, as was his habit, stood proud in the doorway with his arms crossed, and surveyed the scene before him. Rupert was standing by the kitchen reading; Red and Xander were sitting on the couch, their backs to him; Ducks was scanning the bookshelves while twisting a lock of her hair around one finger. And the Slayer was pacing around; looking like someone had turned her Mum. 

"'Allo," he called into the room. The effect was instantaneous. Red turned toward him, her mouth in a cute little O; Ducks dropped the book she had pulled; the whelp stood up to face him. And the Slayer just froze and glared in his direction. 

Without looking up from his reading, Giles gave a distracted, "Ah, Spike...yes, do come in." 

Spike strode into the condo and started for the kitchen, but froze when he noticed everyone but the Watcher staring at him. He raised his hands in a defensive gesture. "Whatever it is, I didn't do it." 

"That remains to be seen," Buffy answered, her voice tight. 

"Actually," Giles spoke up, "he's right, for the most part. What has happened wasn't his doing, though it could prove to be quite fortuitous if we-" 

"It was my fault," Tara interrupted. "I did it." She bent down to pick up the book she'd dropped. 

Red walked over to her girlfriend. "No. Not your fault, mine." She looked around the room. "I started it. It was my idea." 

"I don't know," Buffy responded, "I might still need convincing." She advanced a step toward Spike, her posture speaking of the good thrashing he knew she wanted to give him. 

He willed himself not to back away, not to show any weakness, and was surprised when Xander stepped between him and the Slayer. 

"Buffy...don't," the boy said, his voice soft. "Just leave it be and let Giles speak. Both of you sit down." He turned toward Spike without meeting his gaze. "Please." 

Unaccustomed to Xander's polite tone, Spike sat on the arm of the couch, more out of surprise than willing compliance. Everyone but Buffy and Rupert sat in various seats. Spike sought out Xander across the room, but found the boy still unwilling to meet his eyes. Angry Slayer, nervous witches, distracted Watcher and subdued white knight. All was not well in the fair town of Sunnydale. Well, he may not be known for his patience, but he could out wait this crowd any day. He pulled out a fag and lit it, ignoring any dirty looks he might have received. 

Just when the silence in the room became beyond bearable, Giles cleared his throat and, tapping on the page in front of him, began. "It appears that Tara is correct in her assumption about the guardianship spell." The Watcher peered over his glasses at each person in the room, his eyes resting too long on Spike. "It might not have come to our attention so quickly, if not for Xander's injury." At that, the injured person in question looked at the floor and shuffled his feet. 

That was not what he'd expected. "Wait, what does the whelp's little cut have to do with the world coming to an end?" 

All eyes turned toward Spike. He glanced around the room, meeting each gaze except Xander's, even craning his head around to look at Buffy. He may not know what was going on, but he wasn't about to be stared down by a pack of pubescent G-men. 

"Who said anything about the end of the world?" the Slayer asked. She walked around the end of the couch so that she could face Spike. "We're talking about the whammy someone put on Xander to make him go all superhero around you." 

Spike met her glare with eyebrows raised. "Slayer, I realize proper English isn't a strongpoint of yours, but what the hell are you talking about?" 

Giles guided Buffy to a chair and resumed his position. "A spell, Spike. Someone... placed both you and Xander under a Highland Clan guardianship spell." 

"Why does everyone keep saying 'someone'," Ducks cut in before Giles could say any more. She came over to stand in front of Spike. "I...It was...I placed the spell. It was an accident." She looked at Xander, who seemed to have no trouble meeting her gaze. "I'm sorry, it was a mistake. N-no one was supposed to get hurt," she whispered. 

And all Spike could think when he looked at her was, 'Sad, sad angel. Don't cry.' He mentally roused himself and stood, causing angel-Ducks to step back, fearful expression on her face. Possibly mistaking his intentions, Buffy stood also. And once again, Xander, out of nowhere, stepped between Spike and Buffy. Vampire and Slayer. Vampire and Human. Scream of pain and blood in the air. Suddenly, as if the right wheels had decided to start turning, it clicked into place. He asked the Watcher, "The whelp thinks he's my protector?" 

"A-as you are his, yes." 

Xander met his eyes for the first time that evening, his expression unreadable. When he spoke, his voice carried the same gentleness that he had used with Buffy earlier to calm her. "'I saved your life, you saved mine'," he quoted, shrugging his shoulders. 

Rupert spoke up, "This compulsory protectiveness you both feel was activated by the spell and will remain until we can find a way to break it." 

"Now wait a minute, Rupes," Spike almost yelled, "I feel no need to protect the boy, and just because he was feeling suicidal - and who can blame him, really - doesn't mean anything either." 

"Spike, I assure you, I am quite certain." And he was; Spike could see it in the Watcher-ly set of his brow. 

Spike's mind was reeling. "Well, whose bloody idea was it to stick us with each other, then?" he asked, his head turning from person to person. 

Tara answered, "I said it was a mis-" 

"It was mine," stated Red. She glanced at her girlfriend and back at Spike, chin lifted in defiance. "I...I worry about Xander, you know, out there with the big nasties, and you two always pair up together on patrols, all partner-like, so I figured it would make you keep him safe and all." She smiled, her eyes over-big. 

Spike narrowed his eyes. "Could've just asked me to keep an eye on him. I'm not adverse to a spot of bribery." He cocked his head. "So when did this happen?" 

"Three n-nights ago," Ducks answered, head bowed. 

Spike swallowed his brief disappointment. So that's why Xander had brought him home. And probably why he himself had followed Xander and his escorts last night. But something was still clogging the machinery. Spike mentally reviewed the evening's conversation. When it hit him, he smiled and asked Red, "So what was Ducks' mistake then?" He watched with interest as the two witches gave each other startled glances and both looked at their Watcher. Oh, yes, deeper and deeper, indeed. Tara opened her mouth to answer, but Spike was surprised to hear the Watcher's voice answer. 

"Willow and Tara were...unaware of the complete binding aspects of the spell. They thought they were only protecting Xander, but the combination of...of evocative and invocative forces the spell unleashed were more powerful than they anticipated." Rupert sat on the arm of the couch Spike had vacated in a casual slouch that was unusual for him. "It appears that the two of you are...are bound to keep each other safe until we work this out." 

Spike wandered around the room, feeling everyone's attention focus on him. He scanned the books on the shelf while he tried to remember that children's insult Xander had hurled at him in a fit one night. What was it? Oh yes, 'Liar, liar, pants on fire.' The witches and Watcher were keeping something from him. Spike paused, pretending to peruse the titles on the shelf in front of him. He was used to being lied to; everyone lied. But he could wait. He would bide his time. He ran a fingertip over the spine of a demonology text, its worn gold print belying its age. The room was so quiet, he wanted to whisper to keep from disturbing the silence. Or yell to do just that. 

Instead, he shrugged his shoulders and asked in a mild tone, "So you believe one of these tomes of knowledge will help us figure this out?" 

The sense of relief in the room was palpable. He turned back to face everyone and noticed Red and Ducks tightly holding hands and the Watcher letting out a held breath. Xander laughed nervously. Buffy just stood with her arms crossed. 

"Yes, exactly," Giles answered. "Willow, Tara and I will continue searching for a reversal. In the meantime, might I suggest that you and Xander continue patrolling together?" 

Spike answered, his voice sulky, "Not like I have a choice, is it? Though I'd rather the Slayer watching my back. She, at least, can throw a decent punch." 

"Hey! You're lucky I'm being forced to watch your back, it's not like anyone was going to volunteer," Xander shot out. 

"Keep your knickers on, pet. I was just giving my educated opinion." Spike tried to turn his mind away from the image of Xander sans knickers. Best not to get distracted. "So," he called out, rubbing his hands together, "You've told me your little surprise. What say we go kill something to celebrate?" 

"Yeah, I have to go meet Riley. He's been lone gunning it for the past hour." Buffy grabbed her stake off the table and walked over to Spike. She looked into his eyes intently. "You just hold up your end of this little spell requirement, and we'll have fewer problems, understood?" 

Spike studied her, head cocked. "Like I have a choice, Slayer. Do I?" He asked, turning to Ducks. She shook her head, a sad smile on her face. He looked back at Buffy, eyebrow cocked. 

She exhaled in seeming exasperation. "Just keep in mind the far reaching consequences of not remembering that." She walked over to Xander and gave his arm a brief squeeze before leaving. 

Right. Time to eat. Spike went to the refrigerator and looked inside, but there was no blood to be found. He straightened and looked around the kitchen, but couldn't see anywhere else blood might be kept. Just in case, he started opening cabinet doors at random. Nothing. Spike fought his rising panic. He had to get out of here. 

"Ready to go, partner?" he called to Xander, who was in the midst of a quiet conversation with Red. 

Xander looked at him and nodded, then said a few more words to his friend before heading toward the door. Spike turned to make a flip comment, but stopped when he saw the rising level of concentration in the occupants of the room. He shrugged and headed out with his new patrol mate. 

* * * * * * * * * * 

Spike steered Xander toward the town's less desirable area. He needed to eat, and if the whelp was bound to keep him alive, he could help procuring blood. The boy was quiet, but Spike saw him peeking out of the corner of his eye. He stopped and turned so he could be observed face-on. "What." 

Startled, Xander stumbled forward a few steps before stopping. "What, what?" 

"What's with the sideways glances? Got something on my face?" Spike rubbed his jaw, knowing there wasn't anything there. 

Xander's expression was open and inquisitive. "I'm just curious about the whole you not being bothered by all of this." 

"Not much I can do about it, is there? Maybe I'm just used to others taking away my choices by now." Spike peered into those guileless eyes. "You seem a bit bothered, though. Afraid of what your girlfriend's going to say?" 

Xander's eyes flashed. "Why do you keep bringing her up? And no, I'm not thrilled about the implications of all this." 

"Just haven't been seeing her around much. Maybe I miss her," he pressed. 

"Well get used to it." Xander continued walking. 

Score. Spike walked to catch up. When he was level with the boy again, he saw Xander staring straight ahead. "What implications?" he asked, his voice low. "What isn't everyone telling me?" 

Xander sighed and stopped again, but he refused to look in Spike's direction. "It's not just you they're keeping anything from." 

Spike thought a moment. "You know?" At the boy's hesitant nod, it became clear. "The Slayer." 

Xander raised his eyebrows, but didn't reply right away. When he turned to Spike, he had that 'do not go there' expression on his face. "You look hungry, Spike. You eating enough?" 

Spike cocked his head. "No, pet. You offering?" When Xander's eyes slid away, Spike pressed on, "So there's something about this harmless little spell that must be kept from the Slayer. But someone - and I'm guessing here that it was Red's girlfriend - felt you should know for some reason." He stepped closer to Xander. "Am I getting warm?" he whispered. 

Xander swallowed and stepped back. He raised a hand and, pulling it through his hair, sighed again. "I might as well just tell you. It will save you the energy of attempting to manipulate it out of me." He started walking again, his gait slow, head bowed. "They lied. No one was trying to protect me, or you really, for that matter." 

Walking alongside, Spike tried to piece it together. "Are we playing twenty questions here, mate? 'Cause I don't get it." 

"This," Xander said waving his hand between the two of them, "was not supposed to happen. They were trying to bind you to someone else." 

Hundreds of thoughts poured through Spike's brain before the bell rang. "They were trying to have me protect the Slayer?" When Xander nodded, he asked, "Why'd they change their minds, then?" 

Xander looked at him, his expression full of unspoken meaning. "They didn't." At what must have been the confused look on his face, Xander continued, "You're going to have to ask Giles about it. Tara tried explaining it to me, but apparently my brain didn't want to enter the territory." 

They had stopped walking again, but were near Willy's. Spike leaned back against the wall behind him. Xander looked agitated, but Spike couldn't quite figure out why. He watched the boy pace in front of him and pulled out a fag. So the spell had been meant for the Slayer, but instead had picked the whelp. Spells were fickle. If a person didn't stress the right syllable, or waved the wrong hand, who knew what would happen. Besides, Xander would be nicer to him than Buffy, would get him blood. He realized Xander was talking in a low tone and tried to catch the words. 

"...Something about invoking what was already there and implicit intent and I really just don't want to get what that might mean." Xander stopped pacing suddenly after a brief glance at Spike. 

"What?" Spike asked, concerned at the strange expression on the boy's face. He looked up and down the street. Nope, nobody here but us monsters. He then realized he was smiling at Xander. He couldn't help it. He would have to watch that. 

"You're laughing at me? At me? You, Fangless, can't even feed yourself and you're laughing at me?" There was no insult in Xander's eyes, just the usual pandering to his sense of confidence. 

Spike raised his chin, eyes closed, and sniffed. He could almost smell the blood Willy sold a half-block away. Or was that Xander's blood? Pride was a dangerous animal when one needed help. He would have to make this clean and simple and take the jibing that would doubtless follow. Keeping his eyes closed, he answered, "No, I'm not making fun of you. I'm hungry." He opened his eyes and met Xander's shocked ones. "I get all silly when I'm weak." 

Understanding seemed to take shape when Xander looked down the street and saw Willy's. He looked back at Spike. "You're pretty much persona non grata everywhere you go, aren't you?" 

Spike clenched his jaw and nodded. He consoled himself with the knowledge that every person and demon who ever made him regret his recent existence would someday pay. Even the beautiful one in front of him, if he drew this out much longer. But there was no mocking tone, just silence. Spike waited and was surprised at Xander's question. 

"Won't they know I'm buying it for you? I mean, if I do." 

"Probably. But you're a known friend of the Slayer's." Spike paused. "And you're not considered a traitor to them." 

They had started walking toward the bar when Xander asked; voice soft, "You afraid, Spike?" 

Spike considered how best to answer. "Look, when ten demons of various origin are breathing down your neck and the only things they have in common are halitosis and a hatred of you...I just like my looks, alright?" 

Rather than answering, Xander shrugged and paused at the door. "I don't suppose you have any cash?" 

"As a matter of fact..." Spike pulled four twenties out of his coat pocket and handed them to the surprised boy. 

Xander stared at the money. "Do I wanna know...? No, I don't. All this honest revelation is giving me the heebie-jeebies as it is." With that, he squared his broad shoulders and, opening the door, stepped into Willy's. 

Spike listened to the muted sounds that had drifted out of the bar before the door closed and cursed his weakness. Having to depend on the whelp for blood was a lower place than he had been the winter past. At least then, he had been in danger of re-capture when out in public. Now he was free to wander the streets, as long as word of his whereabouts didn't spread. He was going to have to find new digs soon, surprising no one had found his current ones yet. 

What was taking Xander so long? Spike was used to the waiting, but didn't like it any better than he ever had. He tried to make the time pass by puzzling over this spell business. He still didn't understand what had upset everyone. There were worse spells to have placed on a person. And the witches were always good about finding a reversal to their little mistakes; this one shouldn't be any different. At least this gave him an excuse to be around Xander. Not that he should want an excuse. Just the telly and the washer, right? And that sweet, warm smell. And those eyes. 

Spike cursed himself and pulled out a fag. He stiffened slightly when he noticed someone approaching, but a brief sniff revealed all he needed to know. Blood, food, sweat. Big, hulking pointless human that he couldn't touch. Probably here to pick up a blood whore. The man walked past Spike, his bulk blocking the streetlight and masking his features. The human's hand paused on the door handle. Spike returned his full attention to his cigarette. 

"You wouldn't happen to be Spike, would you?" the deep-voiced very large and now dangerous-looking human asked. 

Feigning indifference, Spike answered, "Yeah, what of it, mate?" He crushed out the fag and straightened up away from the wall he had slouched against. 

"Just that tonight must be my lucky night." 

And Spike never would have guessed such a large person could move so fast. Never would have believed himself in the telling if not for the gutting pain in his midsection and the large hands lifting him by his armpits. Then again, he countered, his thoughts muzzy, no one would think such a skinny little bird like the Slayer could send this human flying down the alley Spike had been dragged into. Another punch to his gut, 'cause the goon really only need one hand to hold him up by the neck, didn't he? Spike flailed, regardless of the pain in his head, just trying to make a connection with all that beefy flesh. A lucky smack to the side of the human's head caused the beating to stop for a moment. Spike tried to shake the stars out of his eyes, blinking past the throbbing in his skull. 

"Hurts, don't it?" the human spoke in his ear. "Trust me, I will outlast you. But keep hitting me if you want. After all, I'm not getting paid for the pain you're causing yourself." 

"Now where's the fun in that?" Spike heard from behind the human. 

"Xander, run," he wheezed, hoping the stubborn boy would listen to him. He heard a loud cracking noise and felt the hand holding him up loosen. Another crack and he was let go entirely. 

He fell to the ground, landing on his knees. As he stood, clutching his stomach, he saw Xander throw down the iron bar he'd hit the other human with. The goon was swaying in place, glaring at Xander. 

"You-" the human started to say, but Xander shut him up with a punch to the side of his face. And then another one. And then one to the nose. Spike heard a squishing noise that was all too familiar to him. 

'Broken nose,' he thought with glee. 

Xander continued to hit the human, who was now just trying to protect himself. Spike smelled blood and saw it was covering the brute's face and the side of his head. The boy's expression was one of pure fright. Finally, Spike's attacker fell heavily to the ground, unconscious. Xander stood over him, labored breath making his chest heave. Spike watched him stare at the dead-looking human and caught him as he started to sway. 

Spike steadied Xander, a hand on each arm. The boy was trembling and his eyes were wide and glazed over. Calling his name, Spike was pleased when the zombie-like appearance started to fade. "You alright, pet?" 

Xander stared at him and glanced around the alley, avoiding the figure on the ground. He then looked down at his hands, covered in blood, and immediately started shaking again. "B-blood," he stated in a weak voice. 

"Yeah, you knocked him a good one, I'd say." Spike didn't like the shaking. Didn't like the scared-sad look in Xander's eyes. And did not want to spend another minute in this alley. "Come on, pet, let's get you home," he urged, tugging on Xander's arm. 

But Xander wouldn't budge. He continued to gape at his blood-covered hands, still as stone. "What did I do," he whispered. 

"Xander. We. Have. To. Go." Tugging harder this time, and Xander took a step, but faltered when the light from the streetlamp hit his eyes. Spike looked at the face of a boy whose entire world had been turned so many times, this should be old hat, and all he could do to help was beg whatever gods and devils he'd ever met to get that boy home in one piece. His own injuries were fading, and as far as he could tell, Xander would have nothing more than some cut knuckles to show, but the boy was not right. He was not right, and Spike didn't like that because he needed, more than he was willing to admit, for Xander to be right. 

Spike grabbed the chin of the stricken Xander Harris and looked as deep into his eyes as he could stand. "Don't you fade out on me, whelp." Then he leaned in and kissed him. 

He heard Xander inhale sharply through his nose as their lips met. He held the chin in a firm grip and pressed his lips against the ones he had fantasized about earlier that day. Warm. Warm, sweet-smell. Blood-smell. Spike's senses were in a daze. Xander's lips parted slightly and Spike slid his tongue between them. He heard himself moan as he let his tongue explore the silky inside of Xander's lips, tickling his gums. Then Spike's tongue was engulfed in heat as that mouth opened more. Now Spike was the one shaking as his brain tried to process all of the different tastes, textures and that ungodly heat of Xander's tongue sliding against his. Then there was a moan, and it wasn't from him. Then Xander pulled back. 

Spike released him, stepping back, knowing he was doing what Red referred to as his 'unnecessary breathing thing,' but he didn't care. His entire focus was zeroed in on those bow-shaped lips that had kissed him back. With this sudden realization, Spike met Xander's now clear gaze. "Better now?" he asked, trying to keep the goofy smile off his face. He watched Xander lick his lips, as if for another taste and felt his own tongue beg to stretch out. Stretch through the distance now between them and taste himself on those lips. 

Xander looked down at his hands again and back at Spike. "Home," he simply said. 

Spike nodded and led the way back into the light of the sidewalk. He spied a bag on the cement and bent to check it out. The light winked off the pile of blood packets inside. He picked the bag up and cradled it in his arm. Then he started walking in the direction of Xander's house. 

Xander looked over his shoulder at the opening of the alley. He had pulled off his Hawaiian over-shirt and was using it to wipe his hands. "Do you think...?" His voice trailed off. 

"I doubt anyone'll be able to identify you through your knuckle prints, if that's what you're asking." Spike didn't want to think about any alternative questions Xander might have asked. He hoped whatever had hired the human would slink away, money wasted. He hoped the human didn't remember Xander and try to find him. He hoped the human would die, but he could never tell Xander that. Whatever the original question had been, Xander seemed satisfied with the finality in Spike's voice, because he asked nothing more for most of the walk home, while Spike wondered how he was ever going to forget the taste of that kiss. 

Xander's steps slowed as they neared his street. Spike wished he could read the boy's mind. But then again, he didn't want to know what was stored there, under the label 'Spike, a.k.a. William the Bloody.' He heard Xander inhale several times as if about to say something, but nothing was ever voiced. When they reached the stairs leading down to the basement door, Spike held out the bag. 

At Xander's questioning look, he explained, "Keep it here, will you? I don't have a fridge in the crypt," all the while hoping he would be invited in. 

Xander took the bag, blinking. He reached into it and pulled out a packet, holding it toward Spike. Hopes dashed, Spike took the blood packet, allowing his fingers to touch Xander's for a last bit of contact. 

Xander gave him a sad smile before speaking. "Promise me you're going to go straight home, Spike. No seeking revenge on the demon population." 

Perhaps the boy was still a little shocky. "Oi! What would you have me do? Go home and twiddle my thumbs?" 

Xander sighed, looking defeated. "Look, I'm tired and...ugh, I need to shower." He gave Spike a sweetly diffident smile. "...And I have a lot of metal processing to do." He looked down at his feet for a moment, then back up. "I don't have it in me to follow you around and make sure you're safe. Please?" 

Oh, how could he let himself be undone by one simple word? By that pleading look? Spike tried to continue protesting. "I don't recall needing your help before this." 

"That was before hiring human thugs became involved." Xander attempted turning him around and gave him a little push. "Go. Eat. Organize your clothes by color scheme; I don't care. Just go home." 

Spike studied the boy - no, man - in front of him, and gave in to the determined face. "Alright," he muttered. 

"Promise." A statement rather than question. 

"Look, I just said alright. Take what you can get, Cabana Boy, or I'll stand out here all night and you'll be forced to let me in at sun-up." He took a step away from the stairs, pleased at the weak chuckle coming from the other person. 

Before he could get much farther, he heard Xander call him from halfway down the steps, "Hey, Spikey." 

Where did all addle-brained people get the idea to call him that? He turned. "What, whelp?" 

Inside the dark hole of the steps, Xander was no more than an invisible voice, traveling on hope and fear. "I guess this means you owe me one." 

Spike shook his head and continued back on the path toward his crypt. "That I do, pet."

END