Author: Kalima

Rating: hard R

Summary:  Spike has a yen for a big girl.  Xander eats too many brownies.   Hijinks ensue. 

Pairing: Spike, Xander, and a character who would deeply resent being known as Other.

Disclaimer: The characters of BtVS belong to Mutant Enemy.  Nicolette is the devil's own Mary Sue.

Thanks to: Herself, Foo_Faedra, katiedack, Anna S, Harmonyfb, bonibaru, lovesbitca, surfal666, m'sally, Mary Cryptdoor, Anne hedonia, Minim Calibre, Flaming June, Carolyn, Lara, Sajj, Patricia, Chase, and Eve - for the fabulous prezzies that made me dance around my living room.   And for Liz because she lurves him.   And jayb for the VCD effort.  And juliaabra for reminding me of Rock Steady.   If I forgot someone, I'm sure Spike our soddin' savior will let me slide this once.

Spoilers: Season 4 shortly after Something Blue.

Feedback: Is next to Godliness.

Nicolette Says Jump

"Time heals all wounds."

What a load of crap, Xander thought, and no sooner had he thought it than Spike loudly declared that it was, in fact, a whopping load of crap.  

"Time buries wounds, Rupert, it doesn't heal them.  Just piles the dirt on.   Wounds are still there, underneath.  And I for one have been profoundly wounded.  Bloody violated is what I've been!   I asked the Slayer to marry me for fuck's sake!  Never gonna forget the way she was all over me, squirming around in my lap, shoving her tongue down my throat, deadly little hands down my—"

"Yes!  All right.  Enough," Giles said, with tight smile, whipping off his glasses and giving them a vigorous polish.  "We understand, Spike, how dreadful it must have been for you above all others.  I was only blind after all.  But wounds heal with time.  We get over it.  That's all I meant by that tired old adage."

"Fine for you.  But the memories of how I got those wounds will be with me forever."  He aimed a self-righteous sniff Willow's direction.  "Memory is-is – scored into our flesh, innit?   Into the very marrow of our bones.  Memory is cellular."

Willow eeped suddenly and squirmed on the sofa in a way Xander knew from long association meant she was intellectually stimulated, and not that she was feeling guilty, or that she had to pee really, really bad, which is what it looked like.   At the opposite end of the sofa, Anya was likewise squirming – in boredom Xander assumed until she announced her need to pee and padded down the hall to the bathroom.   

"That's very L. Ron Hubbard of you," Willow said.  To Spike.   Like she was throwing down the gauntlet of discourse to the Café society of 1920's Paris.   She couldn't really carry off the Gertrude Stein, but still, it seemed to take the edge off Spike's lame-ass holier-than-thou business.   Aha! Xander thought, betcha don't even know who L. Ron Hubbard is, do ya, pal? 

"Hubbard was a hack science fiction writer and even more of a hack messiah," the vampire replied.  "Anyway, not like he was the first person to think of it.  I mean, there's a whole school of thought, long before his engrams nonsense—"

"Not – not entirely nonsense, engrams," Giles interjected, "A monk at Trefoil Abbey postulated in the early fifteenth century—"

Thus began what Xander would later call the Surreal Hour.  It could have been the Surreal Ten Minutes but his eyes glazed after only five.  Was his best friend really talking Dianetics and Scientology with his worst enemy?  Was Spike his worst enemy or did that honor still belong to Mr. Vanderbeck, his 8th grade gym teacher?  Was Giles having the lamest mid-life crisis ever if this discussion was, as it appeared to be, the highlight of his evening?  And what the hell did a Soccer Guy have to do with anything?  

"Not Soccer Guy, Xander," Willow laughed.   Oops, apparently he'd said that out loud.  "Soka Gai.  It's Japanese."  

Spike was giving him the condescending Brit eye, and that was just the wrongest of wrong.   He gave him the "Fuck off, English dickwad" eye, and returned to not listening very much.

Anya was now squeezed into the chair beside him, their hips rubbing together painfully.  Spike was saying something about "those Nam Myoho buggers" and how them and Scientologists were more cunning than vampires in the way they targeted their prey.   Willow went off about the law of cause and effect, and karma, which somehow came back to memory and Spike's original point, which was how he'd been woefully wronged by Willow's spell, and how he could never ever recover from that humiliation. 

"—especially what happened in the bathroom," he finished solemnly.

Silence followed, silence with a lot of noisy swallowing.   Then Giles said, "The two of you were never in the bathroom together.  In fact, as I recall, the only time you went into the bathroom, Buffy had gone to the magic shop and you offered to fetch me my eye drops."

"Well, I was missing her pretty hard while I was in there, wasn't I?   Missing her something painful.  Had to have myself a bit of a toss—"

Giles lurched to his feet.  "That's it!  I've had all I can take of you for one – lifetime.  Xander, I'm afraid Spike is your charge tonight."

"No!  Come on!  Why do I get punished for his bad behavior?  Can't we just stake him, for the love of God?"

"If he stays here another night that's a certainty."

"What?  What did I say?  Not my fault I was all hot for the Slayer and wanting to marry her.  I didn't do a spell on me – and everyone."

"I've said I'm sorry!" Willow cried.  "How much sorrier can I be?"

"You could magic this bloody microchip out of my head for starters!" 

"I have menstrual cramps," Anya said, picking up her purse.   "I'm going home."

Yeah.  Memory was cellular all right.  

***

"Ever had a big girl, Harris?"

"What?"  The band was loud, the crowd was raucous, and Xander still didn't know exactly why he was here.   He felt like that often of late, as if he was sleepwalking through both his days and his nights, swept along by the desires of others, without will, but only because he couldn't be bothered to exert any.  

"What?" he shouted again.  Spike leaned closer.  Too close, but there was nothing for it.   It was either listen to Spike here, or be forced to listen to him at home where there were no distractions.  

"A big girl?  With a nice dimpled bum and a belly like a down pillow.  A girl all soft and round and full of delightful pockets of flesh just waiting for an intrepid explorer like yourself to do some serious spelunking." Spike angled his eyeballs toward a girl sitting at the bar.   He waggled his brows.  "Ever had one?"

Ah.  A big girl.  Rubenesque.   Hefty.  Large-boned.   Brightly colored tattoos on a broad canvas, wearing a mixture of retro gothic crushed velvet and inappropriately tight pleather. 

He shook his head.  "Fat?  Not so sexy."

"Are you insane?  There's a woman's flesh in all its radiant splendor.  Your generation's been brainwashed by the advertising industry.   Come on.   Look at the tits on her and tell me you don't imagine what those'd feel like pressed around your—"

"Okay!  One: rude.  She's a person, right?   Not just a collection of parts for your pleasure.  And two—" He paused at two, because she'd turned a bit on the bar stool, and one thigh slid out of the slit in her skirt, and it was a big thigh sure, but very…shapely inside the shiny black casing of her stocking.  Then, oh god, she leaned over to smooth that shiny black stocking over that big shapely thigh and his eyes were suddenly filled with the sight of those other body parts that had Spike waxing so poetic.  The tits.  Yeah, they were pretty, uh, pretty big that is.  Big, round, sculpted mounds rising over the top of her inappropriately tight pleather corset like the twin suns of that planet in the original Star Trek where a bunch of disembodied brains bet quatloos on gladiator fights between Kirk and a sexy girl with green hair and why couldn't he remember the name of the planet and – wait, didn't that planet have three suns?  

"Still with me, monkey boy?"

Breasts.  Big.   "Yowsa," Xander whispered.

Spike sighed.   "Oh, to be a sultan lolling about the cushiony softness of that favored concubine."   His eyes moved from the object of his interest back to Xander, a sullen and reluctant acknowledgment of something unpleasant but necessary – like a port-a-potty.   "Back in the day, I mean back in the day when I actually walked in the day, girls like the Slayer, your witch, they would've been padding and stuffing like mad just to come close to a beauty like that.  We knew how to appreciate the flesh back then."

"Whatever, Grandpa.   And hello?  Drusilla looks like a bunch of sticks lashed together – big freaking head stuck on top."

"Love is blind, Harris. And she does not!  Anyway, one-eyed Jack has a different way of looking at things, don't he?" 

"Who the hell's One-eyed—oh.   Must be a regional euphemism."

"That one's older than I am.  What do you prefer?   Stiffy?   Woody?"  He glanced in the vicinity of Xander's crotch.  "Tiny Dancer?"

"Oo-kay.  We're done here.  It's time to get you home and tie you to a chair."

A few heads turned sharply their direction.  "Say that a little louder and you'll have all sorts of new friends."  

"Don't think the Bronze hosts a fetish night.  Sorry."  But instead of hustling the annoying vampire out the door, he grabbed a peanut from the complimentary bowl and rolled it between his fingers, looking around furtively in case he was wrong and there were fetishists lurking about.   Nope.   The only person who looked remotely like a fetishist was the fat girl at the bar.   His eyes drifted her direction, because she was at least different to look at and took up more space while doing so.  He supposed she wasn't that fat.  Not like she'd need one of those electric shopping carts he'd seen the really, really obese people using at the Albertson's on Hadley.  He wondered vaguely if vampires could get fat on fat people, flicked a glance at Spike, then back to the girl at the bar. 

She had a fresh drink before her, and her lips closed around the twin straws in the glass, slowly sucking the pale green slush of her beverage into her glistening red mouth, swallowing, swallowing deep into that plump column of a throat…  

Spike made a small sound, between a whimper and a moan.   Took a long thoughtful swallow of beer.   "What d'you reckon my chances at getting a leg over?" 

In a desperate bid for equilibrium he said,  "Not sure what that means exactly, but if it means what I think it means, I reckon if you can actually get your leg over her you'll have a shot – what with you be a good-looking guy and her being, you know, fat."

Spike looked at him, a look dangerously close to disapproval – yes, yes, definite disapproval in that dismissive, disgusted glance.  So…what?  Spike was now Mister Mature and Xander the emotionally crippled bully?  Must correct immediately. 

"I don't know what your chances are.  If she has half a brain, probably not good.  Doesn't matter though, because we're leaving."    

"Oh ho ho.  Not bloody likely." 

"Bloody certain, yeah.  It's late, I have to—"

"Don't give me a line about having to work tomorrow because I heard you tell your mates you don't.  Christ on a crutch, Harris!  Where's your sense of adventure?  Are you completely incapable of having any sort of fun since you were forced to start earning your own way?"

He started to say that being in a bar trying to pick up a fat chick with Spike was nobody's idea of fun.  But really, he just didn't want Spike to have any fun.   And maybe his reason was petty, but so what?   Spike was evil and a pain in the ass.  Why should he get to do what he wanted with whomever he wanted whenever he wanted?   Xander was in charge here.  Xander owned Spike's ass right now.   Xander was calling the shots.  Xander—

The big girl at the bar had removed the straws from her beverage, and was licking sugar or salt or something from the rim of her glass.   The peanut in his fist crumbled into dust.

"Mmmm…delicious," Spike murmured.  

"What kind of fun can you have anyway?" Xander asked sullenly.  "It's not like you can bite her."

"Contrary to popular belief, sometimes a vampire just wants to get himself laid.  You coming?"

"You don't need me for that." 

"Well, no.  But I think she's giving you the eye."

Oh, god.  She was.

***

"No see," the lovely big girl was explaining, wiping the red-lipped stain from around the rim of her Midori daiquiri with a cocktail napkin, "If you're not gay, then you're probably like that guy in Silence of the Lambs-"

Spike was clearly flattered. "Hannibal Lector?"

"No. She means the other one," Xander said.  She grinned at him and the deep dimples in her cheeks caused him to grin back to the point of painfulness. 

"Right," she said, "The other one.  The one who was killing the fat girls so he could make dresses out of their skin or whatever. You know, the one with the little poodle."

"Could have saved himself a lot of hard work at the sew machine if he'd just got inside a woman in the traditional sense," Spike grumbled. 

"Maybe he was afraid he'd get lost, wouldn't be able to find his way out again."

"Poor fellow. Fortunately I know my way around …those parts."

"Uh huh. Well, I'm a big girl, little man."

"You're not that big and I'm not that little. 'Least I've not had complaints about my size."

Xander groaned.  She snorted. "Women only complain about a man's ...size to each other. Besides, I don't go with guys who weigh less than me."

"Well, that isn't fair. Can't rightly ask a lady her weight or her age."

"Your charm is rapidly verging on smarmy."

Surprisingly, Spike laughed. Xander had to give her points for use of the word smarmy.  

"Anyway, I can tell just by looking at you you're at least 40, maybe 50 pounds lighter than me."

"Harris here isn't."   Xander made a squeaky sound meant to convey something along the lines of hey, leave me out of this.  

"No.  He isn't."  She caught his eye again, and her eyes were blue, and her hair was black, carefully coifed to look messy, with shiny tendrils brushing across dimple here, a soft round shoulder there, drawing his eyes downward to those mountains of goddessy goodness—

Yup.  Spike could nail sexy at fifty paces, whereas he couldn't spot it until it actually bit him on the ass and forced him to cry ow, sexy.  Like now.  Ow.  Sexy.

"Are you trying to set up your friend then?"

Scoffing from both men.  "Not my friend." And  "Hell no."

"Anyway, mere physical weight doesn't mean much to me," Spike was saying, "Not because I can't appreciate it, aesthetically speaking, because, believe me, I can and do…and I know, yeah, what I'm about to tell you might sound like so much shite, but really, really, I could pick you up right now, carry you up to the catwalk without breaking a sweat or even breathin' heavy.  You'd weigh no more than the feather from an angel's wing."

Oh, and doesn't that sound pretty when you leave out the supernatural vampire strength part of the equation. 

"I could press you soft against the wall, do you standing up." 

Do her?  Jesus.  Get over your bad self, Spike.

"What they call a knee trembler, that.  Only… my knees wouldn't be trembling."

Spike's voice taken on a quality, which Xander didn't catch up with until it was sliding into him, smooth and thick as buttermilk, and as insinuating as the muzak version of any Beatles song.   He shuddered, rapt and listening while trying not to actually hear any of it. 

"You'd tremble, though.  Your knees and all your other parts.  You'd be melting around me, sighing, moaning, begging me not to stop—"

There it was, in the region of Xander's solar plexus, a subsonic rumble like the purr of a big dangerous cat.   Sure.  Could be purring because it was sated, could be purring because it was about to be.  

"And I wouldn't," the cat went on.  "Stop.  Wouldn't stop until you couldn't take another second, until you begged and begged again, and again and again…"

Was this the vampire thrall then?   Because if it was, wow, really cool.  And also – kind of unsettling.    He blinked.   Gulped.   Shook his head, then his entire body gave a totally unrehearsed little shiver.  

Holy Fuck.  I want to learn to be a Jedi, Obi Wan. 

The girl drew in a breath, the knowledge of breathing having recently been restored to her.  "Intriguing," she said.  There was a definite hitch in her voice.   "Even if you're full of shite." She held out her hand.   "Hello. I'm Nicolette. Friends don't call me Nikki."

Spike took the hand and gave it a polite, if lingering shake.  "I'm sure they wouldn't dare. Spike."

"Spike, huh? What a coincidence. The very name I picked out for my first born child."

"Ah, well, now we're gettin' a bit ahead of ourselves."

"Scared yet?"

"Don't scare that easily."

"You know, you look more like a Billy to me." 

Then Spike smiled – a slow predatory grin, just lips, no teeth.   "Friends don't call me Billy." 

Okay, now there was something definitely going on.  They were making a connection.  Sharing a moment of erotic non-verbal communication.  Well, screw that.

"Hi," he said thrusting his hand between the two of them.  "I'm Xander.  Friends don't call me…uh.  Uh.  Oh.  Sorry.  Brain-freeze."  

She took his hand and shook it by way of a squeeze.  He thought she might have winked, but he couldn't be sure because she was already turning back to the bleached wonder with the tingle inducing voice.  In her.  Tingle-inducing in her.   Jesus.  Strategic retreat with some serious regrouping in order.  And also, a piss.   

"Excuse me.  I'm gonna…"  

"Yeah.  Go shake the dew off that lily, why don't you?  Take your time." 


At the urinal he pondered the situation.  How was it that Spike could manage to turn things around, act like a big shot when he was currently a more pathetic loser than Xander?  What was his fiendish secret?  And how could it be usurped and harnessed for the purpose of good?  He shook the dew off the lily and thought about calling Anya, because even with the menstrual cramps and the general bitchiness associated therewith he could still snuggle up next to her and she'd pretend he was a big old hot water bottle soothing her pain and it would be something solid and certain – this is my hot girlfriend, mine, mine, mine.   Until such time that she changed her mind, discovered the cowardly liar beneath the pretty good sex and rapier wit.

There was a payphone in the corridor and he paused in a halfhearted search for change.  Nicolette chose that moment to pass him on her way to the facilities.  Gave him a sly, big dimpled smile and a sultry gaze from under her lashes.   He very pointedly didn't turn to watch her as she went into the ladies room.   It would be wrong, because, as much as it troubled him, he'd never be able to publicly acknowledge an attraction to a big ass.   He had enough trouble trying to justify Anya to his friends and she just had the big mouth problem.   

This entire fat-girl lust-o-rama scenario was making him look bad and Spike look good.  Spike had no trouble whatsoever hitting on her right out in the open.   Spike who was out there even now, waiting for them to return from the  —

Spike.  Out there.   Waiting.   Waiting patiently for Xander to take him back to the luxury basement suite of the Hotel de Blanco Trasho where he would be spending the night in the least comfortable chair in the world.    Right.   This was probably all part of the Spike master plan.  Drag Harris to the Bronze, get him to chat up a fat girl.  Bait and switch.  Cut and run.  Fuck!  Buffy would be so annoyed if Spike ran off before spilling the dirt on those commando guys.  If she found time to stop macking on her new Teutonic boyfriend, that is.  

He rushed out into the main room, seeking the white lantern of Spike's head in the crowd.   Heart pounding.  Jumped and squealed like a girl when the demon asshole grabbed his arm. 

"Need a favor," Spike hissed.

"Already did you a favor by coming here, Billy."

"What?  Not having fun?  Never mind.  This is another favor.  You'll be home in your ma's basement watching the sci-fi channel before you can say fruit roll-ups."

"I'm not doing you any more favors."

"Come on Harris!  Got a chance to get myself laid here.  You have your little demon bird, and know for a fact you get it nigh on every bleedin'day!  I haven't been with anything warmer than my own hand for weeks."

"My life does not revolve around gettin' you sum.  And your hand is cold, by the way." 

"Friction—"

"Shut up!  I'm not pimping for you okay?"

Spike let go of his arm in apparent shock.  "Jesus, Harris.  Not asking you to.  She invited me, and I'm going, right?  You want to keep an eye on me, have to tag along." 

"Why the hell would you want me to tag along?  And hell no.  It's back to the basement for you pal."

"Maybe she's got a friend that'll suit you." 

"I have a girlfriend."   Sort of.

"—well, maybe she's got a scrawny little friend with the voice of a nag then, and if you close your eyes you won't even know the difference.  Come on.  Do a bloke a favor."  Mr. Smooth leaned in, his mouth an inch from Xander's ear.  Tiny hairs along his jaw line quivered like cilia.  "Girl's got a kink, particular itch she wants scratched.  Could be interesting.   Find your balls and take a bleeding chance on some fun, why don't you?  Live a little." 

"I live a little already, and I don't need you telling me how, and – kink?  What-what kind of kink?"

"Oh, nothing …too dangerous.   Only she doesn't quite trust me, right—"

"Huh, go figure—"

"But she trusts you.  Says you look safe.  Nice.  Affable."

"I am so not playing the affable sidekick to you!"

"Look, pizza boy, I'm gonna have myself a nice friendly poke tonight one way or the other and you can't stop me—"

"Oh I beg to differ, Dead Boy Slim.  Why, lookee there.  Who's that standing over yonder with the buzz-cut and the grim expression?  Could it be one of those commandos gone undercover and hunting for your ass?"

Spike whirled, wide-eyed, nostrils a-flaring, looking for buzz-cuts with grim expressions.  Saw none.   Turned to Xander again.  "Why are you torturing me like this?  Have I ever tortured you?"

"Well, yeah."

"I have?"  He looked genuinely confused, then a teensy bit terrified.  "You think this chip is erasing my memories or something?" 

"No.  It's your continued existence that tortures me."

"Ha bloody ha.  You want me to beg, because I'm not above begging here—"

"Hey guys."

They both jumped.   And before Xander could say Wink Martindale, Spike had linked hands with Nicolette and was gliding towards the door.   He had no choice but to follow them.  He figured he could make a scene louder and better outside anyway. 

So how he ended up in the backseat of Nicolette's Honda Civic on his way to her apartment was a mystery inside an enigma wrapped in a blanket of who gives a fuck and oh what the hell.   

***

"I have Ecstasy."

"I am ecstasy, love." 

Xander caught her look in the review mirror as she eased over into the right lane, both the roll of her eyes and the glint of interest.   Spike was in the passenger seat next to her, neatly avoiding the mirror problem. 

"Um…you mean the drug?"

"Yeah.  Never had it?  You'll love it."

"I doubt that.  Don't do the drugs."  

"What are you talking about?  You have a bottle of plain label Kentucky bourbon stashed under your bed."

He stifled his initial reaction to the thought of a vampire digging around under his bed, mostly because of the other stuff Spike had undoubtedly noticed was stashed under there.   "That's not the same as drugs!"

"Well, I have vodka," she offered. 

"Thanks, but really I-I shouldn't.  I mean I'm underage and everything."

Up in front, Spike sighed heavily, and shook his head.  "I despair of you Harris, truly."

Nicolette laughed.  "It's okay.  I made brownies this afternoon.  You like brownies, dontcha little boy?" 

"Look," Spike declared with an edge of impatience,  "You two can do whatever gets your swerve on.  Don't need my mood altered."  He reached over and squeezed her knee, or possibly something else if her little squeak was any indication.  "My current mood'll do just fine."

Xander put his hand on his own knee to keep it from jerking uncontrollably.  He looked around the interior.  Burger King bags, and empty to-go cups from the Espresso Pump littered the floor around his feet.  And also what he thought might be a lipstick or maybe a tampon.  "So, this is what, a '92, '93?  Good car."  He could feel Spike roll his eyes even if he couldn't see it.  He sighed.  "Fine.  Brownies.  Sounds good."


***

She really did have brownies, dense and moist, with a subtle flavor he couldn't quite identify.   His experiences with cookies that tasted better than any other cookie ever, and band candy that turned adults into rowdy teenagers, and beer that turned people into knuckle-dragging proto-humanoids, should have clued him in.   If it tastes better than sex with chocolate sauce on top then there was probably something iffy about it.  Which turned out to be true.   Just didn't happen to be magic involved.

"These are the best brownies ever.  I'm not kidding.  You made these yourself?"

"Uh huh.  The secret is to soak the hash in Mexican vanilla before infusing the butter."

Oh, and of course, he'd already eaten three.   Now, some indeterminate time later, he was lying on her bed – a mattress in the middle of the room, swathed in velvet and fake fur pillows, around which the rest of her world revolved: television, sound system, sliding glass doors that opened onto a lanai, bathroom, closet, coffee table with many candles, kitchenette, front door.  He had his arm flung over his eyes and his eyes squeezed firmly shut beneath the arm.  If he stayed blind like this, entrenched within the landscape of his mind (a gently undulating velvety brown-ness rather like a sea of breasts made out of brownies), he felt less wigged out.  And also the mantra seemed to help, 

"Oh god oh god oh god oh god…"

"Harris.  Relax."

Easy for Spike to say.   Spike wasn't the one stoned out of his mind in a strange girl's studio apartment and stuck with Spike, unable to defend himself against the onslaught of Spike's hilarious choice in music.   The Moody Blues?    Why, lord, why?

"…oh god oh god oh god oh god…"

 "You've got to get into the groove, go with the flow, be one with the—"

"You're about to tell me you were at Woodstock, aren't you?"

"Yeah.  Wild gig, that was.  Fucking brilliant."

"You were at Woodstock?"  That was Nicolette's voice.  Or he hoped so.   "So you're that cute baby I saw in the movie.   Why'd you change your name to Spike, though?  Liquid Sunshine Acidtrip suits you so well."

"You're a cruel bitch."

"I thought you liked that in a girl."

"Come're then and show me."

Then there were the sounds of serious kissage.   Wet slurpy sounds.  And the slough of clothing, plus a kind of suction sound which he figured was the pleather coming away from her skin, and the moaning and more slurping and a thump and some ominous low throated growls.   He didn't want to move his arm to look.   If Spike somehow managed to bite her, that was her problem for getting him stoned like this.   He was in no condition to help her.   And plus, he'd have to move his arm.    Better to drift off to the sounds of –

Well, the first days are the hardest days,
don't you worry anymore
When life looks like Easy Street,

there is danger at your door

No, not the Grateful Dead!  The evil bastard!   Pulled helplessly into the vortex of a never-ending Jerry Garcia solo, Xander surrendered to the velvet interiors of his brain.  

An eternity later…

--It's a Buck Dancer's Choice my friend
better take my advice--

Inside his head he sang along, wondering how and why he knew the lyrics when he'd actively avoided listening to the Grateful Dead for most of his life. 

--You know all the rules by now
and the--

"—s'tight little surprise!"

Huh.  That didn't sound like Jerry Garcia.

--Will you come with me?
Won't you come with me--

"Well, it's the only exercise I actually like."

"Aah.  Ah.  Jesus.  You're – you're soooo bloody good at it!"

--Goddamn, well I declare
Have you seen the like?
Their walls are built of cannonballs,
their motto is--

"Christ!  Fuck.  Fuck me!  You. Great.  Beautiful.  Bitch!" 

Then there was some sort of an earthquake.   An earthquake that went on forever.  An earthquake with talking.  It was true then.  Spike never ever shut up.  

Xander knew if he kept his eyes closed he could pretend he didn't know what was going on.  If he kept his eyes closed, it was like a carnival ride, with the laughter, the shouts, the high-pitched screams of delight, the exhilarating, nauseating thrill at that split second of weightlessness before gravity pulled you down again.  Yeah.  A fun park ride.  

The Monster Sledgehammer.   

So many thoughts went through his head as the mattress inched its way across the floor.  

This is so embarrassing.  Should I keep pretending I'm asleep?   Jeez, they couldn't have rolled me into the bathroom first?   This music sucks.   Oh my god, those noises she's making are so damned sexy!  I should get out of here.  Shit, I don't even know where I am.  I wonder if there's a bus line close by?  Didn't we pass a Texaco on the way here?  They probably have a pay phone.  I could call a cab.  I wonder what she looks like naked?  I only have a couple of bucks and some change.  Goddamn Spike anyway!  Undead bastard.  I wonder what he looks like when he's doing it?   How do vampires get erections anyway?   They don't have any circulation.  Maybe it's some kind of supernatural thing.  Huh.  Supernatural erections.  Wonder how long those last?  Doesn't sound like he's gonna last too much longer.  Oh man, is that her knee or his?  Hers definitely.  Soft.  Really soft.  I'll bet her tits are like great big moon shaped Jell-O jigglers.   Must resist urge to look.  Must resist-- 

Just one eye.  I'll just open one eye.  

He turned his head toward the slickery, soppy, suction sound of in-out, in-out, the slap of bones and bare skin, the rattle of Spike's happy profanities, her oh gods and breathy laughing delight.  One eye.  Just a peek.  And there, there, so close a deep breath would roll him up against her – Nicolette in all her radiant splendor, an undulating lollapalooza of voluptuous flesh.   His eye traveled from the broad, flattened cheek of her ass to the roll of her hip.  A hint of belly as Spike arched up between her legs.  Her thigh pushed towards her chest, brushing a surprisingly delicate nipple on a globe of flesh that didn't look like any of the usual breast/food comparisons – not grapefruits or melons, though it made his mouth water, which was good because he kind of had cotton mouth.   He tried not to swallow though, for fear they would hear him and know he was awake.   Quiet, quiet.  Looking with just the one eye.  And follow the thigh up to the plump knee hooked over a bony white shoulder to the luscious curve of a calf, to the ankle that seemed too narrow to carry the weight of her then up further to the curl of her toes.  He wanted to suck on her toes.  He wanted to lick the perspiration from the back of her knee.   He wanted Spike to move so he could look his fill.   He was so hard now it hurt.  He should probably close his eye—

But then she turned her head, strands of dark hair damp across her cheek and forehead, and she looked at him.  Smiled.  It was the most lascivious smile he'd ever seen.  The soft moan that escaped him was beyond his control, and he opened his other eye the better to see her smiling.

Between her legs, Spike swiveled his hips and her smile changed shape.  "Oh," she gasped.  "Oh, oh, oh, god, oh yes, that's it, that's it!  OH MY GOD!"   And then it was all head thrashing and exclamations of orgasmic joy.   Spike was sputtering flowery testimonials to her cunt.  And in the middle of it, her hand reached out and, flailing, found Xander's.   She could have taken hold of his dick for the effect it had on him.   He came.  And so did Spike.   They all came at the same time.   Except, unlike Xander, neither one of them was still wearing pants.  

***

"You can't stay in there forever Harris."

Yes I can.  "When are my pants going to be done?"  He called through the bathroom door.

"I only put them in the wash ten minutes ago," Nicolette shouted back, laughing. 

"I'll wait here."

He sat on the fluffy pink toilet lid cover, head in hands.  Why had he surrendered his beloved khakis?   His shirt was long enough to cover the damage.   He could have beat a hasty retreat and left them to their own…devices.   Happened to be a device on the bamboo shelf, right next to a hair blower.  The combination of hair blower and…device sent his mind to a strange magical land where women managed to style their hair and get themselves off simultaneously.   He couldn't even blame this mental meandering on being high – which he still was, though not nearly as stoned as before – because his mind went frolicking in happy porno land on a regular basis and with little provocation.    He stared at the pink flamingo shower curtain.  Still…

The whole thing reeked of a set-up.  A plot.  Some kind of nefarious Spike plot.  

"I have snacks," she called in a sing-song-y voice.  "I know you have the munchies.  Just wrap a towel around you and come out.  Promise we won't laugh."

"Promise no such thing," he heard Spike say, then, "Ow."

"What kind of snacks?"  Dammit.  That came out of his mouth before he could stop it.  You know, they never mentioned the stuff about how gateway drugs like hash and marijuana led to the tragedies of overeating and possible weight gain.   That when you were high the only thing you thought about when they showed "this is your brain on drugs" was the Grand Slam breakfast at Denny's.  

"Cheetos and Chunky Monkey ice cream.  Ooh.  Coconut curry noodles from the Bangkok Kitchen." 

Tempting…but no.  He wasn't leaving the bathroom until he was zipped into his warm-from-the-dryer khakis and could continue on with the leaving right out the front door.   Thirst had been slated with water from the faucet so the dry mouth was no longer a pressing issue.  He was fully prepared to bunker down here for the duration of the wash and dry cycles.   Then he'd walk home.   Perhaps it would be near sunrise then and he'd be treated to a nice vampire flambé.

Mmmm…flambé-d something.  Followed by Chunky Monkey ice cream.   He could hear the rattle of what he assumed was a bag of Cheetos, the twist of a cap and that refreshing fizzy sound from a carbonated beverage frothing over, clink of metal, maybe a spoon—

Well, shit.  Fine then.  He wrapped the pink towel around his lower half and opened the door.   Nicolette beamed at him around a mouthful of noodles.   She was draped in a robe, red silky thing with Chinese dragons embossed in silver.  Her shoulders and upper arms were bare, and he could see the dragon tattoo in red and black between her shoulder blades, and, as he stepped around the pillows and over the scattered clothing on the floor, he saw the black one on her arm that looked like Chinese calligraphy.  There were others –Celtic knot, maybe a dragonfly – but as soon as eyes met breasts the tattoo tour was over.  Unfortunately something kept getting in his line of sight. 

Sitting cross-legged in front of Nicolette, wearing nothing but jeans and a frown of concentration between his dark brows, Spike was applying ruby colored lipstick to her nipples – looking a lot like a kid with a crayon, what with the way the tip of his tongue poked out from the corner of his mouth in an unbearably cute and highly suspect manner.  Nicolette was watching television, eating the noodles cold from a to-go carton, politely trying to keep the motion of fork to mouth from getting in the way of his artistic endeavor. 

There were times when a guy just had to come out with his hands up and surrender to the absurd.  Xander tucked the end of the towel in more securely and declared,    "Lipstick tastes like crap you know."

Spike smirked, wicked and sly.  Still not looking at him.  "Depends on the lipstick."

"Even the flavored stuff.  Cough syrup flavored Vaseline."

"Vaseline has its uses."

"I think water soluble lubricants are recommended these days.  But then, health and safe-sex issues probably don't matter much to you." 

"Huh…what?"  Nicolette mumbled.  She finished slurping the noodle into her mouth and swallowed.  Stared at one man, then the other.   "We used a condom."

Spike chuckled at Xander's expression, and waved one languid hand at the coffee table where gold foil packets were scattered between sputtering candles and snack foods like pirate's booty.   He gazed at Xander again, smugly acknowledging the truth about himself he knew Xander wouldn't dare divulge because it might frighten her or make her think he was out of his freaking mind.   Or both.

"I'm a responsible bloke," Spike said and bent to his task once again. 

A titter of astonishment at just how boldly full of shit the guy could be was cut short when he remembered his resolution never to titter in front of girls again.  Especially girls who let you see them naked.   His mouth was suddenly dry.   This girl had the prettiest nipples he'd ever seen, and they were real.  Perfectly symmetrical areolas glistened claret red from Spike's careful applications.  He tried to swallow and heard it echoing loudly in the small room.

"Yeah, well…still lipstick…still tastes like crap."  The words started out confident and ended in a tremulous whisper. 

Spike swizzled the lipstick down into the tube and put the cap on it.   "Speaking from your great and vast experience no doubt." 

"I've kissed enough to know.  Kissed plenty of girls—"

Leaning forward, mouth parted slightly, vampire lips closed around the painted pretty.  He kissed her breast like it was another mouth, slow, lingering, almost tender kisses.  Then he drew back, lips still closed around her nipple, pulled her breast out, and let go with a plop.  Xander'd seen babies do that very same thing.   She giggled and sighed, and her tit shook like jelly for a long time after – relatively speaking.  Time enough for Xander's man parts to stir beneath the towel and erect a tent. 

Again Spike looked at him, this time from under his lashes, head cocked and angled in his direction with a practiced flirtatious ease.   Mouth rouged with ruby, he grinned, and yes, there was a touch of evil in it, if only because it was so fucking sure of itself that smile, with a mock and a challenge, and a promise of all kinds of things a person didn't even know they wanted until he cocked his head that way and smiled. 

"Ever kiss a fella?" 

Oh, oh, and then it was all tangled up—protest, desire, outrage, the towel and the smear of red on her breasts, on Spike's taunting mouth, and he'd dropped to his knees on the mattress before he knew what was happening.  Still he knew enough to understand when he was being mocked, being challenged.  So when he crawled forward and leaned in to kiss her other breast it was a gesture that shouted "fuck you asshole."   But that gesture became meaningless quickly.  In fact… Spike?  Spike who?

Kissing, sucking, lipstick tastes bad, but god her tits, need two hands for each one, and she's dropped the fork somewhere that might prove dangerous later, and such a soft little sigh, and she's falling back, back, falling open beneath him.  Like a cave, like a womb enfolding, enveloping and she's so soft.  Her hands on his back, his buttocks, stroking up and over and down.  He barely notices as other hands enter into the mix.  Mapping out the tendons, muscles, bones in his legs, his ass, his arms, magic massage of many, many fingers.  His own hands are scooping fistfuls of flesh to his mouth, licking, nibbling and gnawing.  "She's a succulent peach, eh, Harris? All round and juicy and—" she was, she was, and she smelled like sex everywhere, his nose nuzzling out the musk in the folds of flesh he made rubbing himself all over her.  Tongue catching the slick sweat as her breasts lolled up and down, back and forth--

There was a hurried rearranging of pillows and bodies.  She was laid out before him, half reclining on her cushions like the queen bee she was, waiting to be serviced.  Inspired, he tried to move down, wanted to get his face between her legs and try things he'd never tried before, but something was in his way, and he knew what thing it was, kicked at it, but then she grasped him by his cock, and he could do nothing but follow it up to her waiting mouth.  It was not the most comfortable position, knees squeezed as close to her sides as he could get them, because she wasn't skinny like—

She's soft everywhere, and bouncy, and she is like a carnival ride.  Her mouth is the tunnel of love, baby, and behind him, somewhere very far away he can hear the soft, rapid lapping of a tongue on a clit, the slurping and licking and sticky fingered sliding in and out, fingers that brush the soles of his feet and grasp his ankles and he doesn't even know how this is working.  He can't find a purchase for his hands, he'll fall over, he'll fall out of that sucking mouth.  So he grabs her head, fisted into her hair as her mouth works him in and out faster and faster, then unbearably slow.  She can't help it, must pause, experience the sensations she's being given in the down below.  And he knows who's giving them to her, but he doesn't want to think about him, because she's bucking, bucking like a beautiful beast that won't be ridden, and then her mouth again and his eyes fly open, watch her cheeks go concave from the suction as she pulls on him and pulls on his— and he's watching her wet wet mouth, and his cock pops out and she brings her breasts together around it and squeezes it between, rubbing his saliva slick knob in the channel she's made, then pulls it into her mouth again and oh god, oh fuck, this is, this is—

He could hear Spike's fingers moving in and out really fast, and her eyes were squeezed shut and she screamed around his cock.  Then suddenly, Spike's face, and Spike's hands hard on the back of his head, turning it toward a leering mouth, face to face and mouth to mouth and the mouth tastes like lipstick.  He gasped, and an opportunistic tongue darted in, and the tongue tasted like woman

Exploding.  Like all his molecules have burst apart and flown out in all directions, an orgasm of Death Star proportions, and he hears his own keening and his cock keeps jerking in her mouth as she gags and swallows, swallows, swallows.   His legs begin to shake uncontrollably and he starts to collapse over her but is pulled away by strong hands that reek of her cunt—

They rolled away from her, collide on the mattress and roll again, end up side by side, squished too close, bony hip to hip, and he hated Spike more than ever at that moment, lying next to him, too spent to do anything but pant. 

"Oh, yeah," Nicolette exclaimed in a voice breathless with glee.  "That was wicked fun."

Spike's body was vibrating, edgy and taut as a wire.   "Yeah, well, now it's my bloody turn."

"You had your turn.  More boys kissing first."

"Look, told you I don't fancy him—"

"Liar."

"Fancy you again and right now."  He made a sudden grab for her and before a protest could be uttered, Spike was dragging her over Xander's stunned body.   He scooted away from them and sat up, knees drawn to his chin.  He thought he ought to be feeling something besides sated and bewildered.  Where was the much ballyhooed ick factor?  Where was the crippling shame?   The sight of Nicolette struggling to rise to her hands and knees over Spike's lap made all thoughts of shame fly out the window.  He didn't even see Spike raise his hand until it fell upon the bobbing globes of her behind.   He jumped at the sound.  She squealed and wiggled more, but her size and the position didn't allow for a quick and agile escape.  And Spike was stronger than he looked.  

"Get up here and pleasure me, woman." 

"As if!  We had an agreement.  You haven't met your end of the bargain."

Bargain?  What bargain?

He swatted her again and she grunted,  "I have a lot of padding there.  Nerve endings buried under layers of—ow!  Hey.  Hey!

A strange churning erupted in Xander's belly, fluttering close to nausea – arousal, fear, panic.  Spike was merrily spanking a great big bottom and there seemed to be no corresponding reaction of pain in his head.   Oh God.

Later he'd tell himself that what he did next was for her safety, because she didn't know that a dangerous killer was turning her bottom that lovely shade of fiery red.   Every other reason would be carefully repressed in the coming weeks, months and years.  

He dived forward and collided with Spike's laughing mouth.   

It shut him up, sure.  The dumb shock he felt coming off the son of bitch was worth the price of admission.   But then Spike …responded, and it was like Xander had slapped him with a glove and called for pistols at dawn.  Spit swapping rapidly escalated into a form of heavy petting that looked a lot like wrestling – junior high school version, not WWF Smackdown.  Not as well-rehearsed and flashy, more along the lines of a "You're going down, man!" "No, you're going down!" ineffectual struggle to pin the other to the mat. The girl they were trying to impress all but forgotten in a desperate, frustrating bid for domination.  In fact, Nicolette had been pushed off the mattress altogether.  Finally, when Xander had him in a headlock and was experiencing the first flush of victory, Spike got well and truly pissed off, which triggered his natural demon urge to inflict grievous bodily harm with corresponding fang action.   And then, of course, the screaming. 

"What did you do to him?"  Nicolette cried.  Spike pitched back and forth, holding his head and yowling.  His face was now the human-looking one, and he was doing a convincing impersonation of someone in agony.  

"Nothing."  Xander said, more defensively than he intended.  He'd backed off, still breathing heavy as she scrambled over the mattress making all kinds of "poor baby" noises at the suffering vampire. 

She drew Spike into her arms and began to stroke his head where it lay smugly nestled in her bosom.   After a few moments she said,  "Better?  Does it still hurt?" 

One hand to his head, sort of a girl-on-a-fainting-couch pose, he nodded. 

"Tell me where it hurts, baby."

He hesitated for dramatic effect then pointed to his crotch.  

"Want me to kiss and make it better?" 

Spike was out of his jeans in under a second.   Xander threw himself back on the bed with a groan.  Nicolette reached across him to grab one of the foil packets on the table.  

"Here now.  What's that for?"

"Blowjob.  Condom."

Xander turned his head slowly, grinned at how ridiculous an insulted expression looked on a naked guy with a hard-on. 

"Monkey boy didn't have to wear one when you did him."

She snorted.  "Oh, please.  What am I stupid?  I know you're not safe, let me count the ways.  He's practically a virgin.  No offense, sweetie."

"I'm not a virgin!  Not even close.  I have a girlfriend."

"What are you doing here then?"

"I don't know.  Oh god."  

"Well, it's not fair.  You should make some sort of concession on account of him hurting me."

"You tried to bite me, you asshole!"

"Yeah?  Well, you were trying to twist my fucking head off!"

"I was trying to get on top!"  There.  He'd actually said it.  Oh God.  He was.  Trying to get on top.  

"I am NOT a bottom," Spike growled. 

"There there, pumpkin," Nicolette cooed.  "Of course you're not."  And like a big overindulged house cat, he settled into her lap and accepted the strokes as his due, the protection of her arms as his sovereign right, all the while glowering ferociously at the wrongly accused and ever suffering mutt at her feet.

"Well, neither am I," Xander said, endeavoring to muster great confidence considering he was only vaguely sure what it meant. 

"Oh please," Spike said, "You have bottom written on both cheeks." 

"Okay.  Let's play nice," Nicolette said.  "There's no reason why you can't take turns."

"Don't think you're quite catching the point, love.  We hate each other with a bleeding passion."

"That's just sublimation."

Man looked at monster and monster looked at man.   "Um.  Not really.  No." 

"Really?  For real?  Cuz, that kind of puts a damper on my fun."  She shoved Spike out of her lap.

"Look, I tried to tell you at the bar—"

"You didn't try very hard." 

"Well, wanted to get into your knickers, didn't I?"

"Wait a minute…" Xander began.  Bargain, bargain, something about a bargain.    "Wait just a doggone minute.  What is this?   What the hell is going on?" 

"Oh, bugger."  

A timer bell sounded from the kitchenette.   "Wash is done," she announced.  She got up, pulled her robe around her and grabbed some change off the top of the television as she went out the door.   "Back in a jiff."

Xander looked at Spike.  Spike sighed, looked heavenward, then back at Xander.  "Told you she had an itch she wanted scratched."

"Yeah, but I thought it was like, an itch of her own, and, you know, we'd be the ones scratching her, not scratching each other!"

"Right, well, I figured we'd snog a bit, you and me, she'd get hot and bothered and forget all about it once I was giving it to her.  Didn't think she'd actually— what?"

"You.  You are.  You.  Fuck."

Spike grinned.  "Come on.  Can't say it wasn't worth it.  I mean.  Come on!"

"I cheated on my girlfriend!"

"Hey.  Now.  No.  No, see, it's-it's not cheating if there's no penetration."

"Oh right, like Anya's gonna buy the Monica Lewinsky defense."

"Yeah.  Even Harm didn't buy that one.   But, look here.  You needn't go confessing all.   No reason she has to know about it."

"I'm not as dumb as Harmony, okay?  You're evil.  This is just the kind of information an evil person would use to screw me over."

"What?  You think I want anyone finding out I couldn't get laid without bringing you along?   Not bloody likely, mate.   I say we forget it ever happened.  If we're lucky, the lovely lady will come back from the laundry, want to give it another go with me.  You can kip 'til your trousers are dry and then we're out of here with none the wiser."

"And if she comes back the wiser from the laundry room?"

"We walk and we never speak of it again.  Deal?"

"Deal." 

The door opened and Nicolette breezed back in, silky robe flapping.  "Okay, I have an idea." 

They both swiveled their heads, mouths open, tongues hanging out like a couple of big dumb dogs.   And it didn't help that they were both aware they were doing it.   She went into the kitchenette and set the timer on the microwave.   They looked at the microwave, then at each other then back to her.   "For the dryer," she explained as if to idiots.   Oh.