Through the Looking Glass

by Kimberly A

Copyright © 2006

kimberly_a@livejournal.com

Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer is trademark 20th Century Fox. The world of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and the characters within are derivative of works copyright © 20th Century Fox, 1997-2004. No copyright infringement is intended.
Distribution: The Mystic Muse: http://mysticmuse.net
Nothing Like the Sun: S/X – http://www.nothinglikethesun.com/SX/
Feedback: Yes, please.
Spoilers: Post-everything.
Author's Notes: Okay, first of all, Xander never went to Africa. In the ATS episode "The Girl in Question," Andrew only told Angel and Spike that he had for one (or perhaps all) of the following reasons:
1. Andrew is a compulsive liar.
2. Andrew could have told them the truth, but then he'd have to kill them.
3. Without the Big Board to guide him, Andrew forgot where Xander was, and so spontaneously made up a colorful story involving exotic locales.
4. Xander had insisted that no one ever tell Angel where he was ("because he's an occasionally-evil dickhead"), and so Andrew was slavishly following Xander's commands.
5. Andrew simply likes to fantasize about Xander with his shirt off, all tanned and bare-chested, his pectoral muscles glistening with sweat beneath the harsh desert sun. *ahem*
Also? Xander didn't lose an eye, because I just wrote a fic all about that whole issue and I don't feel like immediately dealing with it again in this story. So Xander's eyes are both fine and dandy (though they are NOT under any circumstances to be thought of as "chocolatey orbs") and neither one got damaged in Season 7. Caleb just…missed…or something.
In case anyone becomes confused, this fic is not AU. It's set about 2 years post-Chosen, and hence about 1 year post-NFA, and other than the two differences noted above (no Africa, no patch), everything happened pretty much as seen in canon up until the point when each show ended. If there are other minor bits of straying here and there, put it down to poetic license. Or…uh…the fact that my memory sucks.
Pairing: Xander/Spike

Xander pushed his hair out of his face – way past due for a haircut and it was driving him crazy – and tried to avoid screaming like a maniac. He would never get used to cell phones. They were too freakishly tiny. He felt like André the Giant with a cell phone in his hand, and it wasn't a particularly pleasant sensation. He was always afraid he would fumble it or crush it or something else non- suave. The buttons were smaller than the tips of his fingers and they were way too close together, which made dialing an adventure. He didn't make many calls. The phone was mostly for work, anyway.

"Gary?" he shouted into the mouthpiece. The freakishly small mouthpiece, which was really just a few holes in the shiny silver surface of the foldable phone. And that was another thing: phones were just not meant to be foldable, except in James Bond movies. Pierce Brosnan holding a cell phone wouldn't look like André the Giant. He'd look like…well…Pierce Brosnan holding a cell phone.

Even in his dark suit, Xander did not, unfortunately, look like Pierce Brosnan holding a cell phone. He was fairly certain of this fact as he strode along the crowded sidewalk, heading toward Market Street to catch the bus home. He could have walked home – it wasn't that far – but the dress shoes pinched and he was tired from a long meeting and feeling decidedly grumpy. A pleasant stroll up and down the steep hills of San Francisco was not on his immediate agenda.

"Gary?" Why was it necessary to always shout into cell phones? The things obviously weren't very efficient at conducting sound, because Gary only ever seemed to hear half of what he said. Around him in the crowd, Xander heard various other loud conversations, some being conducted through the earpieces that were even more freakish than foldable cell phones.

He remembered the old rotary dial telephone his parents had when he was growing up, and he felt an odd sort of nostalgia for the big plastic yellow handset and the long spiral cord. That was a phone that knew its place in the world.

Back then, you could walk down the street without your boss being able to call you and nag you about the zoning meeting. Because the phone was at home. And you weren't. So your boss was out of luck.

Except, of course, that Xander had been a kid back then, and so he didn't have a boss.

But kids now had cell phones, too, of course.

The world had gone crazy.

Miniature communication devices were all fine and good, as long as they were attached to the chest of a lycra uniform. This…this was just wrong.

"Gary?" he shouted into the phone, but the connection was really bad and he gave up in disgust. The exciting details of the zoning meeting would have to wait.

He didn't think about Sunnydale very often anymore.

Most people would probably consider San Francisco an eccentric city, full of freaks, but in comparison it made Sunnydale seem like some kind of bizarre dream from which he'd finally awakened into adulthood.

This was finally something like a real life.

Sure, San Francisco had taken some getting used to. Everyone was so much more open, less afraid to let their own personal weirdnesses show. In Sunnydale, everyone had always been too busy differentiating themselves from the Hellmouthy weirdness around them. Even Willow – and you'd think a lesbian witch would be a bit unusual – had always had a pleasantly friendly suburban normalness about her.

But San Francisco was a city of weirdos.

Xander had always been "the normal one," but in two years of living in the city by the bay, he'd realized that "normal" was a very relative term. Okay, so maybe he was "normal" compared to Slayers, Watchers, witches, an ex-vengeance-demon, an inter-dimensional key made of green energy in the form of a teenage girl, and random vampires with chips and souls and gypsy curses and various combinations thereof…but, hey, who wouldn't be? It was hard not to feel "normal" in that company. "Boring," even.

But once he got out of Sunnydale, he realized that he didn't have to always hover in the background while the more interesting people took center stage.

He realized he could be interesting, too. It was sort of surprising, actually.

So he really wasn't in contact with everybody very much anymore. He had a new life now, and the others were off leading new lives, too. The Scooby Gang just wasn't really a gang anymore. And Xander sometimes felt a little guilty about the fact that he didn't miss it.

He just didn't think about it much anymore.

That's why it was so strange when he saw a familiar face in the crowd outside the main branch of the public library. Xander had shoved the phone into his jacket pocket and was nearing Market Street, loosening his tie, on his way out to catch the bus back home to North Beach, still running over zoning ordinances in his head, still thinking about the issues that had been raised in the meeting he'd just left. Cars were blaring their horns, and men and women in business attire dodged scabby punk bike messengers. The sun had set already, though the sky wasn't quite dark yet. Winter in San Francisco was a bit different from Sunnydale. Less…sunny. Shorter days. It had taken some getting used to.

So Xander was weaving his way through the steadily streaming foot traffic, grumbling to himself about unrealistic architects and vaguely pondering what to have for dinner, when he saw a shock of platinum blonde hair in the rush-hour sidewalk crowd. It wasn't the hair color that caught his eye – San Francisco as a city had a hair sense quite similar to Oz's, after all, and nothing was too extreme – it was something else. The tilt of the head, maybe? The curve of the neck?

His phone suddenly rang again and Xander jumped, pulling it out of his pocket. "Harris." When he looked up again the blonde head was gone.

Gary still wanted to hear about the zoning meeting, and so Xander filled him in as he walked. While he waited for the bus, they went over some plans for tomorrow's meeting with the contractors. By the time Xander hung up the phone, the bus was there, so he squeezed his way in, holding on to the metal bar over his head and trying not to step on anyone's feet or bash anybody with his briefcase. Maybe the walk would have been more relaxing, after all.

A very pretty Latina teenager sitting nearby was smiling at him. She couldn't have been more than 16 – she was wearing the sparkly pink lip gloss to prove it – but apparently she had a thing for very tired dark- haired men in rumpled suits. Now, if only girls like that had looked at him when he was that age…well, that would have been an entirely different thing.

Flattered, he smiled at her briefly, and then pointedly turned to look out the window. These are not the droids you're looking for. Move along.

It wasn't just fear of a future career in prison on a statutory rape charge that made him look away. He hadn't actually dated much since he'd moved to San Francisco. Not that he hadn't had opportunities. He had. With attractive members of both genders…and he wasn't quite sure how he felt about that one yet.

So, yeah, he'd been on some dates, but nothing serious.

His friends were very understanding. They didn't tease, and they didn't try to set him up on blind dates. He knew they whispered amongst themselves about how tragic it was, how his fiancée had been killed in that massive freak earthquake down south a couple years ago.

He wasn't sure if Anya really was the reason he'd been single so long, but she was definitely part of it. Mostly just because of how badly he'd messed that whole thing up. "Good relationship having" was not on his resume in the "Skills" section.

So he looked away from his teeny-bopper admirer in her platform shoes and her sparkly lip gloss, but it wasn't really a conscious decision. He forgot about her almost as soon as he'd turned, because that's what he always did. He didn't give out his number. He didn't ask for numbers. He smiled politely and went back to contemplating…

…Market Street beneath a darkening sky, streetlights glowing golden. Rush-hour traffic, cars in the street and pedestrians on the sidewalk, bicycles darting here and there, everyone pushing and shoving and trying to get home five seconds earlier. Squashed in the bus, Xander felt remarkably stationary. All that frantic activity outside, and he could barely move an inch.

He didn't see any shock of pale blonde hair out there in the crowd. Of course not. Why would he? Well, really, lots of people had hair that color, right?

It obviously hadn't been Spike. Obviously. Spike was dead.

Xander gazed out the window as the bus slowly made its way through downtown. Lip gloss girl got off somewhere along the way with a last flirtatious glance in his direction, but Xander didn't even notice.

Xander'd only been inside his apartment for a few minutes when he heard a knock at the door. Luba had probably heard him come in.

He opened the door. Yep. Plump, dark-haired, olive-skinned Luba from upstairs. She was wearing sweats with a massive t-shirt, and had her hair up in a sloppy ponytail. She looked beautiful, as always…it was something about her smile…or her smart-ass attitude.

"Wow!" she marveled, looking him up and down. "Pretty snazzy outfit!"

Xander kicked his dress shoes off and sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Meetings," he explained. "All day. I can't wait to get on site again." He tossed his tie onto the couch.

"You sound beat. Come upstairs and let Frank feed you."

Xander hesitated. He'd really been looking forward to just collapsing in front of the TV with a beer and a slice of cold pizza.

"He's making chile relleno," she crooned temptingly. "With polenta and his special spicy rice and truly bad-for-you refried beans…and fresh sopapillas for dessert. With chocolate sauce."

Xander held up his hands, defeated. "Okay okay! I'm convinced! Just let me change into some jeans."

Luba bounced happily.

Officially, Frank and Luba were his landlords, since Frank did in fact own the duplex, but they didn't act very landlordy. They were more like upstairs housemates. It helped that they were all about the same age.

"I'm so lucky," Luba beamed as Xander came through the open door into their apartment. She held Frank's face in her hand and gave him a big kiss as he stood with a pot-holder in each hand, humoring her. "I think everyone should marry a man who cooks this well."

Xander put on his innocent face. "Even me?"

Luba grinned at him. "Oh, we'll find the right man for you yet!"

Xander shook his head, laughing. "Not really looking for a someone of the manly persuasion, thanks."

Luba cocked her head. "You don't seem to be looking for anyone of the womanly persuasion, either."

"Yep. Pretty much just not looking." Xander shrugged.

Luba nodded. "Okey-dokey. I'm not going to be nosy." At Xander's arch look, she chuckled. "So…do you want to stay for movies? We've got Empire Records and High Fidelity."

Xander nodded seriously. "Ah. I see our theme this evening is record stores."

Luba scoffed, "No points for guessing one that easy. Now, when we did the all-day 'Movies With Frogs' marathon, now that was a good one. The Muppet Movie, Magnolia, Spirited Away, Jurassic Park, and E.T. That was a brilliant Sunday marathon."

Frank called from the kitchen, "Any ideas for this weekend?"

Frank continued moving things around in the kitchen. He knew what he was doing in there, so Xander left him to it. Despite his imposing height and eye-catching bright orange hair, Frank was a pretty quiet guy. Luba talked enough for both of them. It worked, somehow. They were relaxed together, and they'd whole-heartedly welcomed Xander into their lives.

They were his best friends, and somewhere along the way, this had come to feel like home.

Xander said, "How about movies with people finding their way home?"

Luba put her hands on her hips and scowled. "I am not watching The Incredible Journey or anything involving Lassie."

"How about E.T. again? Or Starman? Apollo 13" suggested Xander.

Luba warmed to the subject. "Maybe Casablanca or Empire of the Sun. Or Spirited Away. Maybe The Wizard of Oz or even Big Fish."

"Or Free Willy," Xander suggested with a carefully straight face, making Luba snicker.

Frank called from the kitchen. "We'd have to do Chocolat. And I could bake some appropriate movie-watching theme food."

Xander and Luba looked at each other, and grinned. "Oh yeah," said Xander. "I think that one's a definite plan.

Dinner was delicious, as always. Halfway through a truly sublime sopapilla, Xander turned to Frank and said seriously, "Luba may be right. I may have to find myself a nice Irish boy and settle down. But only if he cooks like you."

Frank and Luba both laughed. Then Luba smirked, "He does have a brother…" She winked.

Xander shook his head, chuckling.

Just as they were finishing dinner, the phone rang. Luba answered it and began speaking in a different language. It sounded sort of like Arabic, but Xander knew – only because she had told him previously – that it was Farsi. This always meant it was her mother or her sister.

She put a hand over the mouthpiece and said apologetically, "It's my mom. I'll be right back." And then she took the phone back into the bedroom.

Frank and Xander began quietly clearing the table, loading the dishwasher, and just generally cleaning up. Out of the blue, Frank said, "You seem distracted tonight. Is something wrong?"

Xander looked at him. "Distracted? I'm not distracted. Why would I be? I just had a most excellent dinner with most excellent company after a craptastic day of meetings and suits and pinchy shoes."

Frank peered at him with intense blue eyes, then said, "You just don't seem like yourself."

Xander put a plate into the dishwasher and thought about that. "Okay, maybe I'm a little distracted. I just had something sort of weird happen today."

Frank didn't say anything. He just wiped down counters and stacked dirty dishes for Xander to put into the dishwasher.

Eventually, Xander continued, "Down by Civic Center, on the street, I thought I saw somebody from back home. I mean, I know it wasn't him. But for a minute it was weird."

Luba came into the kitchen and hung up the phone. "What was weird?"

Frank looked at Xander. Xander shrugged. Frank explained, "Xander thought he saw someone he knew today."

Xander insisted, "Just some guy who looked like him. I barely even saw his face."

Luba asked, "So this is somebody you know from before you moved here? Before the quake?"

Xander just nodded.

Luba continued, "An old friend of yours?"

Xander flinched slightly. "Look, it wasn't even him. It just sort of weirded me out a little bit."

Frank asked simply, "Why?"

This wasn't going to be easy to explain, so Xander stopped to consider before answering. Then he sighed. "Because he's dead."

A few minutes later, they were all sitting in the living room, arranged around the fireplace. Frank had built a fire, and it was crackling cheerfully. He and Luba were quiet, obviously waiting for Xander to explain.

"It's kind of complicated."

Frank and Luba just waited expectantly. They were his best friends. He should be able to talk to them, right? Just…very carefully.

"Okay. So. We sort of worked together."

Luba nodded. "In construction?"

But Xander shook his head. "No, not really. Really not." Spike was more of a DE-struction kind of guy.

Luba nodded again. "So he worked with you in the Neighborhood Watch program?"

"Uh…yeah. For a while. But he didn't really want to work with us. He was a pretty rough character. Violent. Rude. Just…a real asshole. Not somebody you'd want to have around."

Luba looked confused. "But he volunteered in the Neighborhood Watch program? That doesn't sound like he was such a bad guy. Am I missing something?"

"Well, he sort of…he got himself into some trouble…pretty bad trouble, actually…and it was like…what do you call it…it was like court-ordered community service. He wasn't happy to be there."

On the couch, Luba curled up against Frank and he put his arm around her. Xander often envied them. They seemed really happy together, and he'd never really had that, even with Anya.

Luba asked, "So did he take off when the community service ended?"

"Actually, that's kind of weird. Because he didn't. He just kept hanging around and helping us out. It was kind of complicated. There was a girl involved."

Frank smiled. "The savage beast tamed by the love of a beautiful woman? It sounds like a fairy tale."

Xander shook his head. "It wasn't like that. Or…not totally like that. Or…hell…maybe it was like that. But he was still a jerk. And there really wasn't much love involved, actually."

Luba and Frank both looked a bit skeptical.

"All right," Xander sighed. "So maybe there was some love involved, but only sort of freaky stalker love, and only on his side."

Luba asked gently, "You said he was dead. What happened?"

Hesitant to explain that Spike had actually died a few times and that he was technically undead, he stuck with the final death. "After the earthquake, we all just scattered. I moved up here. Spike sort of eventually ended up in L.A."

Frank asked, "Spike? That's his name?"

Xander chuckled. "Well, it's what he calls himself, but I doubt it's the name on his birth certificate." Did they even have birth certificates in the 19th century? Xander wasn't sure.

Luba interrupted his thoughts. "So Spike ended up in L.A. Is that where he died?"

"Yeah. He'd sort of ended up working for this company of private investigators. Real hero types. They went up against organized crime. At least, that's what I heard through the grapevine, from mutual friends."

Luba was cautious now when she asked, "Organized crime? Like the mafia?"

"Worse.'

Frank and Luba were both quiet for a long moment, soaking this in. Eventually, Frank asked quietly, "So that's how he died?"

Xander hesitated. "Well, I only know what other people have told me. Reliable other people. People who know a lot about this kind of stuff." He considered actually mentioning Giles, but this was already complicated enough.

"So…uh…they were fighting this big organized crime organization, and…they all sort of…died."

"The criminals?"

"No. The P.I. folks. Including Spike. I mean, they…some of the…bodies…some of the people were…identifiable. But a couple of them…there just wasn't enough left. Just dust…like ashes."

Luba's face was pale. "So these mob guys, they actually burned them to death?"

"Something like that. So…everybody knows they're dead. There were so many bodies, and the bad guys weren't the type to let anybody get away."

Luba said quietly, "This is why you were so disconcerted? Because you thought you saw him on the street?"

Xander just nodded.

"Is there any chance it actually was him?"

Xander shook his head.

Frank asked, "Could he have survived and then gone underground to avoid this organized crime ring? Get a new identity and start over?"

"You know, I never really liked Spike. Couldn't stand him, actually. But I have to admit that he never seemed like the kind of guy to run and hide."

"Maybe you didn't know him as well as you thought."

Xander thought about that one, that possibility. Would Spike have run off like that? He wasn't sure.

That night, he had trouble falling asleep, remembering that glimpse of pale hair in the crowd. Could it really have been Spike? And if so…how?

In the last few moments before sleep, he resolved to find out.

Xander'd gotten lucky with the job. He knew that. It was one of those "know somebody who knows somebody who knows somebody" deals, and his old boss from Sunnydale had recruited him. Apparently, people thought he was good at the whole building stuff gig. He'd been with Overaa Construction for two years now, and he'd already been promoted to Project Manager…which was why he had to attend all these boring meetings. The perils of career advancement.

But they didn't need him to attend most of the rest of the meetings for this project – thank god – and so he was going to have some free time until they could actually start work on the site. Once all the zoning issues and budgeting issues and scheduling issues had been negotiated, Xander would be pretty much in charge of implementing all that stuff on-site. But that would probably take another couple weeks, and so he was going to have to find ways to keep busy or he'd go insane. Too much Domino's pizza and "Star Trek" re-runs while wearing a bathrobe just wasn't as enticing as it had once been.

So he planned to do some work on the house. Frank and Luba had expressed interest in having a window seat built into their bay window, and Xander wanted to try to fix the creaking stairs. It sort of made up for the ridiculously low rent they charged him. Sure, Frank and Luba didn't need the money – Frank had retired at 23 after making millions as a programmer for a start-up before the Dot Com Crash – but Xander still felt a little guilty. Heck, he wasn't paying all that much more than his parents had charged for the smelly basement. Given the usual exorbitant rents in San Francisco, it was ridiculous. So he'd set up a workshop in his spare bedroom, and he did work on the house when he had the time.

He'd gotten lucky with the apartment, too, of course. Another perk from knowing people at work. Frank's uncle was one of the engineers at Overaa, and he'd been the one to give Xander Frank's phone number. You need a place to stay, my nephew's got a duplex, he won't charge much rent 'cause you're a good kid, yaddah yaddah yaddah…

In Sunnydale, it all would have seemed like a suspicious coincidence. He would have started wondering if there were demons involved. Maybe a wish. Or a spell. Good things just didn't happen without evil strings attached, right? So when things were going this well, he couldn't help waiting for the evil shoe to drop.

It took him a while to accept the fact that it might actually just be good luck and nice people. That whole "good luck" thing was pretty unfamiliar, so it took some getting used to. It was starting to look like people who didn't live on a Hellmouth and didn't hang out with vampire slayers had relatively happy lives. Less exciting, maybe, but less traumatic, too. He was reasonably certain that when Luba and Frank got married – if they ever got married – no vision-giving demons would show up to ruin the proceedings. And Josie at work was unlikely to have her eyes go black while she flayed the skin off of contractors who pissed her off. And Gary's teenage daughter was unlikely to get kidnapped by angry gods wanting to use her as a key to access alternate dimensions.

And random blonde men on the street outside the public library were unlikely to be vampires.

As he often did when he had something on his mind, he started taking nightly walks. Long walks, sometimes. Not patrolling, just walking. But now he carried a stake in his coat pocket, for the first time in more than a year.

He'd stopped even thinking about vampires, after a while. In fact, he hadn't seen a single vamp since he moved to San Francisco. He figured it was probably because the city wasn't built on a Hellmouth…as far as he knew, anyway. But it probably also had a lot to do with the fact that there weren't any real cemeteries in San Francisco. Instead, dozens of them were clustered together several miles away in a town called Colma, like huddled exiles banished from a city vibrating with life.

So. No Hellmouth. No cemeteries. It made sense that there wouldn't be fledges popping up all over the place. So Xander had gotten lazy. He'd started believing in this cozy little life he was leading now, and he started forgetting or ignoring everything that might lurk in the shadows.

That changed, though, after he saw that blonde head in the rush-hour crowd. Of course it wasn't Spike, but it was like a jolt to Xander's Sunnydale-honed instincts, a visceral rush that screamed, "Vampire!"

And so he'd started carrying a stake again, tucked into the inside pocket of his coat, when he went out at night.

His neighborhood, North Beach, had started out as a tight-knit Italian community, and there were some hints of that past still – a lot of Italian restaurants and pastry shops, old men playing bocce in the public park on Sunday afternoons, Italian street names – but the neighborhood was more mixed now. Chinatown was only a few blocks away, tourists flocked to both areas day and night, and the blinding flashing neon signs of the dozens of strip clubs on Broadway attracted a rather different sort of visitor.

Frank and Luba's duplex was uphill on a relatively quiet side- street, but when Xander walked down into the less residential areas, North Beach was buzzing at all hours with drunken frat boys and excited tourists who'd never seen such a big city.

Okay, so he'd been pretty wide-eyed, himself, when he first arrived. But now he was old and jaded and the tourists just made him impatient when they stood gawking on the sidewalk.

He wasn't sure why he felt this restless need to get out and walk in the dark so often. Old habit, maybe. Maybe even some kind of unconscious need to check out his surroundings and make sure everything was safe. But now that he was carrying a stake again, he felt wrong somehow, out of place, like a return to an earlier time in his life.

The fog was rolling in, so he pushed his hands into the pockets of his coat and hunched his shoulders a bit against the cold. A bunch of college kids staggered past him on the sidewalk, laughing too loudly.

Without even realizing it, he wandered in the direction of Civic Center.

It wasn't stalking. Really. It was just…loitering. With a cup of coffee. Near the public library. Every day at sunset.

There weren't any benches – the several rag-tag men who played chess every day on the widened sidewalk nearby always brought their own folding chairs and tables – so Xander just sort of…leaned. Casually. Not stalking. Just…leaning. He tried not to think about what substances might be on the wall he leaned against, because this was definitely not the high-class part of town. His trusty sheepskin-lined denim jacket would protect him from wall-induced germs.

He sipped his coffee and watched the library. Thinking back, he wasn't sure if not-Spike had been coming out of the library, walking past the library, going into the library, or what. But he did definitely remember libraryness being involved. So he hung out across the street from the library and watched.

Really, it was silly to wait until sunset. Since this guy definitely wasn't Spike, he could show up during the day. But Xander had spotted him the first time after sunset, when the sky was growing dark enough for…well…for vampires to come out and play. So every day he showed up around the same time, and waited.

He stood around like an idiot three nights in a row, and then suddenly on the fourth night there he was. Not-Spike. Right there, coming out of the main branch of the public library, glass doors swinging closed behind him. It was 6 o'clock, and the sky was definitely dark enough for vamps, but that didn't matter of course. Because it wasn't Spike. This was just some guy.

Some guy wearing…glasses.

Xander blinked. Obviously not Spike, then, because Spike wouldn't be caught dead – no pun intended – wearing glasses. Xander had occasionally seen four-eyed vamps, but Spike definitely wasn't the type. Not unless he was pulling some kind of nefarious scam that involved making himself look like a math nerd.

But, even from across the street, the guy really did look a lot like Spike. There was something in his walk, in the set of his shoulders. But he was pretty far away, and the growing darkness and the bustling crowd and not-Spike's own movement, his face often turning away…it all made absolute certainty impossible. Xander would have to see the guy closer up in order to be sure.

So Xander followed him, from a discreet distance, of course. Not stalking. Just…following.

The guy either realized he was being followed or was just congenitally paranoid, because he furtively glanced behind him before ducking into a narrow alley. Xander scurried to catch up, but only got to the corner in time to see a flash of blonde hair disappearing behind a giant green dumpster. Out on the main street, you could still see that the sky was an electric blue, but in the alley, tall buildings on either side made the shadows dark and deep. It was a bit daunting.

Xander waited a few minutes and then cautiously approached the dumpster. On the other side, a large window was boarded up. Walking backward a bit to get a better look, Xander realized that the entire building was pretty sorry-looking, with boarded up doors and windows and plastic sheeting wafting through holes here and there. The window behind the dumpster must be a make-shift entrance or something.

Xander was tempted to push at the boarded up window to test his theory, but he really didn't want to go crashing into some random blonde guy's crack den meth lab full of gun-running gang-bangers. So he backed away, hands in the pockets of his coat, shoulders hunched nervously, and wondered if he was being watched. He eyed the boarded-up windows, wondering if there were eye-holes, wondering if not-Spike and his gang of thieves were up there plotting mayhem, wondering if he was being paranoid, wondering if this not-Spike was actually some kind of mass murderer. Um…sort of like actual-Spike.

The whole Spike or not-Spike question was still unresolved, and now that Xander had tailed the probably-not-Spike to his shabby lair – or meth lab or whatever – he wasn't going to give up that easily. In a dark corner beside a different dumpster, he found a plastic milk crate. He turned it over and sat down, hidden as well as he could, and watched the spot where not-Spike had entered the building.

Xander pulled his coat around himself firmly, glad that his hair had gotten long enough to protect his neck and ears from the wind, and stubbornly hunkered down for a long wait.

Sitting on a milk crate in a dark alley that smells not-so-vaguely of piss and garbage and which emits occasionally scurrying, squeaking sounds from within and around the dumpsters gives a guy a lot of time for reflection.

Mostly reflection on the subject, "What the hell am I doing here?"

Why the hell did it matter so much whether this guy was Spike or not? Of course he wasn't Spike. Spike was dead. Spike was, to be more precise, dust. So why was Xander so obsessed?

Sitting on the milk crate in the dark as an hour passed…and then two hours…he gradually started to think maybe he was figuring it out. It was because he bought it. Xander, that is. He'd finally bought the redemption thing.

For a long time, he'd thought he had Spike pegged. He was a narcissistic, selfish, arrogant, amoral, sadistic, manipulative, lying, cheating, mercenary, psychotic, demonic bastard who would stab you in the back – or drain you dry – for five bucks and a beer. And laugh while he did it.

Spike wasn't just a jerk. He was evil.

Except that…once Xander got a bit of physical and metaphorical distance from the whole thing, he was able to see Spike in a bit of context. Like comparing him to Angelus.

Angelus was evil. In fact, as far as Xander was concerned, even Angel was evil, disguised with a broody face and a pity-me guilt trip. There was something cold and ruthless and scary as hell behind that supposedly "angelic" face. Xander had never thought he looked particularly "angelic," anyway. More like "cave man." But when they were handing out vampire nicknames, apparently "cave man" had already been chosen, and so he got stuck with "angelic." Maybe it was just meant to be ironic, since the guy was such an incredibly evil prick.

In comparison with Angelus, even unchipped Spike was a tiny yapping dog that snapped at your ankles. Annoying as hell – you might even want to kick it across the room – but not exactly evil. Chipped, he was even less evil. And as he kept helping out, even after Buffy died, it just got harder and harder to think of him as evil, and easier and easier to think of him as just a jerk.

And then…in the battle with The First…Xander wasn't completely out of the loop. Buffy had told them about Spike. About how it had been Spike who was the true hero of the fight. About how he had stayed, let himself be burned to death in order to defeat The First's army and destroy the Hellmouth. The rest of them had helped…of course they'd helped…Anya had died helping…but in the end, it was Spike who had closed the deal. He could have run. He could have left. He could have said, "Fuck this shit," and skipped town. But he didn't. He stayed – even after Buffy asked him to leave, even after Buffy and everyone else had left – and he fought, and he died.

Xander didn't believe it for a while. Well, he believed the words, intellectually. But none of it fit with his mental image of Spike. His definition of Spikishness.

But there was no denying that the Hellmouth was gone.

And so was Spike.

And then a few months later Xander had heard through the Scooby grapevine that Spike had been somehow brought back as a ghost…and that he was stuck with Angel.

And that was when Xander really let go some of that Spike hatred. Because Spike? Probably the only person on the planet who hated Angel as much as Xander did. So the thought of Spike being somehow stuck with Angel made Xander wince and think, "Aw man. Poor guy!"

But then – and this was almost impossible to believe – Spike had stuck with the good-guy fight in Angel's camp, as well. And when they went up against some major inter-dimensional baddies and it was pretty certain they were all going to buy the farm…well…Spike stuck it out again. And once again got killed for his troubles.

Xander had a rule. Die saving the world twice and you deserve props.

Spike and Buffy were the only two people he knew who had done it. Angel didn't count, since getting stabbed with a giant sword and then shoved into a world-destroying hell-dimension portal which you yourself had purposely created really didn't count as voluntary world-saving, as far as Xander was concerned.

So…Xander didn't think about Sunnydale all that much anymore – until this week – and he'd only talked to Willow or Giles on the phone once or twice in the past year…but when he did think back, there was an uncomfortable sensation of having been wrong. Of having been wrong about Spike, and having treated him wrong. Of maybe having been a jerk. Not only a jerk, but a less-heroic jerk constantly putting down a more- heroic jerk. And that was just…pathetic. He didn't like feeling pathetic.

Xander had never thought of himself as a hero. But to have Spike outdo him on that score was just…a little humiliating.

So, really, if the absolute complete honest truth were told, the reason he was here, the reason he was stalking mysterious blonde men, the reason his ass was falling asleep on a plastic milk crate in a dark alley next to a dumpster, the reason this was all so important to him…was because some secret shameful part of him was hoping that this guy was Spike, so Xander would be able to jump up and say, "Ah HA! I knew it! It was all a scam. He did run away from a fight! That whole hero thing, that whole redemption thing, that's all a crock of shit. I was right! I was right all along!"

He was interrupted in his thoughts by a movement in the dark, over near the other dumpster. And then, clearly visible even in the shadows, a short crop of pale blonde hair. The target was on the move. Xander stood slowly and stretched his legs, wiggled his butt, cracked his back, and tried to do it all without alerting the blonde prey to his presence.

Not-Spike walked quickly down the alley in the opposite direction, and Xander tried to saunter casually after him without being noticed. When he got to the end of the alley, Not-Spike was nowhere to be seen. And then…blonde. Xander hurried to keep that hair in sight. His butt still felt half-asleep, so he was probably walking like an idiot, but he was not going to have sat in that alley so long for nothing. He was going to see where Not-Spike was going, and he was going to get a good look at the guy's face to set his mind at rest. He was going to verify that this guy was truly NOT Spike, and then he could go home and just not have to think about it anymore.

The guy opened a door and slipped inside, leaving Xander free to jog to catch up, since there was no longer any chance of being noticed. But when he got there, he froze, looking up at the brightly-lit sign over the door.

BOY TOY PEEPWORLD Live All-Male Peep Shows! Adult Bookstore! XXX Videos!

The large photos on either side of the door showed attractive men in various nude poses, little red stars covering the naughty bits with the words "HOT!" and "CUM AND SEE!"

Xander hesitated a long moment, then glanced around him on the street. This part of town wasn't very crowded, even at 8 or 9 pm. A few homeless people. Guys asking for spare change. Stragglers on their way to somewhere else.

Remembering all that time sitting in the alley, flexing his left butt-cheek to see that yes, in fact, it was still half-asleep, Xander wasn't about to get scared off by a gay porn shop. He girded his metaphorical loins, opened the door, and stepped inside.

Xander nervously glanced around the store, but the other shifty-eyed customers seemed engrossed in their own stealthy shopping, and Not- Spike seemed to have disappeared. A fairly normal-looking goateed black guy behind the cash register could probably tell Xander where the blonde guy had gone, but walking up to ask him seemed so…well…stalkery.

Xander stalled.

He had been in a sex shop before, of course. More than once. Anya had boundless sexual enthusiasm and absolutely no shame, so she'd dragged him along to Sunnydale's one and only "adult merchandise" establishment, resulting in several very enjoyable experimentations, some of which he'd really have preferred she never mentioned in front of his friends. But the store in Sunnydale had been relatively tidy and non-threatening. It wouldn't be wise to frighten the suburban natives, after all. And, anyway, that store had also quite obviously been aimed at a purely heterosexual clientele.

This was different. A lot.

One wall was entirely magazines facing out to show their strikingly lurid covers: but these weren't the mainstream magazines like Playboy and Penthouse. Along with what looked like relatively tasteful and mainstream gay magazines, there were what looked like amateur "zines" and a wide variety of specialty mags with titles like Cascade Wet Sex Magazine (with a cover photo of a man standing over another man in a pose that seemed to imply the imminent exchange of rather unconventional bodily fluids), Bear Magazine (which featured extremely hairy overweight men on the cover), and South Fur Lands (which, based on the cover photo, seemed aimed at men attracted to other men who wore animal costumes). Some of the magazine covers weren't even in English.

The opposite wall was lined with VHS tapes and DVDs, all spine-out, presumably in order to fit as many movies as possible into the relatively small space. Xander caught titles like Twinkalicious and Slurpin' Jizz and Dr. Penis Erectus. He tried not to snicker too loudly, lest the other shoppers – and/or employee – take offense.

He wandered aimlessly. He wasn't really paying much attention to the merchandise…he was just trying to work up his nerve to go talk to the cashier. There were several doors along the back wall of the store, and Not-Spike obviously must have disappeared into one of them. It was all very mysterious, but Xander wasn't quite ready to reveal his simultaneous ignorance and stalkeryness, so he perused the several freestanding shelves in the center of the room, which displayed various dildos, books with explicit covers, blow-up dolls, cock rings, glow-in- the-dark condoms, and…this one was weird…on one shelf, there were even little anatomically correct plastic G.I. Joe-type action figures, with tiny appendages and orifices in all the expected places. Actually, those were kind of cool, in a sly "Heh heh" kind of way.

Xander glanced over at the cashier. Apparently Goatee Man had noticed these repeated glances, because he came out from behind the counter and walked across the floor.

"Can I help you find something?" the guy asked in a perfectly normal tone of voice. He had the blandly uninterested tone of any salesperson at the grocery store or Wal-Mart.

Xander looked down at the anatomically correct action figures in his hands and practically tossed them back on the shelf, barely restraining himself from shouting, "Gah!"

Goatee Man just smiled slightly, but didn't leave.

"Actually," Xander began, hesitating. "Actually, I was looking for this guy…uh…he's got short blonde hair…um…"

But he didn't have to finish the disjointed thought, because Goatee Man interrupted him. "You're looking for Byron. Thin guy? British accent?"

Xander nodded numbly, paralyzed by the realization that if Not-Spike had a British accent, then it was actually becoming possible that Not- Spike might, in fact, be Spike. But…"Byron"?

"Door number 3," Goatee Man said helpfully. Xander stared at him as if he had spoken Urdu. "Door number 3," the guy repeated, gesturing to the doors along the back wall. "When the sign lights up, he's ready and you can go in."

Xander frowned, looking at the back wall more closely. Four of the doors had electronic white signs above them. The door behind the cash register didn't have a sign, except the one in the center of the door that said, "Employees Only."

Suddenly, the white sign above one of the doors blinked on, shining brightly with a black number "3" in the center.

Goatee Man shrugged, "He's ready now," and went back behind the cash register counter.

Xander hesitated, then he walked toward door number 3 and gingerly opened the door. Inside, he found a dimly-lit room, only about 4 feet square, with a metal chair in the center.

He'd seen the sign outside the store, and he wasn't a complete idiot. He'd never been to a peepshow, but he did have some idea of what was involved. Hell, he and Anya had even played a bit of a game along those lines once, though they'd participated in performer/customer contact that probably wasn't usually involved in most professional shows of this nature.

But, sure, he'd thought about it. Even without Anya. It was a little exciting, this idea of forbidden, dirty, sleezy paying-to-watch. This knowledge that you wouldn't want anybody to know. So, yeah, he'd noticed the neon-lit storefronts. And he'd even had some fantasies. To be honest, the performers in the fantasies had always been female, but Xander'd been living in San Francisco long enough to consider himself pretty open-minded about that sort of thing – had even had a few fantasies along those lines as well, usually after he'd caught some particularly hot guy blatantly checking him out in the supermarket – but…Spike? That was where things seemed to start spiraling further and further into the bizarre.

Suddenly, Xander realized that he was still standing in the open doorway. He glanced behind him, nervous that other people in the store were staring at the pervert lingering at the peepshow booth. He went inside and closed the door, if only to avoid prying eyes and give himself a private chance to decide what to do.

Once inside, he stood with his back pressed against the door, not committed to actually staying and actually feeling a strong urge to flee. Following Not-Spike around was one thing – and disturbingly creepy in its own way – but following him into a gay peepshow was a whole 'nother level of creepitude.

But. He still hadn't gotten a good look at the guy, and Goatee Man's comment about the accent seemed to imply that maybe this actually was Spike. Dead Spike. Spike who everyone thought was dead, but who might in fact just be jerking them all around, the evil bastard.

So Xander straightened his shoulders a bit, like a nervous soldier headed into war, and walked over to sit in the chair. Not sure what to do, he looked around and saw that the wall to his right sported a sign with large, hand-written block letters that warned:

Beside the sign was a rectangular metal box with something white in the center. Upon closer inspection, Xander found that it was an industrial-style tissue dispenser. He shuddered.

In the corner of the tiny room was a small, phallic-shaped metal wastebasket with a swinging lid. Presumably for disposal of the tissues after they'd been…used. Xander shuddered again. Ew. It all seemed so sordid and…seedy. He was surprised to see that the room seemed relatively clean, though. Goatee Man must keep busy.

In the front of the room was a large square of glass, but it looked as if something was blocking it from the other side. Below the window, strange metal shapes glinted feebly in the dim lighting. Apparently, this was how customers paid for the show. A small sign – this one printed rather than hand-lettered – said:

Below the sign was a coin slot ("QUARTERS ONLY") and another slot for inserting bills. Beside those was a larger slot – more like a small rectangular hole in the wall – above which was a small sign that read, "TIPS."

Xander took a deep breath. Presumably, Not-Spike – possibly Actual- Spike (the lying, hiding, not-dead vampire asshole) – was behind that glass. And if Xander put coins in the slot, there'd be no turning back. He'd know for sure. And if it actually was Spike, there'd be the inevitable angry confrontation full of accusations, and then Xander would have to call everyone and tell them, and he hadn't spoken to everybody in a while and so that would be weird, but certainly not weirder than Spike not being dead.

Taking another deep, calming – well, not really calming, but it was a valiant attempt – breath, Xander put his hands in his coat pockets and searched for change.

Lots of nickels and dimes, even more pennies, but only two quarters.

Well, he wouldn't need more than 15 seconds to verify whether or not it was actually Spike, so he wouldn't even need the second quarter. He put it back in his pocket.

It seemed like his hand was moving in slow motion toward the coin slot. And then there was the clinking sound of metal on metal, the coin traveling its path through the inner workings of the money machine. The noise seemed loud in the tiny room.

The noise of something metal sliding out of place was even louder. Whatever had blocked the window slid upward, and light suddenly filled the booth.

And there was Spike.

Spike. Slouching comfortably in a round, cushiony chair.

Xander froze.

There was no doubt about it. Xander had spent enough time with the guy…he knew that face. It was undeniably Spike, though he looked ridiculous. His hair was a mass of tight blonde curls and he was wearing nothing but black silk boxer shorts and a black silk robe that was open enough to show his flat belly.

A million things ran through Xander's mind, almost simultaneously. He started – rather inarticulately – at "What the fuck?", then traveled through "Why aren't you dead?", paused briefly at "What's the deal with the Justin Timberlake hair, dorkman?", barreled quickly through "Holy macaroni, look at those abs!", and ended up – rather ironically – at "What the fuck?"

"Hello, pet," Spike said amiably, sitting up with a subtle shimmy that set his robe sliding off his shoulders, showing a bit more skin but still a tease that hid more than it revealed. Spike smirked and set his book aside.

Xander stared. From a distance it had been easy to pretend, but now it was obvious. It was Spike. Seriously. Definitely. Right down to the scar in his eyebrow and the smooth, accented voice. He waited for Spike to recognize him, to jerk back and frown and start blustering lame excuses…but nothing. No reaction.

Spike tilted his head slightly and raised that scarred eyebrow, still smirking. "Looking for a bit of a look, are you? Wantin' anything in particular?" He stroked a finger along the smooth length of his chest and over black silk to toy idly with the growing bulge beneath, his eyelids lowering seductively as he stared straight at Xander in blatant invitation.

Xander frowned in confusion, then waved his hand at the window between their faces. No reaction from Spike. Apparently it was one-way glass or something. So he could see Spike, but Spike couldn't see him. Maybe perverts liked privacy while they watched the show. It sort of made sense, actually.

Abruptly, the metal sheet slid down to cover the window. The 15 seconds must have been up.

Xander sat, numb, dazed. It had been Spike. It was Spike. Spike wasn't dead. It seemed unreal. What happened to the whole hero thing? Spike was supposed to be this big reformed, redeemed, almost saintly hero guy who'd died saving the world…twice.

And, instead, he was hiding out in San Francisco, working in a gay peepshow booth?

Angrily, Xander wrenched the other quarter out of his coat pocket and punched it into the slot. He hit his thumb against the wall as he did so, and the momentary jar of pain only made him angrier.

The window cover slid up again, and again the room filled with light.

"Welcome back," Spike smiled lazily and stood up, letting the robe fall to reveal more of that pale skin, allowing the black silk to slide to a shimmering pool on the floor at his feet. Those pale hands continued stroking the black silk of the boxer shorts, stretching the fabric tight over the thick hardness beneath.

"Tell me what you want," Spike purred, gazing out, seemingly looking directly into Xander's eyes. His eyes were incredibly blue against the paleness of his skin. Spike licked his lips slowly, then tilted his head with a bit of a smirk. "Do you want to see more? More of this?" Spike's left hand strayed to rub directly over the hidden bulge. Xander groaned.

He'd always been aware that Spike was attractive. Anyone with eyes could tell that. Or maybe even anyone with just ears, since it was partly the voice. He'd noticed the face, the compact muscles, the incredible way Spike's body moved, even when he was just walking or lighting a cigarette. But Xander had always quickly quashed any brief forays into inappropriate thoughts.

That was a bit harder now.

No pun intended.

He realized that Spike was chuckling, a low, rumbling sound that made Xander shiver just a tiny bit. "So there is someone out there," Spike teased. He'd obviously heard the sound Xander had made, the first noise from the booth since Xander had entered.

The window cover suddenly slid down with a click.

Xander sat in the dimly-lit room, horrifyingly aware of the action happening in his pants.

Horrifyingly aware that he actually wanted to keep watching.

This wasn't why he'd come here, and it wasn't even why he'd used that second quarter. He was here to find out if this was Spike, and he'd accomplished that, and he should leave.

He definitely should leave.

Right now.

He searched his coat pockets again. Nickels, pennies, and dimes. He stood up and searched his jeans pockets, but found only lint and a bus transfer. He pulled out his wallet, only to discover that he had nothing smaller than a 5.

He held the 5-dollar bill in his hand a moment, hesitating, then slowly put his wallet away.

He slid the bill into the slot, and light filled the booth again, and there was Spike.

"Five minutes," Spike commented with a wry smirk. "Ambitious. Most of my customers don't last near that long."

"I didn't have anything smaller," Xander explained defensively.

"It's all right, pet. I've never been much fond of the smaller ones, anyway."

Xander didn't know what to say to that, didn't know how to exchange sexual innuendo with Spike. With Spike who didn't even know it was Xander he was talking to. With Spike who couldn't even see him. With Spike who wasn't dead like he was supposed to be!

"Didn't come prepared, then. An impulse shopper. So tell me what you want, luv. Tell me what you like." He was still stroking himself through the silk, but while the window was dark he'd removed the boxer shorts, and he was now stretching the silk over his cock, encasing it with black shining smoothness, holding the fabric around himself with one hand at the base, allowing the other hand to stroke slowly up and down the shimmering fabric. Xander knew it would be cool and sleek, satin over that hardness, and his hands almost itched to touch. He rubbed his palms vigorously against the roughness of his denimed thighs.

He bit his lip, then asked determinedly, "So…you call yourself Byron?" This was a fact-finding mission. That's all.

Spike just shrugged, a graceful movement of shoulder muscle which Xander couldn't help following with his eyes. "A stage name. Because of the accent, you know." His hands never stopped working, his whole body subtly arching and flexing with his slow rhythm.

"So what's your real name?" Xander asked desperately.

But Spike just smiled and shook his head slightly. "That wouldn't be part of the game, now would it? I'll be Byron and you'll be…what do you want me to call you, pet?"

Xander stilled, surprised, because he hadn't expected Spike to ask his name. He couldn't think of a single name. Not a single one. And then one popped into his head. "Frank," he replied suddenly, sending up a silent apology to Frank and Luba both.

"All right, Frank," crooned Spike, and he let that last scrap of black silk fall to the floor.

Xander's mouth went dry, while the action in his pants became suddenly more urgent. The situation was becoming distinctly uncomfortable.

Spike's gaze was intent, his eyes sharp and bright as he let his left hand roam down to take hold of his now naked cock. He squeezed gently, his eyelids fluttering slightly on a soft moan, and then he was looking at Xander again.

"Tell me what you want," he demanded again, his voice low and husky.

Xander could only stare, trying desperately to control the desire to unzip his pants and release his own painfully confined cock. Because unzipping the jeans would be crossing another barrier, another thing he would never have thought he would do, another thing he did not come here for, another thing he would never want anyone to know…including Spike.

And it was that very forbiddenness that pushed him past the point of resistance. He unzipped his pants and pushed his boxers out of the way, took his hard cock into his hand and squeezed tight. He never took his eyes off Spike, who had smiled slightly at the sound of Xander's zipper.

"How 'bout I do what I like," Spike suggested smoothly, "and you speak up anytime you want. Tell me anything you want me to do. How's that sound?"

"Yeah, okay," Xander rasped, still squeezing his cock in a slow rhythm that matched Spike's strokes.

Never stopping that lazy rhythm, Spike walked to the round cushioned chair and sat down. He settled himself with graceful shifts of his limbs, spreading his legs wide so that Xander could clearly see his balls and even a glimpse of the subtle curve of his buttocks beneath him.

"Since I'm not cut," Spike murmured, "I don't really need lube. But I like that slippery slide. Don't you, Frank?" Spike reached behind him and pulled a small bottle from somewhere Xander couldn't see. He poured some liquid into his palm and then returned to his stroking, his cock now glistening in the light.

Xander quickly spit into his hand, as much as he could, and began to stroke himself, still mirroring Spike's rhythm. It wasn't as good as lube or lotion, but it would do. The added friction was even exciting, in its own way, especially in this situation.

"Do you like to watch me, Frank?" Spike lifted his right hand to pinch one nipple, then lazily trailed over to pinch the other. "Do you like to watch me touch myself?"

Xander couldn't speak.

"We've got lots of time on the meter, Frank. Want to watch what I really like to do? Want to watch me put a finger in my ass while I jack my cock?"

Xander groaned wordlessly again.

Spike smiled, his lips so pink and smooth, and poured more lube into his palm, rubbing it between his hands, wetting his fingers. And then he arched his body, bracing his feet against the edges of the chair so that he could lift his hips slightly.

Xander's breathing was fast now, and when Spike's hand returned to stroking his cock, Xander's strokes were faster than his.

Spike slid his right hand down between his legs, keeping his palm out of the way so that Xander could clearly see the middle finger slowly circle the tiny pucker there. Spike's soft moan of pleasure made Xander's cock throb dangerously. He hadn't gotten laid in…well, a pretty long time. This was completely different, obviously, but it was a hell of a lot more intense than porn.

And it was Spike.

And, for some reason, that was making a really big difference.

Still keeping his hand carefully situation to give Xander the best view possible, Spike slowly slipped his middle finger into his ass, his body writhing subtly at the sensation while his other hand continued its pulls on his cock.

"Do you wish this was you, Frank? Do you want to push inside me and fuck me?"

And the unspoken answer to that, suddenly was, "Yeah," and that scared Xander nearly to death. Even that fear only seemed to heighten the sensation. He clenched his teeth and stroked faster.

Spike's finger was moving slowly in and out of his body now, and soon he added another finger. He was breathing audibly, occasionally interspersed with quiet moans. "Oh yeah," he panted. "It feels good inside me, fucking myself like this." He added a third finger and groaned a drawn-out sound. "Oh fuck yeah." He was licking his lips and panting softly, occasionally casting intense glances in Xander's direction.

It had been a long time since Xander had shared his orgasm with anyone but his hand. He could feel the pressure building, and he really didn't want to come alone.

Xander stammered suddenly, "Do you usually…do you…come…?"

Spike smiled, still stroking in a steady rhythm, his fingers still sliding lazily in and out. "Can't pop my cork for every customer, can I? Make the champagne lose some of its fizz."

"So you never…"

"Depends on the customer. Depends on the tips."

"You mean…? How much…?"

Spike arched his back slightly, letting his head fall back in a graceful arch, his head resting against the pillows. He licked his lips slowly, then left them parted as if ready for kissing. With his left hand still stroking, fingers still in his ass, he slid his thumb up to slide in a caress across the skin of his balls, closing his eyes briefly at the sensation, then slanting a glance toward Xander again. "Depends how badly you want to watch me come, now doesn't it?"

Xander fumbled through his wallet with shaky hands. Losing patience, he just pulled out a twenty and shoved his wallet back into his pocket. He slid the twenty through the rectangular "TIPS" slot.

Spike's eyes followed the bill as it fell into the tips box. He looked up to smile at Xander, sultry and wicked. "Oh, that'll do it, Frank." Both his hands sped up slightly, his strokes growing suddenly more aggressive, rougher, the fingers in his ass sliding smooth in a matching rhythm. "You gonna come with me, pet?" His eyes were lazy and inviting, but the arch of his body had grown tense. Muscles stood out in clear relief. His hands were moving fast now.

Xander gasped, "Oh yeah," his right hand working quickly, his left hand clutching several tissues to prevent a mess.

Suddenly, Spike's eyes fell shut, his mouth fell open, and his body arched off the pillows. "Oh fuck!" he groaned loudly, his left hand continuing to stroke firmly as white liquid spattered his pale belly and chest.

It was the sight of Spike's face, even more so than his body writhing in orgasm, that made Xander lose it. He'd meant to hold the tissues carefully in place, for everything to be as tidy and dignified as was possible in the degrading setting, but in the moment of watching Spike come, he forgot all that. His left hand with the tissues gripped the window frame as he leaned forward with his right hand stroked hard and fast, tearing an orgasm out of him that made him jerk, made his knee knock wildly against the wall, made him spray spunk who-knows- where in the dark booth, maybe even on his jeans. He was blind to it. Blind to everything except that pale body.

Slowly, Spike slid his fingers free, let his body relax limply into the cushions of the chair, his left hand still holding his softening cock. He looked utterly debauched. He raised his right hand to trail a finger lazily in the glistening droplets spattered across the pale skin of his belly and chest. He turned his head to look out at Xander. His voice was slow and sated, "Still got some time on the meter, luv. Anything else you want?"

Xander was still clutching the window frame, still leaning forward awkwardly, still holding his limp cock, still in shock from the intensity of what had just happened…and the wrongness of it. "No," he choked out. "Uh…I'm good."

Spike chuckled low. "Wouldn't be half as much fun if you were, pet." He seemed relaxed and friendly now, like they were sharing some kind of post-coital cuddle. It was weird, and Xander kind of didn't like it…and kind of did. It was definitely disturbing.

He tried to clean himself up as best he could, then tossed the tissues into the phallic garbage can. When he was done, he wasn't sure what to do. He should probably say something, rather than just leaving.

"Uh…I'm gonna go now."

Spike smiled, and this time the smile seemed almost to make it into his eyes. Almost. "Come back anytime. I'm here every night, 9 to 12."

Xander nodded – crazy, because Spike couldn't see him – and fled.

Behind the cash register, the tall, goateed black man watched Xander's departure with expressionless eyes which had seen a hundred such ashamed voyages from booth to street. The checking of the zipper, the straightening of the shirt collar, the patting of the pockets, the smoothing of the hair, the preparation to face "the real world" again, the careful assumption of the outside persona, the rapid shift into pretending that Boy Toy Peepworld didn't exist.

He saw it every day.

And back in the small mirrored room the performers called "the fishbowl," Spike flicked the switch that extinguished the light outside his booth and went to take a short shower and clean up for the rest of his shift.

Two weeks later, Xander was still deeply enmired in the land of stubborn denial.

He hadn't gone back to the Boy Toy Peepshow. He hadn't gone back to lurk outside the library or spy on Spike in any way. In fact, he'd pretty much avoided the Civic Center area entirely and hoped to do so for a very long long time.

He also hadn't told anyone. He hadn't phoned Giles or Buffy or even Willow with the news that Spike was here. He hadn't even told Frank and Luba, who he saw every couple days.

The bureaucratic red tape had finally cleared, and work had begun on the new site. The beginning of a new project always took a huge amount of energy, because Xander had to not only pull his crew together effectively, but also think about the entire process ahead of them, so that they didn't do anything in the early stages that might cause problems later on. Once you've poured the concrete, it's hard to go back.

Luckily, his crew on this project consisted mostly of guys he'd worked with before. They knew he was a good boss – hell, he'd had enough shitty bosses and shitty jobs to know what not to do – so they would probably form an effective working unit pretty easily, and the new guys seemed promising. The project looked good.

The problem was the nightmares.

He was having nightmares about Spike, about…doing horrible things to Spike, degrading him and hurting him and telling him he was a piece of shit and watching those pink lips groan with pain instead of pleasure.

He was having nightmares about raping Spike. Pretty much every night.

And he woke up every time with an erection and the urge to vomit, both at the same time.

So he wasn't getting much sleep. If he woke up from a nightmare in the middle of the night, he got up and turned on some lights, turned on the TV, grabbed a bag of Cheet-Ohs and ate a few with heavy-lidded eyes, desperately refusing to go back to bed.

Because the nightmare might pick up right where it left off.

It got pretty bad. The day he realized that he was turning into such a sleep-deprived zombie that it might start actually endangering people on the site – it was only by luck that Nat hadn't been hit by that girder – Xander went upstairs when he got home from work and asked Frank if he wanted to go out and get a beer.

Xander was staring into his half-empty glass when he realized that the conversational chit-chat had petered out somewhere along the way. He looked up to see Frank watching him.

"So, what's up?" Frank's voice was casual. He took a drink from his glass.

Xander felt himself tense. "What? We go out for beer all the time! Well, not all the time, but, you know, often enough that it isn't weird or anything. Why should anything be up?"

Frank just took another long swig of his beer and watched Xander expectantly.

Some guys were playing darts nearby, and Xander let himself be distracted by that for a little while. Then he contemplated ordering some buffalo wings, just for the irony of it. Then the words were out of his mouth before he'd even decided to say them. "It's that guy."

Frank looked a little confused now. "What guy?"

"The guy from back home."

Frank's face cleared. "The guy you thought you saw on the street."

"Yeah."

"The guy who's supposed to be dead."

"Yeah." Xander took a long drink that finished off his glass. He raised a hand to signal to the waitress.

"You saw him again."

"Yeppp." Xander's lips made an exaggerated popping noise on the "p" sound.

"So he's not dead," Frank verified patiently.

"Nopppe." Same exaggerated popping noise.

"Did you talk to him?"

Xander watched the guys playing darts. One of them wasn't half bad.

Xander was halfway through his second beer when the silence broke. "Well," Frank said slowly. "I know what Luba would say."

Xander smirked weakly at him. "You going to be a shrink now, too?"

But Frank just shrugged. "You live with somebody long enough, you know how they think."

"So what would Luba say?"

Frank looked him in the eye. "She'd say go talk to him."

Xander looked down at the table. His fingernails were suddenly very interesting. One of them had a bit of dirt beneath it, despite the fact that he'd washed his hands thoroughly after work. The plunk plunk of the darts was comforting. He heard Frank shift in his chair. When he looked up, Frank was calmly lifting his beer to take a drink, his freckled face placid.

Xander sighed and let his head fall back in frustration. He looked up at the ceiling. White tiles with little holes in them. Pretty standard cheap acoustical ceiling tiles, a lot like the ones he'd so often impaled with pencils, back in high school. Back in Sunnydale.

When he looked at Frank again, Xander's face was set in grim lines.

It was quarter past midnight when Spike emerged from the Boy Toy with two other men, talking and laughing. Xander had been working up his courage for more than an hour.

"Spike!"

All three men turned to look at him, bland curiosity on their faces. Spike looked as if he were wearing an expressionless mask.

Xander stared right at Spike and walked closer, pointing an accusing finger. "Don't try to pretend you don't know me. You're caught, Spike. Don't make a fool of yourself trying to deny it."

The other two guys looked at Spike, who shrugged dismissively, though shadows had seeped into his eyes. "I seem to have gotten myself another stalker," he drawled casually. "It happens. One of the occupational hazards. When you're as bloody gorgeous as I am, one glimpse of paradise is never enough. I've got myself a string of lovesick poofs following me everywhere I go."

The three men laughed, then turned to leave again, but the dismissal pissed Xander off enough that he darted forward and took hold of Spike's arm.

That got the other men's attention. Spike turned around with a cold forbidding expression that almost made Xander shiver. The other two men stepped forward as if to protect their friend. "Go on," Spike said grimly, not looking away from Xander's face. "I can handle this tosser." Goatee Man and his buddy hesitated, but at Spike's continued silence, they nodded and walked on, glancing back several times as they got further and further down the street.

"Take your fucking hand off me." Spike's voice was an obvious threat, a hissed warning. Xander instinctively removed his hand. "Now piss off."

Xander's jaw dropped. "You're really trying to pull off this new identity deal? Even when you've been found out?"

Spike's face was suddenly very near, his eyes boring into Xander's. "Look, mate. I don't know you. You don't know me. I'm not this 'Spike' you're looking for, so just fuck off and don't come back." He turned and began to walk away with a quick, tense stride.

"Spike…hell, Spike, we all thought you were dead! And now I find out you just…just skipped town and changed your name? Because that is so you, Spike. That is so you."

Spike had turned back and was glaring at him from a slight distance. But Xander was on a roll, all that pent up resentment and disbelief finally getting its outlet.

"God! To think Buffy cried when she heard. And Dawn…Dawn didn't leave her room for a week. She still hurts for you, still misses you. Everybody was so sure you were really gone this time…really dead. And it turns out that actually you just couldn't be bothered to leave a forwarding address? What…just because you're off in L.A. for a year, you think you can just blow us off? Well fuck you, Spike. I guess none of us ever were your friends, if you could just do that and not look back. Just let everybody who cared about you grieve and hurt and cry, while you run off to start fresh without even a fucking phone call."

Spike's face was still a blank mask, but the blue eyes were troubled. Xander could see it even in the dim streetlight. Xander hoped it meant the vampire was suffering, feeling guilty for the crap he'd pulled, because this was one of the most shining examples of Spike's asshole behavior.

Shaking his head in depressingly unsurprised disbelief, Xander repeated loudly, "Fuck you, Spike." He hoped that wasn't defeat in his voice. Disappointment. Abruptly, he turned around and walked away, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his coat.

He couldn't get away fast enough.

It was a pretty normal night. He was going out for a drink with Frank and Luba when it happened. They were just walking along the crowded sidewalk when suddenly, out of nowhere, there was Spike, standing rigid, staring at Xander with wide blue eyes, his lips parted in obvious surprise.

"Spike!" It popped out before Xander could stop it. "What are you doing here?"

Spike didn't answer for a moment, then seemed to take a moment to collect himself. "There was…um…at the bookstore…a reading." He gesture back toward City Lights.

Xander didn't know what to say next. He put his hands in his pockets and looked over at the windows of the bookstore and nodded vaguely. An image from his nightmares entered his mind and he quickly dismissed it, cursing himself for being a pervert.

But then he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and Spike was moving closer, leaning in to say quietly, "I didn't know how to find you again." Then he pulled away, looking anxious.

Xander frowned, flummoxed by this turn of events. He felt a vague sense of shame over all his sleuthing, now that he knew Spike had wanted to find him, but at the same time he felt suspicious and resentful, wondering what new scam Spike was trying to pull.

"Spike?" Luba's voice came from behind him, and Xander turned. He'd forgotten his friends completely. "You must be Xander's friend from home." She smiled, charming as always.

Spike glanced at Xander, and Xander sighed. "Spike, these are my friends Frank and Luba. Frank and Luba, this is…Spike."

Spike smiled shyly and said, "Luba. That's Russian for 'love'."

Luba raised her eyebrows in surprise. Then she said something Xander couldn't understand. Russian, presumably. Spike replied.

"Your Russian is very good," Luba remarked. "Have you spent time in Russia?"

Spike looked at Xander again. Growing impatient with being the translator from vampire history to believable history, Xander hedged, "Spike's very well-traveled. He's been to…um…well, England, obviously. And China. I know he was in China." He glanced caustically at Spike, but those blue eyes only watched him, giving nothing away. Scourge of Europe, he thought to himself. "And I think he sort of did the whole European tour." He shot Spike another sardonic look.

They all stood there for an awkward moment as people streamed around them on the sidewalk. Frank and Luba looked at Xander expectantly. They obviously expected him to be friendly with his supposed friend. Long- lost thought-he-was-dead friend, even. And Spike looked so nervous…and he'd wanted to find Xander again for some reason. Suddenly, Xander found himself curious about that reason.

"We were on our way to the bar around the corner. You want a beer?"

Spike watched him warily, hesitating.

Xander rolled his eyes and then smiled at Spike for the first time since this whole thing had started. "They've even got buffalo wings."

Spike's lips dropped open, his eyes lit with something that looked almost like fear, and then it was all wiped away as if it had never been there. A bland mask of a face said, "Yeah. All right."

Not long afterward, the four of them were sitting at a table at the window, watching the tourists outside while they sipped bottles of beer and shared a plate of buffalo wings. Xander took a swig of his beer – some extra liquid courage never hurt – and addressed the issue head- on.

"You were kind of a prick the last time I saw you," he accused bluntly. "What changed your mind?" He watched Spike, waiting. He took another drink of his beer.

Spike glanced uncertainly at Frank and Luba, then looked at Xander and said, "You knew I was in L.A."

Xander rolled his eyes. "Well, duh. Everybody knew, Spike. It's not like it was a big secret. I mean, Angel does use the phone occasionally, even if it's usually only when he wants something, and – hell! – Andrew saw you, in L.A. and in Rome. And Buffy heard you'd been there, too, you and Angel both. So if you were trying for stealth mode, you were really sucking at it."

Spike poked absently at the food on his plate. Xander noticed the lack of black nail polish, and it was vaguely disappointing.

Spike mumbled something, and Xander rolled his eyes again. "If you're talking to the buffalo wings, Spike, I think even for them you might need to speak up."

Spike looked out the window. "I don't know any of those people."

Xander followed his gaze out the window, confused. "What people?"

Spike looked down at the plate again, picked up a buffalo wing as if considering it, and then put it back down. "The people you just talked about." His shoulders hunched a bit, as if he were curling in on himself defensively. "I don't know those people."

Then, without moving his head, Spike looked up through his lashes at Xander and said quietly, "I don't know you, either."

They all just sat there for a confused moment.

Frank glanced at Xander's face, then at Spike's, then back again. Luba took a breath to say something, but Frank put a hand on her arm. She closed her mouth. "I'd guess you two have a lot to talk about," Frank said slowly. He stood up, and Luba reluctantly joined him, her eyes shining with frustrated curiosity. "We'll leave you to it." Xander stared up at them, panicked.

"No!" Xander exclaimed quickly. "I mean, yes. Yeah. Lots to talk about. Of course. Duh. But…not alone talking. You guys should stay. Because…uh…" He cast wildly through his mind, searching for a reason other than, "I'm totally freaked," but nothing came to him. "You guys should stay," he repeated lamely.

Frank nodded slowly and Luba smiled. They took their seats. Frank looked uncertain whether they were doing the right thing, but Xander felt like hugging them for not abandoning him in his hour of really awkward need.

Another silence descended upon the table.

Xander's mind reeled. What was he supposed to say to an amnesiac vampire…with his vamp-clueless friends listening? It was sort of a new experience.

"Uh…" he stammered awkwardly, gesturing to his empty bottle, "…anybody need another beer?"

Xander didn't know where to start, but he knew where he wanted to. Questions. Did Spike still have the soul? Was he killing again? Xander sort of doubted it for some reason. But why did Spike come out of the library at sunset every day? Was there an entrance to underground tunnels, or did he live in some kind of basement?

But he couldn't ask those kinds of questions, because Luba and Frank were there.

The silence stretched on far too long. Spike was jiggling his leg, making the table shake slightly. Xander stared into his beer.

Eventually, Luba jumped in, bless her heart. "So what do you remember, Spike? Oh, and do you want to be called 'Spike', or have you been using some other name you'd rather…"

Spike shrugged. "Spike'll do as well as anything else, I suppose." He frowned. "As for what I remember, well…woke up in a dirty alley, all banged up. Starkers. Don't remember anything before that."

Luba tilted her head in curiosity. "You were in Los Angeles?"

"Yeah. Got put in the hospital. My right arm was broken in three places. A couple ribs. A good knock on the head."

But Xander was staring at Spike now, his eyes narrowed. "You went to the hospital?"

Spike nodded, glancing at Luba for some clue as to why Xander was asking the question.

Xander continued, leaning forward, "You went to the hospital. Weren't you afraid they'd…I mean, didn't they find out…"

Spike was frowning more deeply now. "Did I do something that should've made me shy of the police?"

Xander laughed a short disbelieving sound, shaking his head and staring at Spike. His spidey sense was tingling, and he was pretty freaked out by what it seemed to be telling him. "Oh, you've done plenty," he replied in his distraction, and then asked, "So you went to the hospital, and they didn't find anything…wrong with you?" Like that pesky lack of heartbeat?

Spike peered at him in confusion. "Knock on the head," he repeated slowly, as if Xander were mentally challenged. "Broken arm. Broken ribs. You happen to know how they got that way?"

But Xander was just staring at Spike in horror now, in unavoidable comprehension. "No, Spike. No, I think I can definitively state that I have no idea how you got 'that way'."

Xander was frozen for a long moment, just staring at Spike. He was tempted to run for the door, but he knew he was stuck.

Spike was human.

What the fuck was he supposed to say to an amnesiac former vampire – most likely vamp-clueless – with his vamp- clueless friends also listening?

Well, there was a hell of a lot he couldn't say, and a hell of a lot he didn't want to say, and a hell of a lot Spike probably wouldn't believe, and a hell of a lot Spike probably wouldn't want to know. How do you tell someone they reveled in a hundred years of serial killing? Xander frantically searched his mind for the few things he could safely say in his shell-shocked state.

"Uh…the last time I saw you, you were working for a law firm in L.A. I'm not sure what you did there." Spike was looking down at the table now, obviously trying to imagine himself at a law firm, taking this new information in and trying to make sense of it. Good luck.

"Before that, we sort of worked together. Not in L.A., but in a smaller town nearby, called Sunnydale. It was…well…a kind of 'neighborhood watch' kind of deal. There were a few of us who all went out together and…uh…tried to keep the town safe." Xander nervously took a sip of his beer.

Spike glanced up. "So I was a do-gooder type?"

Xander coughed, narrowly avoiding spraying beer across the table. "Um…I don't know if I'd go that far. You were kind of…surly. You mostly just stuck around because you had a thing for Buffy."

Spike's eyebrows rose. "'Buffy'? 'Buffy'? I had a powerful yen for someone named 'Buffy'?"

Xander frowned. "Hey! The Buffster is a close friend of mine, and you don't get to mock her, Amnesia Man! She saved your ass more times than you deserve."

Spike raised his hands in placation. "Okay, okay. Whatever you say, sport. So I fought the baddies by the side of my beautiful lady love, Buffy," he choked as if suppressing a guffaw.

"It wasn't like that. We all fought together. Buffy didn't…" he paused a moment, "…Buffy didn't…uh…feel that way about you."

This time, Spike just raised an eyebrow in obvious disbelief. Of course he'd be surprised, Xander thought. And suddenly, he had a clear vision of Spike behind the glass, in his booth, with his body, and his skin, and his face, and his…

This was so very very not the time for a stroll down Perverted Memory Lane!

Luba had been looking back and forth between them, while Frank calmly sipped his beer and watched the people walking by outside. Xander glanced at Luba, trying to communicate "Help me" with his eyes. He was drowning here, and he had no idea how to continue. He once again fought the impulse to flee.

He took a healthy gulp of beer. Mmmmm. Beer.

Spike took a long drink of his beer, as well.

Luba once again came to the rescue.

"So how did you end up in San Francisco, then, Spike? If you were in the hospital in Los Angeles…"

"Yeah, well, they weren't exactly thrilled to extend their hospitality to a bloke with no memory, no money, and a fancy accent. Not a lot of profit in taking in strays. So they kept me in hospital quite some time, posted notices in all the newspapers, showed my face on all the news on the telly. Some sent in anonymous donations to pay the hospital bills, but no one came forward, to say that they recognized me." Spike's face seemed haunted, as if that period of loneliness had left a lasting mark.

"When the cast came off my arm, I started hearing them talking in the halls, talking about institutions, deportation, and the like. Well, that wasn't a route I wanted to go, so I made a runner when I got my chance. Skipped town. Figured I'd be safer further away, so I hitched a ride up here. Nice big city to get lost in, you know? Safe from prying eyes that might want to lock me up or ship me off."

It was Luba who was frowning now. "So you don't have any legal I.D. or anything? I work in the housing and homeless section of the city's Department of Human Services. I can help, if you want."

Spike's back stiffened, his head coming up more proudly. "I have a place to live. And a job. I do just fine for myself, thanks all the same."

Xander listened and remembered Spike climbing through the boarded up window into an abandoned building. That counted as "a place to live"? And the job…well…surely Spike could be doing something besides…that.

Luba nodded, smiling gently. "I didn't mean to overstep. I just wanted to offer, and the offer is open. If you ever decide you could use somebody on your side, here's where you can find me." And she handed Spike her card.

Spike looked thoughtful, struck by her wording. Somebody on your side. He hadn't had that in…he didn't know how long. At least since he woke up in that alley. He wondered if he'd ever had it before that, but it wasn't something he felt comfortable asking Xander.

Luba seemed to feel that she'd made a slight gaffe, and that it might be best if she and Frank left. They made their apologies and wended their way through the crowd, leaving Spike and Xander to drink in silence. Their only conversation was stilted and awkward. Xander didn't really have much more information to impart about Sunnydale – at least, not information it would be a good idea to impart – and Spike didn't seem to want to talk about his own life in San Francisco. It was all made more uncomfortable by the fact that Xander actually already knew quite a bit about Spike's life…because he'd been Spike's pathetic stalker. Not to mention his…customer. It was so sordid and embarrassing.

But as they gradually became more and more drunk, their defenses slipped considerably and they stopped guarding their words so closely. Xander grew more blunt, while Spike seemed to grow more…well…prissy. It was weird.

"Okay, I've just gotta ask: What's up with the hair?"

Spike frowned, one hand reaching up to touch the blond curls. "What do you mean?"

"Did you get falling down drunk and stumble into a barbershop to ask for the Justin Timberlake Special?"

Spike was frowning harder now, looking down at the table. Then he looked up again to meet Xander's eyes, obviously frustrated. "My hair didn't look like this before?"

Xander laughed. He just didn't even know what to say to that.

But Spike was still staring at him intently. "This is what my hair looked like when I woke up in the hospital. But you're saying that this…Spike…this guy you knew didn't have hair like this?"

Xander stopped laughing. It was his turn to frown. Oh, right. "Actually, I guess you did. You just always wore it slicked back with about a gallon of some really heavy-duty petroleum product. I never even knew your hair was curly."

Spike was touching his hair absently, probably unconsciously. "So I used to wear a product to change the appearance of my hair? Aside from the dye, that is?"

Xander nodded.

"Why was I so intent on changing my appearance?"

Xander was a bit taken aback. He'd never really thought about that before. He'd never really considered why a guy who couldn't even see his own reflection was so obsessive about dyeing his hair and slicking it back just so.

He shrugged, not sure what to say. "I guess you had an image to uphold, you know?"

Spike nodded slowly. "An image to uphold." His eyes shifted so that he was looking out the window at the people walking past outside. "Well, I seem to have lost that along with everything else. I suppose I can now wear my hair however I like."

"Why'd you keep dyeing it now, anyway, if you didn't care?"

Spike glanced back at Xander's face, then looked away again. He shifted slightly in his seat and didn't say anything. Just when Xander was opening his mouth to ask the question again, Spike said quietly, "If I'd changed the appearance of my hair, it would have been more difficult for anyone to find me. Anyone…anyone who knew who I was. Anyone from…before."

Xander watched him, and something unexpectedly soft and protective seemed to blossom inside his chest. "You wanted to be found? You wanted us to find you?"

Spike shot him a haughty glance, but his eyes were shadowed and vulnerable.

Not even thinking, Xander spontaneously reached across the table and took hold of Spike's hand. "Well, you're found now. Whatever happened, you aren't alone anymore."

Spike's hand was still and warm beneath Xander's, and then it jerked away, slid away to hide somewhere in the dark safety beneath the table.

Xander blushed and hastened to explain, "I wasn't…I didn't mean…" but Spike just nodded, his face filled with uncertainty and hope like a child's.

The nightmares were gone. It was hard to hang on to the old familiar hatred and disgust toward Spike when this Spike was completely unaware that he'd once been an unrepentant serial killer. This Spike was just a pretty normal guy…well…a normal guy who also happened to work at a gay peep show.

But if he couldn't hang on to his hatred of Spike, it was sort of hard for Xander to hang on to all his hatred of himself for getting off in that damn peep show booth. Sure, some remained, but not the angry part of it. The hatred part of it.

So the nightmares had disappeared along with his rage, and he was left confused and a oddly resentful. It was easier to stick with what he'd felt all along than it was to figure out something new.

Leaving the bar had been awkward. They didn't exchange phone numbers, didn't even mention the possibility, because it seemed too intimate, and anyway neither of them had paper or pen.

"You know where to find me," Spike had smirked when they were standing on the sidewalk among the tourists and drunken passersby. Xander just looked confused. "The Boy Toy," Spike reminded him, referring to that first night when Xander had accosted him in front of the store.

Xander blushed and looked at the ground, hands in his pockets. Then he looked away. "Right," he muttered. "I'll just stop by to say hello."

Spike chuckled a very Spike-like chuckle – chock full of smart-ass – and shrugged. He was deep into his self-confident persona now, no trace of the wide-eyed requests for tales of his life. But then it probably made sense. He was probably on his way to "work"…or something.

Xander made some kind of vague goodbye gesture and Spike casually remarked, "Thanks for all that," and for a moment Xander caught the glimmer of something more in his eyes, and then Spike was gone, lost in the stream of foot traffic.

And, since then, the nightmares were gone.

They were planning a trip to the marina. The weather was good, and they wanted to take advantage of it, so Frank was going to cook up some picnic food, and even Luba was going to make her world-famous piroshki…the only thing she knew how to cook.

The plan was to leave in the afternoon of the next day, but Luba was already packing a bag with sunscreen, bottled water, Frisbees, and various other picnic necessities. She looked up from her task, smiling at Xander who was sitting on the couch crunching on a carrot stick. He waved it at her. "Don't you people have any self-respecting junk food around here?"

She just laughed. "I think you've got that covered at your own place." She grinned at him. "So…do you think Spike might want to come along tomorrow?"

Xander blinked repeatedly. Spike? Picnicking? He almost burst out loud laughing. "I don't think it's Spike's sort of thing."

Luba pouted, asking, "How do you know? Have you asked him?"

Xander looked away toward the kitchen, where Frank was happily puttering around. He didn't say anything.

"I think you should invite him. Let him decide if it's 'his sort of thing.' I mean, imagine what it's like for him, being all alone in the city, not even knowing anything about his own life…"

"Okay, okay!" Xander gave in, raising his hands in surrender. "You win." He couldn't help smiling when she leapt up and ran over to hug him in response.

That was how he found himself once again loitering in front of the infamous Boy Toy at what he once called "the witching hour" until Willow kicked his ass for saying it.

Spike emerged with Goatee Man, talking and gesturing animatedly. Goatee Man was laughing. When Spike saw Xander shuffling his feet near the bus stop, he stopped and said goodnight to his friend. Goatee Man checked Xander out again, just as he had last time, but this time he seemed to accept that the Spike-Xander thing was mutual. Not that there was a "thing," of course. Just…talking. The talking was mutual. Right.

The street lamps were bright on Market Street, illuminating Spike's face with harsh shadows, his cheek bones sharp and pronounced, his eyes deep.

"Popping by for a cuppa?" Spike sounded sarcastic, but there was an undercurrent there, too. Something surprised and pleased and maybe uncertain.

Xander couldn't stop looking at him – he wasn't sure why. "Actually, I came to offer you a 'cuppa'," Xander replied, but then shook his head. "I mean, not a 'cuppa,' whatever that is – I assume it's some British thing – but a…well…a picnic." God, he felt stupid saying that word to Spike, of all people.

Spike's eyebrows rose. His voice was carefully bland, "A picnic."

Xander rushed to explain. "Frank and Luba and me, we're going to the marina tomorrow, and we're bringing food, and Luba thought…I mean I thought…well, we thought you might want to come along. We're leaving at noon."

Spike seemed to think about it forever, but maybe Xander was just nervous. Eventually, Spike smiled and said, "Free food? I'm in." Xander rolled his eyes, but smiled in return.

Xander had provided cans of soda (and bottles of juice for the more healthily inclined) and potato chips. His usual low-effort fare. Spike hadn't brought anything to contribute to the picnic, but Xander really wasn't surprised. He was still Spike, after all, and probably still a giant mooch. And, anyway, what does someone who lives in an abandoned building bring to a potluck?

They spread out a big blanket on the grass and sat down with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz, and the expanse of the bay. Giant container ships passed to and fro, hauling huge rectangular containers of televisions and cars and who knows what else, heading for the port of Oakland. As was always the case in nice weather, the bay was peppered with sailboats taking advantage of the breeze coming through the Golden Gate. The sun was warm and the sky was blue and it was a perfect day for a picnic.

"Anybody need sunscreen?" asked Luba, waving the blue tube in the air. "Rhetorical question, of course. When you take an Irish boy and an English boy into the sunshine, prepare for the blinding whiteness." She grinned at Frank, who leaned forward to kiss her. She giggled afterward, then waggled her eyebrows. "Want me to put lotion on your back?" Frank enthusiastically removed his t-shirt.

Spike removed his black t-shirt as well, then turned to Xander with wide doe eyes. "What about me? Will you put lotion on my back, Xander?"

Xander blushed for about the millionth time since he'd first seen Spike on that sidewalk in the Civic Center. "I don't think so. Ask Luba."

Spike pouted and began applying lotion slowly to his arms. When Luba was done with Frank's back, she let him continue with his legs and chest, then turned to Spike and continued working, this time on Spike's back. If the bliss on Spike's face was any indication, she was also adding a bit of massage along the way. Xander hadn't noticed if Frank had the same reaction…his eyes had been discreetly trained on Spike too much of the time.

Watching those pleasured expressions on Spike's face, Xander noticed his dick begin to stir. Bad timing! Very very bad timing! So he closed his eyes and began silently reciting dialogue from The Waterboy. By the time he found himself chuckling, he had things under control.

When he opened his eyes, he saw Spike watching him, a knowing smirk on his face.

By the time Luba had finished Spike's back, Frank was fully sunscreened and suggested that he and Luba take a short walk together. They smiled and promised to be right back and left hand-in-hand.

Spike was putting lotion on his chest now, using lazy circular motions that were raising Xander's blood pressure, among other things. Not again! Spike looked at him and licked his lips, slow and deliberate.

"Wish I could take my trousers off, as well," he remarked casually. "Get a proper tan, all toasty brown all over."

Xander's voice was choked when he replied, "Spike, you're English. English people don't tan."

Spike smiled slightly. "I'm sure I could if I lay about in the sun long enough."

Xander shook his head. "Right. Well, next time I'm at the store, I'll look for some SPF 3 million, just for you."

Spike just continued applying lotion to his chest. It had to be thoroughly coated by now, but he kept drawing his hand against that pale skin over and over again, occasionally pausing at a nipple.

Xander cleared his throat. "And, anyway, there are some body parts that just aren't meant to get a tan. I mean…ow!" The thought of such body parts was distracting, but Xander forged ahead. "And a public park is strictly PG-13, anyway."

Spike grinned. "PG-13, eh? Guess enthusiastic snogging's not out of the question, then." He waggled his eyebrows just as Luba had earlier.

Xander looked away and shifted position slightly, carefully keeping his eyes trained on the men and women walking on the sidewalk behind them. "If you see somebody you feel like 'snogging,' go right ahead. I doubt anyone would mind."

Spike looked a bit disappointed in Xander's refusal to rise to the bait, but moved on to lotioning his neck and face as if nothing had happened.

The rest of the time that Luba and Frank were gone, Xander talked about the Scoobies, telling Spike about his former "friends." Xander glossed over the tensions between Spike and the group and focused instead on describing each person in detail. When Luba and Frank returned, they didn't interrupt, just sitting down to listen with great interest.

Giles became simply an eccentric school librarian, Willow a nerdy computer whiz, Dawn a normal teenage girl, Tara a spiritual herbalist, Buffy an athletic black-belt, Angel an older guy with a pervy obsession with high school girls, and Anya an outspoken girl with a troubled past, looking to start fresh.

They sat and lay on the blanket, people-watching and boat-watching, occasionally playing Frisbee, talking and relaxing and eventually eating a tasty lunch of chicken strips marinated in a tamarind, plum, and ginger sauce; Luba's beef, potato, and mushroom piroshki; spinach salad with walnuts, blue cheese, and sliced pears; spicy green beans sautéed in sesame, garlic, and red pepper;…and Xander's potato chips.

The only awkward moment was when Luba talked about her work with the homeless. She seemed earnestly concerned about Spike's situation, certain that he couldn't be having an easy time in the city with no official identity and no one to help him make his way. "I really could help you if you like," she insisted. "At least find you somewhere good to live. Where are you living now?"

Everyone was silent for a moment, then Spike politely excused himself, saying he wanted to take a walk, and left for at least half an hour.

When they'd all returned to the duplex to clean up and watch the usual weekend movie marathon, Spike went with Xander to his apartment first. When the door closed behind them, Xander almost immediately began, "I'm sorry if Luba embarrassed you when she asked about where you li…"

Spike interrupted sharply, "You wanna know where I live, Xander? Fine. Come with me." Xander just stared. He didn't jump in to repeat that Luba had been the one to ask the question, not him. And maybe it was because he really did want to see where Spike lived…from the inside. Whatever the reason, he agreed. They abandoned Frank and Luba and walked out the front door.

They didn't say a word to each other during the entire 15-minute walk. Spike's strides were long and angry and fast. If Xander hadn't had a slight height advantage, he would have been scurrying to keep up.

When they got there, Spike led him through the broken, boarded-up window into darkness marred only here and there by small shafts of light streaming through holes in the boards that blocked the windows.

Spike flicked a lighter and walked to a candle barely visible in the dim lighting. He lit it, and the room was a bit more brightly illuminated. He continued to walk around the room, and the darkness slowly lifted as more and more candles flickered to life in all corners. Dozens of candles soon illuminated a shabby mattress in one corner of the room, wooden and plastic crates scattered here and there with candles and books upon them, and a doorless closet with more crates inside, holding a stack of poorly-folded clothing.

Spike stood in the center of the candle-lit room and spread his arms wide, turning theatrically. "Welcome to my humble abode," he boomed.

This wasn't old Sunnydale vamp Spike. This was a lost, lonely, confused Spike who was human and struggling to put a brave face on the situation.

The words were out of Xander's mouth before he could even form a thought. "You should come live with me."

Spike tilted his head, mouth a tight line. "Now, why would I want to do that?"

"Hot and cold running water? Windows that aren't boarded up? Cable?"

Spike's voice was like ice when he replied, "Don't need your pity, mate."

Xander rolled his eyes. "Oh please. We lived together before, you know. And I like you better this time around, so why not?"

Spike peered at him suspiciously, and at length, with eyes filled with caution, he nodded slowly. His voice was quiet when he said, "Let me get my things."

"How'd you know to find me at the Boy Toy that first night?"

They were just sitting on the couch, watching "Battlestar Galactica," when the question suddenly came up. Spike had only been staying with him a couple of days.

Xander blushed furiously, eyes desperately glued to the television.

"Ahhh," Spike smiled wickedly. "A satisfied customer." Spike had been pretty frank about his job at the Boy Toy – without going into detail – which made things easier, since Xander didn't have to pretend not to know.

"No!" Xander turned to look at him and nearly shouted. "No! I was just…I saw you coming out, and I recognized you, and so I…"

"Just happened to be passing by, did you? In that neighborhood? At that hour?"

Xander tried to think of an excuse, but then mulishly muttered, "Since when do I have to explain myself to you?"

Spike grinned cheekily. "So, got a lot of things you're not explaining, then?" Xander looked away. But Spike's face gradually became more serious, his eyes more intent. He didn't say anything right away, but then, "There something you're not telling me, Xander?"

Xander just looked confused.

"We lived together, yeah?" Xander nodded. Spike gestured from himself to Xander and back again. "But we weren't…"

Xander frowned, then his eyes widened. "What? No! Of course not! You and me? No!"

Spike slouched down in his chair, disgruntled. "Don't have to sound so disgusted about it." He stared at the television, looking for all the world like a sulking child. But a change slowly overcame him, his back straightening, his expression hardening as if a mask were sliding into place.

And then Spike had an oh-so-familiar predatory look on his face. This was the Spike Xander had known back in Sunnydale – pre-bonzo-in- the-brainpan – not the vulnerable Spike who had asked for help remembering the past. This was the Spike he'd seen behind the glass at the peep show. This was Spike.

"The lads at the Boy Toy don't seem to mind," he drawled, heavy- lidded. "I'm a bit old for the work, obviously, but I'm cut where it counts" – Spike's fingers stroked his abdomen through the fabric of his black t-shirt – "and uncut where it counts" – his fingers strayed provocatively lower – "and I'm still pretty, so the gay boys seem to like me fine."

"'Gay boys'?" Xander choked incredulously. "Jeez. Homophobic much?"

"It's hard to be homophobic in my line of work, luv."

"No, I'll bet it's pretty darn easy to be homophobic in your line of work. All you see are the lonely perverts who pay to jerk off while watching some naked guy who's counting the minutes 'til quitting time." Hearing his own words, Xander blushed again, averting his eyes guiltily.

"Takin' this a bit personal, aren't you?" Spike eyed him speculatively. "You a shirt-lifter?"

Xander winced and his eyes flew back up to meet Spike's, defensive. "The only shirt I lift is my own, mister, when I'm getting dressed in the morning. So don't you worry about me. You worry about your own damn shirt." Xander frowned slightly, a bit tangled up in what he'd said, but he didn't try to sort it out.

Spike just smirked as if he knew something Xander didn't.

Things were oddly normal once Spike moved in. The single unexpected weekend of sunshine faded back into the foggy chill of a San Francisco winter, and the office building job in Oakland had finally gotten underway, so Xander was busy on-site on weekdays.

Spike actually hadn't changed much since Xander'd lived with him before. He still left dirty clothes lying around and didn't wash his dishes. He still liked his food spicy, still smoked – albeit outside, because Xander insisted – still drank Jack Daniels, and even still watched "Passions," though Xander didn't know about that part, because he was at work in the afternoons. But he did wear those metal-framed glasses sometimes, which freaked Xander out. It just looked wrong. But he didn't say anything, because he didn't want to make Spike self-conscious.

How weird was that? Worrying about making Spike self-conscious? Inviting him to live in his apartment, hanging out with him on picnics. The world had tilted on its access.

But it was kind of nice, too. And that was the weirdest part of all.

Spike's face was getting a bit of color, which led Xander to think he was probably lying out in the occasional bit of sun while he was out on the building site. There was a nice park in the center of North Beach where a lot of people sunned when the weather permitted. And the weeks after the picnic had continued to show brief glimmers of sunshine here and there. Weather in San Francisco was never particularly predictable.

But somehow it made sense that Spike would love the sun.

They didn't spend all that much time together. Xander was generally out of the house from early in the morning until around 6:30, and Spike usually strolled in around the same time. Of course, Spike left again a couple hours later, but Xander tried not to think about where he was going. He didn't come back until after Xander was asleep, but Xander had returned to taking his nightly walks, still carrying a stake in his jacket pocket, though the stake was mostly just out of old habit. Now that Spike was staying with him, the apartment seemed really quiet when he was gone, and Xander didn't like to sit around at home imagining what Spike was doing at "work."

That was weird, too. Because he was actually feeling jealous. Maybe even possessive. And he hadn't felt that way since Anya. But Anya had liked it. Spike didn't even know, and almost certainly would be offended. Or disgusted. So Xander was stuck in a rotten position of unrequited…something. Not love. But lust, maybe.

Once or twice, Spike asked about what exactly had happened to him to cause him to lose his memory and why no one had stepped forward to recognize him, but Xander dodged, saying that he didn't know. Of course, he'd heard the stories, Hellmouthy stories about dragons and giant scorpions and all kinds of other big bad baddies. No one had survived – or so they thought – but Giles had read about the likely events in one of his dusty books. Apparently the evil law firm was mentioned in a lot of prophecies. Xander hadn't cared to know much, but Giles had told him enough for him to get the basic idea.

So every time Spike brought it up, Xander gave a vague answer and felt guilty about it. Spike deserved to know what had happened to him, but there was no way to explain. And he knew he should call Giles in England and tell him about Spike.

But he didn't.

It was only three weeks after Spike moved in that they had the inevitable uncomfortable talk. Spike had been pushing the issue from the very beginning.

"So," Spike began blandly while they sat in front of the television watching Survivor, making fun of the contestants. "Not gay, then?"

Xander very nearly growled in frustration. "Why are you so interested?"

"Don't like being lied to."

Xander's eyes narrowed, but Spike still hadn't turned to look at him. He just put his hand in the bag of Doritos and lifted a few to his mouth. Xander noticed in some kind of surreal attention shift that Spike's fingers were bright orange.

"Uh…" Xander began nervously.

"Right," interrupted Spike, finally turning to look at him and putting the bag of Doritos down on the coffee table. "Did I know, when we lived together before? Did we ever…"

Xander rolled his eyes in annoyance. "No! I told you no! And, anyway, I didn't…" He sighed heavily. "When I moved to San Francisco…people are just…nobody cares, you know? And guys were looking at me and coming up to me and…I just started to realize after a while…"

Spike watched him with an expression that was difficult to read. Maybe amusement mixed with relief? Xander couldn't tell. "Not planning to grope my ass in the shower?"

Xander blinked. "I hadn't really thought about it." Liar! Liar!

But Spike just wouldn't let it go. "So…you weren't gay when we lived together before?"

"I don't know. I mean, do you just turn gay?" God, this was getting far too honest. Spike was going to mock him forever.

Spike just waited. He was licking his orange Dorito fingers now, occasionally sliding one into his mouth to suck the cheesy dust off.

Xander's eyes were determinedly not looking at Spike's mouth as he explained distractedly, "I had a girlfriend back then. I told you about her: Anya. So I don't know. Maybe I was – am – bi?"

Pausing in the cleaning of his fingers, Spike continued doggedly, "So you weren't gay."

Xander sighed in frustration and ran his hands through his hair.

"What about me?"

Now that was surprising. Xander just stammered in confusion, "Huh?"

"Was I gay, back then, when you knew me before?"

Xander looked at Spike, unsure if this was an honest question or the beginning of the afore-mentioned mocking. But Spike just looked interested. Curious, even. His fingers were clean now, so that at least made thinking a bit less of a challenge.

Xander frowned in thought. "Uh…I don't know. I don't think so. I mean, you didn't act gay."

Spike simply raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, that was stupid. But you were with one…uh…girlfriend…really long-term. And then you were, you know, obsessed with Buffy."

Spike groaned at hearing the embarrassing name again. "Please. Don't remind me."

"What made you think…" Xander couldn't help asking.

"Nothing in particular. Just wondering, since we were talking about it and all."

Xander nodded, but felt dubious. Maybe Spike enjoyed his job a little too much. Xander had thought the…the fingers in the ass thing…he'd thought that was just for show. And lots of guys liked that, without being gay. Right? But maybe it was more than that. During the…whatever it was…the peepshow – god that sounded sordid – Spike had asked if Xander wanted to fuck him. Did he actually think about that sort of thing while he was…at "work." With his customers?

Suddenly, Xander hated Spike's job even more than he had a moment ago.

They were watching an episode of CSI in which a murderess insisted on speaking only French when Spike suddenly said, "They translated that wrong."

Xander frowned, confused. "Huh?"

"In the subtitles. They translated that wrong. That wasn't what she said."

"Oh, right, you speak French."

Spike looked at him in surprise. "I speak French. Well, I also speak and read German, Spanish, and Middle English. So tell me, Mr. I Know Your Past: what other languages do I know?"

Xander was thrown off balance. "Uh…Latin and Greek? You helped us with those pretty often." Oops. He didn't want to explain what a neighborhood watch group was doing with Latin and Greek, so he continued talking quickly. "Also a bunch of" – demon – "obscure dialects."

Spike was nodding slowly. "How'd I learn 'em all?"

Xander's brain stopped working for a second, but then he replied with relief, "I told you you traveled a lot, you know? And you were…uh…I guess you studied some of them before I met you."

Spike was still nodding, his eyes fixed in the distance. "That would explain it. I wondered. It's come in handy at the library."

"At the library?" Xander asked.

"Yeah. I volunteer there on afternoons, at the reference desk. The languages came in handy. I'll have to tell them about the Latin and Greek."

Xander couldn't control his excitement and exclaimed without thinking, "So that's why you were leaving the library every day!"

Spike frowned. His head tilted. He said slowly, "What did you just say?"

Xander froze.

"How did you know I was leaving the library every day?"

"Well, uh, I didn't know it was every day, but I saw you one day when I just happened to be…"

"You just happened to be there, did you? And you just happened to be outside the Boy Toy? That's a lot of 'happening', isn't it?" Spike looked ready to wring someone's neck. Correction: he looked ready to wring Xander's neck, in particular.

Spike waited. Xander stared fixedly at the toes of his boots.

A minute passed, and neither moved.

Finally, Xander couldn't take the silence anymore. "I saw you, okay? I saw you on the street, but I wasn't sure it was you, so I…I followed you."

Spike raised an eyebrow. "You followed me?"

"It wasn't as creepy as it sounds. Really."

"Did you follow me once, or was it more?"

Xander's voice was barely audible when he said, "More."

"Right." Spike's voice was tight and angry. Like if he didn't keep himself on a tight leash, he'd explode.

The silence stretched again. But finally Spike stood up, put on his coat – not the old duster, which always surprised Xander – and ran a possibly nervous hand through the curls of his hair.

He was staring at the front door and his voice was still tightly contained when he said, "I'm going out. I trust I don't have to watch behind me, checking behind every bush and postbox."

A miserable Xander shook his head. With a flourish, Spike was gone and the door swung shut behind him.

Xander sat down on the couch and turned on the television and tried to pretend that he didn't feel like a complete asshole.

"Well, you did the same thing!"

Xander had been holding back the big guns, but if Spike was going to continue to be such a prick about the stalker issue, even after more than a week had passed, then fine. Time to blast away with the biggest of the big guns. Well, except for the vampire gun. Because that was a gun Xander was not yet willing to fire.

Spike just narrowed his eyes suspiciously in response to Xander's first salvo.

"With Buffy," Xander continued in righteous indignation. "You hid behind a tree in her front yard and watched through the windows. Don't think we didn't see you! And you showed up at the door uninvited, showed up to parties uninvited, showed up at the Magic Box…"

"Hold up then. Magic Box?"

Xander backpedaled. "Uh. Yeah. Magic. You know, like gag stuff."

"And I went there." Spike sounded dubious.

"Anya and Giles owned it, so we were all there a lot."

"I thought 'Giles' was the high school librarian…"

"Well, yeah, but…wait! We were talking about the fact that you were a stalker, and so being pissed at me is hypocrisy. You are a hypocrite, mister! A hypocrite!"

"How can I be a hypocrite if I don't even remember the damn thing?"

"Because you still did it! You were a stalker. So quit giving me shit about it."

Spike just shrugged, one shoulder rising and falling gracefully. "Fine."

Xander looked at him in shock. "Fine?"

Spike shrugged again. "Fine."

"Okay. That was easier than I thought it would be."

"Wouldn't want to be a hypocrite, now would I?" Spike was smirking, just a little, and Xander knew he was off the hook.

They sat in silence for a minute or two, making sure the argument was over, and then Xander picked up the remote and turned on the television.

They'd been watching infomercials for almost half an hour when Spike said suddenly, "Uninvited?"

Xander turned to look at him, confused. "What?"

"You said I showed up every place uninvited. That I was a stalker, just following Buffy" – he winced slightly – "around. Sounds like I wasn't such great mates with you lot, after all."

Xander didn't know what to say. Spike's voice was carefully casual, which probably meant that he'd hurt his feelings. At least, that's what it would mean if Xander sounded that way. But Spike deserved to know the truth.

Or part of it, anyway.

"Um…okay…so I may have exaggerated a little bit."

Spike nodded slowly. "I see."

"But you really did live with me."

"Uninvited?" Spike's eyes were dark and vulnerable.

Xander looked away as he half-truthed, "Uh…no…I definitely invited you in."

"Right." Spike sounded resentful and defensive now. Damn.

Xander moved to sit on the couch next to Spike. Not too close, but close enough to get Spike's attention. "Look. That doesn't matter, okay? So you were kind of a jerk. I am, too, sometimes. Okay, so maybe you were more of a jerk than me…" Spike raised an eyebrow and Xander realized he was getting off-track. "The point is who you are now. It's like you're getting to…I don't know…start over or something. So it doesn't matter if you were a stalkery asshole back then. What matters is what you do with your life now."

During the final bit of this little impassioned speech, Spike had been watching Xander's eyes closely, and Xander had made himself not look away. He wanted Spike to know that he meant what he was saying, that it was the truth and there wasn't some kind of lingering hatred or anything. Because, oddly enough, there wasn't.

And then their faces were unexpectedly closer than he'd realized, and then Spike's lips were on Xander's lips and they were kissing and Spike's hand moved up to wrap around the nape of Xander's neck to pull him closer.

Xander couldn't help responding, his lips and – oh! – tongue sliding slowly against Spike's, his hands coming up to rest on Spike's shoulders as they leaned in toward each other on the couch.

When he remembered reality, remembered where he was and who he was and who Spike was and everything, he pulled away abruptly and Spike's hand slid down from the back of his neck. Spike's eyes were heavy- lidded, his lips wet and pink. Xander fought an irrational urge to dive right back in and grab him for a far more aggressive kiss. Maybe press him back on the couch.

But that would be taking advantage. Good guys don't bend amnesiacs over the arm of the couch to grind against them, especially if there are all kinds of half-truths and outright lies in the way. Especially if the whole thing is probably happening just because the amnesiac doesn't have anyone else and he's just grateful or something.

"So," Xander said, not finding any other words in his brain.

Spike raised an eyebrow, not leaning forward anymore, sitting back casually as if nothing had happened. He ran a hand through his hair, barely disturbing the tight blonde curls.

Xander was feeling horrendously guilty. He'd been lying about everything, and now Spike kissed him?

Hell. Maybe it was time to bring out the biggest gun, after all.

In the two weeks afterward, Spike didn't attempt to kiss him again, and Xander didn't have the nerve to make a move of his own.

Sure, once or twice they passed each other in the narrow hallway and Spike's gaze flickered down to Xander's lips and then quickly back up to meet his eyes, but they always sprang apart almost immediately to go their separate ways.

On Spike's nights off, when they were both home, Spike often spent the evening reading in the guest room – now his room – instead of watching television or otherwise interacting with Xander. He was almost like a ghost, insubstantial and evasive. Xander didn't know if he was hurt or embarrassed or – god forbid! – angry about what had happened…and about what had not happened but which Xander had wanted to happen.

As time went on, the guilt grew and built until it formed an unbearable mass inside Xander's chest. He was exhausted by