A Changing Perfect AU story Time line : Set about four months after the disastrous attempt to raise Buffy. AN1@starmail.com Disclaimer : They're not mine - Joss Whedon and several large companies made and own them - I 'm just playing.

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This isn't getting any easier. Xander moaned quietly, his internal dialogue spinning round and round that tight mental circuit of 'why do we bother' and 'it's our duty'; 'we can't do this' and 'we must, or what's the point'.

He used a convenient bit of statue to pull himself up again, and turned back to the fight just in time to see Spike finally get a good hold on the vampire that had been throwing them around. Long enough for Giles to get a stake into him, at least, and that's all that's needed - high kicks and witty repartee are just so many frills. Refinements we can't afford any more. Shaking his head at least as much to try and shake his thoughts out of that well-worn rut as to shake off the effects of the fall, Xander returned to the others. Without words, they continued along their path through the cemetery - the final leg of the night's patrol. Reaching the gates, they were joined by Tara, clambering down from her vantage point on the gate tower, shaking her head to their unasked question - more to fight here? Nothing I can sense. Was it only months? It felt like the tattered remains of the Scooby Gang had been making this circuit forever, each action too routine to need words any more, and precious little to joke about to fill the aching quiet.

The quartet headed back, still in silence - the three men walking Tara back to Revello Drive, then past Giles' apartment block, leaving Spike to walk Xander home. Of course, for weeks now their path had taken them though a couple of bars and at least one liquor store on the way, and after a while it seemed pointless to be getting numbingly drunk alone. By gradual stages it had become part of the routine for the two of them to end the night with a bottle or two, in Xander's echoing apartment, a nightly ritual of acknowledged grief and shared exclusion.

Which is where they ended now, the first stages of warmth humming pleasantly from the rough whisky already drunk, the familiar brace of bottles knocking together as Xander key-carded the lock and mockingly invited the vampire in once again, throwing a courtly bow that wobbled only a little.

"Pray enter, Sir Spike"

"With welcome, Sir, with welcome. I come bearing gifts"

"Gifts of my own purchase, knave"

"Gifts of my carrying, whelp"

A wry look passing between them as they acknowledged the weakness of these patterned words, no energy behind the formula now. Ritual complete, Spike made for the sofa, reaching up an arm to catch the shot glasses Xander tossed across from the kitchen on his way past to the bathroom. Emerging a few minutes later swallowing down a handful of pain pills, he dropped onto the chair facing Spike, and accepted the full glass passed to him.

"This is pretty far gone, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"Taking your aspirin with whisky - not exactly the recipe for good health"

"If you had the good health you wouldn't be doing it, would you?"

"True enough and it's not hurt me yet"

Xander raised his glass in a mock toast, and knocked it back.

"How many you taken?"

"Erm, some?"

"Some meaning more than the recommended?"

"Some meaning a handful, which tends to be more than two, yes."

An uncomfortable beat of silence.

"You ok?"

And more irritated by the mother hen-ing than shocked that Spike was showing open concern for his health, given that neither of them had had a great deal of energy to dedicate to their running battle for weeks now. Xander sighed exaggeratedly, his tone rough, suddenly sounding older than he had the chronological right to.

"Well, apart from the cuts, bruises, sprains, mind numbing exhaustion, and oh, yeah, the bleeding ruin where my heart used to be, things are just peachy Fangless - can you just fucking leave it, please"

"Just asking - you don't always need the pills too"

"Yeah, well, got up close and personal with the gravestones tonight. Shut up and drink, ehh? Or fuck off and leave me to suffer in peace. One or the other."

And as Spike finished off his next full tumbler in a single move, slamming the glass down with a flourish as he stood, Xander thought he had actually managed to get him to leave. Which is why he was surprised when the irate vampire made for the bathroom instead. Following him Xander leaned against the bathroom door, a question writ large on his face, as he watched Spike rummaging around in his medicine cupboard. Sensing his presence, Spike spoke without turning round :

"Get your shirt off"

"What!?"

After the shock of that night, those months ago, neither of them had made any mention of those minutes of comfort in each other's arms. Each seemed determined to pretend it had never happened, resuming their bouts of verbal warfare with as much intensity as ever, as much as they could muster while still getting through the day to day. And the lull of routine had carried them closer to being friends - an agreement in their cups that they shared a battered bleeding vision of what should have been, of what they'd lost. But the memory of waking, naked in the vampires bed, and of the torrent of emotions he'd unleashed by touching that skin with just his one hand was still very much in Xander's mind as he stepped back, outraged and more than a little scared. This wasn't how the pattern of their evenings panned out.

"Relax, Harris - not like I'm about to jump you"

Spike raised a hand to show the dark glass bottle of oils Tara had given Xander, herbs and charms to speed healing and ease pains.

"Just thought this might help a bit is all. Got no moral objection to you drinking yourself to an early grave, so long as you share the booze, but don't really want to hear you whining along the way. So, shirt off."

Feeling faintly embarrassed by his over-reaction, fuzzy from the whisky in his stomach, Xander couldn't quite think of a reason not to, so decided to stop worrying about it, and headed back to the living room for another glass. Didn't even bother to resist overly when Spike grabbed his arm and directed him over to one of the counter stool instead of the familiar comfort of the sofa.

"Off"

Spike tugged at his T-shirt, reminding him what he was doing. Careful not to think about it too hard, Xander lifted his arms, and couldn't stifle the yelp that came with the pain. Spike shook his head, exasperated.

"Harris - let me"

And Spike took the shirt, carefully, so Xander didn't have to pull either arm behind his back to be rid of it. He nodded his thanks to the vampire, who'd stepped back a pace, looking him over slowly. Not the most comfortable of feelings, that, but soon enough forgotten when he stepped back, and laid one cool hand on Xander's heated shoulder blade.

"That where you got friendly with the masonry?"

"One of the places, yeah - feels like I pulled something"

And Spike, all business, reached across Xander to the counter, opening the bottle, and pouring himself a generous palm full. They were assaulted by the spicy smell of the oils - balsam and wintergreen, and cedar, and cinnamon for warmth. Spike could probably have made out most of the ingredients, but Xander was just hit by an inviting wall of scent. Jumping a little as Spike poured the chilly oil onto his skin, Xander was soon back to concentrating on just staying vertical. Behind him Spike worked the oil into the bruised skin, using practiced strokes of both hands, spreading the oil over his whole back, thumbs working circles down the spine, fingers flowing over ribs in a constant stream, palms circling carefully over the shoulders.

By now Xander was leaning forward, using the counter to support himself against the rhythmic pushes of Spike's actions, sighing gently as the firm movements took care of tweaks and knots, hissing occasionally, to warn when the vampire was over a sore spot. He was lost between the alcohol warming his blood, and the oiled hands warming and soothing his skin, barely awake, and falling into the sheer pleasure of being touched again - too long now since his skin had been touched by anyone except himself. No one left to touch him, really. Dawn, of course, when he could face going to that house to pick her up, the occasional touch on the shoulder from Giles. It made him feel trapped sometimes, trapped in his skin, with no one to share it with any more. And this, this soothing rhythmic kneading, this caring and touching, this was good. His head sank lower, pillowed on his arms and his signs and half-murmurs slowly faded out.

Spike kept up the languorous rhythm of stroking and squeezing, enjoying it almost as much himself - too long since he'd had someone to care for, something her could fix. Dawn's problems were too much for him, too mixed in with his own, her coping methods too alien to him sometimes - distraction about all he could provide there, distraction, protection - maintenance more than anything positive he thought sometimes. But this was something he could do, something that would actually help. Not to mention something that held it's own pleasures - the botanicals mixing with the sharp scent of sweat and the honey-warmth that was Xander's signature. He was focussed on the sensation of the cool oil being heated by the bruising blood he could feel spreading under his fingers - rich and pulsing loose under the skin. Absorbed in the sight of the oil, fading opaque as it mixed with the sweat, then leaving a burnished shine on that skin, rippling slightly under the pressure of fingers, almost glowing under the kitchen spotlights. Desperation and drink might be taking it's toll on the man, but Xander's still so tempting; muscle, and rich skin over broad bones - tanned but traced with healing scars, the fading bruises of other nights.

Fascinated by the patterns the oil was making, Spike was lost, hypnotically tracing patterns, easing muscles automatically through long practice, moving in regular swirls, then paddling up the outer back and sweeping down the center. Then pushing side to side, like a dog digging his way into Xander's chest from behind, pushing finger tips along the channels between ribs. Leaning across his back to reach the oil bottle, Spike kept contact with one hand while the fiddled open the lid with the other, pouring out another slick, direct onto the gleaming shoulders before him, before returning to his rhythm, stroking, circling, kneading. Following the oil forwards, stroking down muscled arms to bring the drips that had fallen forward onto the folded arms back into the whole, circling fingers around those arms, pinching the ridge of knotted muscle along the top of the shoulder. Running oil lightly up into the hairline, circling either side of the base of the skull, sending quiet shivers through the object of all this attention, even in his sleep.

That reaction seemed to bring Spike back to himself: his movements speeding slightly, back to business, and soon finishing, running oiled hands up the underside of his arms, and down his sides, coming to rest on his waist for a moment before Spike stepped back. Looking down at himself he noticed the oil stains from pressing against Xander to reach the oil. With a frustrated flick of an eyebrow, Spike stripped off the t-shirt, wiping his hands on the crumpled material, and tossing it into the corner of the kitchen, near the washing machine. Leaving Xander asleep at the counter, Spike swung on his duster over naked arms, quietly picked up the remaining bottle of whisky, tucking it in one pocket, and the smaller bottle of oils in another. With a last look at the sleeping figure, he slipped out, closing the door silently behind him. Outside he could be seen to run one hand through his hair, while the other reached for the cigarettes in his back pocket. Shaking his head and lighting up, he strode away, black and gleaming white under the street lights. If anyone had been watching,