It's dark out, and Xander shouldn't be here. Here in Spike's crypt, at night, wanting him... wanting this.
"Come again, have you?" says Spike with a smirk, pulling his shirt over his head and shimmying out of his too-tight jeans. Xander looks at him, eyes sliding down over his muscled chest, slim hips.
"Yeah," says Xander quietly.
"Gonna get undressed or not, poof?"
"Hypocrite." Xander pulls off his shirt and pants.
"What are you talking about?"
"Here you are, doing this with me—look at you!—and you're calling me a poof?"
"So we're both a pair of bloody poofs, you happy?"
"No. I'm really not." Xander steps out of his underwear and sits down on Spike's bed.
"Oh." Spike makes a face. "So bloody sorry. Get over here."
"No."
"What?" Spike's voice is sharp and loud.
"No. I won't. This is fucking crazy." Xander turns and glares at Spike. "I'm not gay. And more importantly, I hate you!"
"Yeah..." Spike gives him a look. "That's kind of the point of a hate-fuck."
"Is that what we're doing?" Xander swallowed. "Hate-fucking?"
"Yup," said Spike. "Hate-fucking. I'm a bloody expert, after Angel."
"You—and Angel?"
"Yeah. So, we gonna do this or are you gonna go running home with your tail between your legs?"
Xander doesn't mean to say it. He really doesn't. "I'd rather have you between my legs."
"Of course you would, love. Now get over here."