Chapter Ten

In three hours, Xander had discovered more things about Spike than he'd ever wanted to.
He knew that Spike had extremely sharp elbows.
He knew that Spike loathed having his neck bitten, which contradicted just about every 'vampire sex theory' ever created.
He knew Spike said, "Jesus wept" just before he came.
He knew that Spike loved him.

He didn't know what to say.

He was a funny guy. He could twist words, abuse grammar, wiggle his eyebrows and voila, observe the funny. On the darkest days, in the bleakest hours, he could always find an odd voice within him whispering stupid jokes and lame lines to desperately try and hide his fear.

In recent years the whole concept of humor had warped and shifted without his knowledge. 'The Funny' had descended from dryly delivered self-deprecation to something sharper, darker. Silly throwaway lines had died a death back in Sunnydale and now he was the man of snide remarks. It was all to do with age; a touch of insanity and the illegal pain medication Noah had slipped him after losing his eye. Xander had submitted a part of him to Alex, a silly part he never thought he'd miss. However, as he sat in awkward silence in the apartment, watching Spike flick his lighter and glare at the ceiling, he would have given anything to regain the ability to break tension.

"So … I have carpet burn. Think next time we could aim for the bed?"

Perhaps not the best conversation starter, but it was all he could come up with.

He pulled his up his trousers and stared resolutely at a filing cabinet in the corner. There was a discoloured stain that was just this side of disturbing, 6 scratches in the paint and a very small spider. Xander decided to call it Ernie.

"Probably a good plan," Spike muttered.

"Yeah." Xander was didn't quite feel brave enough to turn his head to the left and see the pale skin with splotches of purple, teeth marks and spit, sex and … okay, back to Ernie the filing cabinet spider. It must be easy to be a spider – do a little sticky architecture, eat some flies on your lunch break, maybe meet a nice lady spider. Or a man spider, Xander was an equal opportunist, after all.

"Your mobile rang. When we were …" and Spike, who was supposed to be snarky and giving Xander pointers on his technique right about now, seemed to be having difficulty saying the word:

"Sex."

His cell rang again. Xander nearly leapt out of his skin.

"Alex …" squeaky voice! Bad vocal chords, bad fucking vocal chords! "Alexander," pitched lower, slick with professionalism. He could do this. He knew how to do this.

"I've been calling you for hours! Hours, Harris!"

Xander winced.

"Yeah, I was getting … I was busy with …"

"He was getting busy with it!" Spike pitched in helpfully, seeming to remember who he was. Xander threw back his elbow, aiming for a rib, but hit the corner of the coffee table instead. Spike snorted.

"We were at the club and the music was so loud I couldn't hear the phone .." a convincingly apologetic tone almost always worked on Jane.

"What, and pressing the 'vibrate' button was too much of a hassle? I've been working my ass off all night and you just had some fun with yours!"

"Jane, calm!"

"No Jane not calm, Tarzan. I was worried! The last time you forgot to answer your phone was when you got drunk in Portland and ended up making out with Hans and we all know how that turned out …"

"Not all of us do," Spike said, looking distinctly irritated. Xander grit his teeth and wondered if they could go back to that awkward silence thing. Emphasis on the silence.

"… with the bratwurst, which is both morally repugnant and unhygienic …"

"Jane! What did you need to talk to me about?" professional again and with a hint of desperation. There was a harsh sigh and a shuffling of papers, which signified that although she was still angry, something was more important. Something deemed more important that Jane's wrath could only mean: "apocalypse, huh?"

Awkward 'morning after' talk would have to wait.

Thank God for apocalypses.

"I escape one Connor only to be confronted with his greasy haired, snot nosed, angst ridden little twin," Spike growled over his coffee, eyes narrowed when Hunter walked in.

"You're just pissed because he thinks I'm hotter than you," Xander muttered, not even looking up from the information sheets Jane had faxed him.

"I'd like to introduce him to a Tulrag demon. They eat the bollocks of pubescent boys - when they're still alive and squirmy."

See, Xander knew he should be jumping in here to protest. But it was hard because he sort of thought it wasn't too bad of an idea.

"Hey Xander," Hunter purred, hip cocked, tongue flashing over his teeth. He glanced disdainfully at Spike, throwing out a grudging, "Hey."

Spike mouthed 'Tulrag' once more and nodded decisively.

"Hunter, I was wondering if you could help me with something," Xander began, pulling the photographs out of his briefcase (yes, briefcase, brown with initials engraved into the leather, tangible proof of his adulthood).

"I'll help you with anything blondie can't handle," Hunter leered, careless youth and self assured naivety that kept him being afraid of the man sitting to his left who could easily snap his neck. Who wanted to do so.

"Do you know any of these guys?"

Six photographs, six faces. Boys, pretty ones. Hard eyes and a sneer. Street boys, hustlers. Hunter would know them – he was one of them.

"Why the fuck do you want to know? Aren't you supposed to be at work?" Suspicion, well founded, because what bartender kept photographs of missing hustlers in his briefcase? And why would a bartender need a briefcase?

"I freelance as a writer - am writing an article about hustlers," Spike said smoothly. Hunter frowned, ignored him completely, and missed the click of Spike's jaw as he ground his teeth.

"Today's my day off. I'm helping with research – sooner he gets the work done, the sooner we can go clubbing and fuck," casual crudeness, a laugh. Worked like a charm.

"Oh," Hunter still didn't look keen but he glanced at the photos. "My memory's a little fuzzy," he said, expectant grin. Xander pulled out his wallet, handed over a twenty. Hunter snatched it, studied the photographs more carefully. "Carlos. That fucker owes me money," he jabbed at the first photo black hair, black eyes, no older than 16. His gaze shifted to the next. "Will," he narrowed his eyes, didn't see Spike flinch. "Total asshole, thinks he's the shit. All these guys do - they run east street in the warehouse district, kick the living fuck out of you if you take their spot."

"That's exactly what I needed to know."

"Anytime – we could discuss this some more in private," leaning in, shamelessness that Xander usually equated with Spike. Not that he'd ever tell him that.

"He has everything he wants, kid. Now why don't you go play like a good boy," Spike said sweetly, edge to his words that not even Hunter could ignore. With a "whatever," and a sneer, he left.

"All the kids are from the same street – the demons must be 'gathering the debauched for sacrifice' from the same area, so their nest is probably nearby," he said quietly, gathering his things.

"You trust that little sod's word? For all we know he could be working with them, setting us up," Spike whispered furiously.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Jealous of him?" the words out of his mouth before he thought it through. Spike narrowed his eyes.

"What do you think?" he snapped, utterly vulnerable though no less vicious.

For the second time that morning, Xander didn't know what to say. He sipped his coffee despite the fact that it had gone cold hours ago.