Chapter Six

"Stop picturing it," Xander snapped, not looking up from making himself a sandwich. Peanut butter and jelly – the only kind he could make without having to protect it because Spike had declared P&B sandwiches to be "foul and more disgustingly devious than Darla, may her not-soul suffer in flames."

"Stop picturing what?" Spike asked, and he didn't even try for innocent this time. Just smirked, shut his eyes and started picturing it again, humming Cradle of Love, Billy Idol, something he usually sang in the shower and wow, did Xander hate that he knew that.

"Stop it, freak!" he threw a spoon as that was the first thing that came to hand, but it bounced off Spike's chest and clattered to the floor uselessly. Stupid cutlery. Stupid cutlery for not making Spike bleed, stupid keys for being lost again (on to you, Keyius), stupid peanut butter being the smooth kind instead of the crunchy kind he liked, stupid … Xander ran out of stupids and settled for glaring. "I mean it, Spike. Quit imagining it," he said, low threatening voice and calculated stare that he held for four seconds – long enough to be menacing.

"Can't control my mind. Can't help if I see you in all sorts of compromising positions with Rupert," Spike said lasciviously, waggling his eyebrows. Xander threw the jar of peanut butter. Spike caught it. Xander was far too tired to try and hurl something else, so words became his friends.

"Giles is like my dad!" Xander grumbled wincing as the image of Giles, hair wild, glasses on the floor, licking sharp scotch off his lips, running his fingers over … nonono, stop, bad thoughts, Father Figure.

"Like your dad, perhaps. But he isn't. Therefore, fair game. After all, Angel was sort of like my Grandda for a while and we certainly fu …"

"Stop, now," Xander said, a tad on the hysterical side now as he squished his sandwich and concentrated very hard on Not Thinking.

"Strike a nerve, dear," Spike sneered, sneered because that was his thing and Xander just knew this was revenge for what had happened the night before.

"Are you still pissed about that thing I said to the guys?" Xander asked through a mouthful of sandwich and a determined chorus of 'Giles is a father figure, Giles is a father figure,' chanted through his brain.

"What thing?" Spike asked, seeming utterly unperturbed to the causal observer. Xander wasn't a casual observer, not anymore. He noticed the way Spike inhaled a little more sharply when he lifted his cigarette to his lips, the slight tightening of his jaw.

"The thing where I told them you were the bottom, that you acted tough but actually was the one who gagged for it, no pun intended," he replied calmly and they both knew it so was intended. He leant against the kitchen counter, cool and collected with a hint of bemusement – oh yeah, Alex was so very good at this.

"M' not annoyed. Why would I be? I know it's not true, I'm never a bottom," flick of the cigarette, ash on the kitchen floor and Spike shifted so that his boots were on the table. All designed to irk Xander, to make him the vulnerable one – but for once, he could see it.

"No?" Xander replied placidly, setting the sandwich down. This was a battle of wills, a challenge of sorts, one he couldn't afford to lose. Spike smirked the smirk, the one that was hard, unflinchingly cruel, the one he always flashed before he said something truly horrendous.

"No. Just ask Buffy," he said, flicking more ash onto the floor, blowing the smoke directly at Xander's face. Baiting, triumphant look in his eyes because this was The Thing that sat between them, The Thing that had prompted Xander to leave Sunnydale in the first place. Xander knew that in that specific moment, he could kill Spike and never look back, move to Asia, get a new job and send the Boss a postcard.

But Xander wasn't playing this game, Alex was. So, he smiled, leant in until he was inches away from Spike's face.

"Know why Buffy felt so guilt-ridden Spike? Because she was taking advantage of a helpless animal, one who begged to be beaten just so he could be touched," he whispered.

The silence was deafening. Spike leant in closer still so that his eyelashes brushed across Xander's cheek like a dying moth and their lips touched, but didn't meet.

"I got over her. You never will," he panted, voice brittle, eyes shut and they were kissing as he spoke, hard and uncaring kisses that bruise in the morning but there was that screaming charged heat and …

Xander's cell phone rang.

Spike pulled back with a jerk, knocking his chair over as he swept out of the apartment, slamming the door so hard it shuddered on its hinges. Xander was left standing alone, confused and miserable with a raging hard on caused by a guy he was supposed to hate. "Wow," he muttered sardonically, "It's just like high-school."