Chapter Eight

Xander's hand was green and there were colours swimming in dots on his shirt. That, he reasoned, was Not Good. When the floor started to dance without him and the black swirling colours clashing with silver started to circle his head, he started to realise that this was in fact Really Not Good, and possibly of the demon variety, which would suck because there was no way Spike could accomplish a high kick wearing the dress. Unless he were to hike it up his knees and … oh, unseemly thoughts.

Actually, the unseemly thoughts had pretty much began when Spike had caught him staring as they checked the perimeter of the club and had struck a pose, moment of intensity and silver slices upon black as though he'd fallen from the moon. Then he'd wiggled his pink tongue and sneered "Like what you see, Harris?" and Xander shook hands with familiar old Sexual Tension, a solemn little man who reveled in Xander's suffering. Usually, Xander would turn away and banish the naughty thoughts, because he didn't want to think of Spike that way, because he was an I evil, soulless demon /I and dammit, if Xander didn't have his principles he didn't have anything. So. He'd followed through with the ritual, snark and distain as he turned on his heel and ignored the bulge in his trousers, tried to forget the velvet sliding across pale skin and the unholy balance of cruelty and innocence. Because he had his principles.

Odd how suddenly, as his hand turned green and the world slammed around him, principles seemed very, very dull.

His arms left tracks in the air as they moved, his hips tingling with warmth that spread to his back and almost felt like hands on his ass, grinding friction against his front … well, it may have been the dancing or the two men either side of him looking pink as they played a fun sort of game with Xander's groniy area. Which was fine with him. Mainly because the music wasn't too loud, his feet didn't hurt and he was recording West Wing , so Old Fogie Xander had turned into Groovy Alex, he of the grooves, smooth skin and trousers way too low on his hips. This was utter distraction. This was fun. And actually, a little painful when he felt himself being yanked to the left, cool rush of air before a thump of contact with a soft black caress and a face carved out of marble.

"Are you wearing any underwear?" he breathed into Spike's ear, sloppy wet tongue stripe against the cool skin that glistened purple. Xander supposed this was probably all to do with Pride as there he'd never seen such a rainbow of colours that all seemed to pirouette over surfaces. Wow, ballet references. The Gay was leaking into his thoughts now, even his metaphors, precious slices of amusement to push him through the day were being lost to the pink fuzzies. Or was that a band?

"Never wear underwear around you pet – know you like it," came the coy reply, loud enough to be heard, eruption of catcalls and roving eyes that made the air shimmer and move like water through the club, sliding in and out of Xander's mouth. Like air fucking. Oh, back with the unseemly now, and still not quite able to regret it.

"What's wrong with you? Told you not to drink anything, we're supposed to be on top form tonight," Spike hissed in his ear, strong arms around his hips, moving up towards his chest which was frustrating because Xander wanted the hands to move I down and … "You're high?" Spike spat, fury now, barely reigned as he roughly pulled Xander up when he started to find his feet sinking into the floor. "You lecture me on responsibility for four fucking hours , you convince me to wear a frock, you tell me not to drink tonight and you get high?!" Spike's voice had risen now, sharp edge and a bitter ring. It all seemed a little silly – like he was overreacting. It wasn't as though he'd never got drunk when they were supposed to be working. It wasn't as if he'd never moved on the dance floor, undulating under lights and hands, taunting and teasing, eyes flicking to Xander's with a pointed grin. No. Bad thoughts, made him feel annoyed and Xander wanted to be Groovy Alex, wanted the men back, wanted to be worshipped, adored and holy fuck his hand was green.

Xander pulled his eyes back up, watched Spike's mouth form words but couldn't quite hear them, soft silver smudge against metal curl on his lip, colour blending, making him look like some sort of furious ghost. Xander watched his hand (the notgreen one) drift up to Spike's shoulder and pull back the thick material, pull it down so he could see the bare muscled arm and the name written on it. Alex's. Not Xander's. Ah. Mood killer right there.

"What did you take? Xa … Alex, what did you take?" sharp sting on his cheek and hey, did Spike just slap him? Oh, he'd pay for that one, Xander was a grown up now – Zeppo carefully hidden and wrapped beneath layers of clothes that didn't blind you to look at, beneath a tanned toned exterior that could seriously kick ass when ... alright, ow.

"Enough with the bitch slapping!" too tired to be really angry, mumbled protest as his head spun ans the Groovy Happy Fun started to make him feel a little sick. He wanted to sit down. Preferably in an ice block. With a stock pile Tylenol.

"Is he okay?"

"Someone call an ambulance!"

"Xander, what did you take?" deliberate words snapped into his ear as he felt his legs do the whammy on him and give out. Oh. Hello Mr. Floor, soon you may meet Madame Vomit – but first, meet Xander's face.

"… and all hell broke loose. Was terrified," Spike said sincerely, bovver boots on the hospital bed and the end of his dress draped over the sheets.

"You were worried about me?" Xander croaked, eyebrow raised and a pointed cough when Spike fiddled with his cigarette packet.

"Who said anything about you? I saw a six foot four, part demon Marilyn Monroe hike her skirts up and kick the shit out of a Turalag demon. Was one of the most fucking terrifying sights of my unlife. Glorious, though - you wouldn't believe how easy it is to puncture a lung with those red heels," he said, eyes averted to the wall, uncomfortable shift in his seat.

"Aw," because recovering from a spiked beer or not (never going to drink again – or at least for a week), Xander could always pull off the sarcasm. "You were worried about me," attempt at laughter quickly smothered by more coughing. He felt like he'd eaten glass. Spike wordlessly passed him a plastic cup of warm water, small shrug when Xander stared at him over the rim of the cup.

"Having a pipe shoved down your throat ain't fun. Unless of course, there's an excitable lass pouring blood and tequila into the pipe," he said nostalgically. Xander winced.

"Kinky," he said, twist of his mouth as he fought a smile.

"Says the lad who nearly fucked a praying mantis," prepared reply, like he anticipated the answer. Spike often guessed the next words, the next quip. They both did that. Probably because they spent way more time with each other that would be considered healthy. The silence continued, no tension there, but still charged. Always charged.

"So these three Turalag demons tried to …?" he asked, voice slightly less scratchy and a little too loud as he handed the cup back.

"Just the usual. Open up the Hellmouth, portal of doom, all that rot. Got no sodding imagination, Turalag. Just stormed into the back room and started the ritual. Old Marilyn and I kicked up a storm, got everyone out and believing they were some morons on LSD," Spike said dismissively, bored appearance betrayed by the gleam in his eyes that appeared after a good dose of violence. "The lads in the backroom got quite a shock – were really caught with their pants down," he added, the pun so bad Xander could only groan and narrow his eyes.

"Spike! You'd better not be making him groan in there like I think you are – the doctor said he needed rest!" Debbie called through the door, muffled voice as she knocked. Spike grinned,

"Boy just needs some exercise, Deb," he said as she walked in, arms laden with a basket of flowers. She set them down by the bed, kissed Spike's cheek as she went past, flurry of movement and ginger hair, warm affection tangible as she rubbed her lipstick off Spike's cheek and he looked perfectly happy to let her. They were smitten. Xander noted that and vowed to tease Spike about it. Later.

For now, he prepared himself for motherly bustling and talk of how much Mariana sauce she was going to feed him when he got better.