Part IX

Brian hated hospitals. He hated that if he was in a hospital it meant something was wrong and there was no one he could do or shout at to get it fixed. The rhythmic drone through the speakers shuddered through his head, grey chairs bound in silver duct tape and Jesus, even the fucking paintings made him consider shoving a pencil through his forehead.

In short; hospitals fucking sucked, and Brian wanted to fuck and be sucked until his brains were spilling onto white tiles and the world left him in peace, if only for a moment.

"I'm going to get us some coffee," Mikey said eventually, hair ruffled and tell tale smudges around his eyes – he'd scrubbed the off the make-up with a towel in the car but you could still see it if you looked, pink brands of a fag for all the world to see. Luckily, nobody in hospitals really looked - they had other things on their minds. Things like warm gurgling red spilling through soft blonde hair. "He's fine," Mikey repeated for what, the fiftieth time in as many seconds?

"I know." Brian did know, logically. He knew those junkies, green skin and teeth, what were the dealers putting into good old fashioned acid these days?, had only given Justin a shallow cut with a cla … knife. Knife. Silver flash of a blade, not a claw, monsters weren't fucking real unless they had a bottle of jack in one hand and a mean left hook. Christ.

He looked around desperately, only saw fat nurses and a crusty old doctor. Nobody to distract him. He'd been here before – the night Justin was bashed, metal baseball bat to the head. Sitting here with a silk scarf stained with Justin's blood, head against the cool tile, swirl of colour, sickly sweet smell of hot copper pennies and … oh, well this was just a fucking lovely way to spend an evening.

"Justin said he'll be out after the stitches, mate." Brian looked up sharply, saw sprayed silver hair that hurt his eyes in florescent light. He didn't reply, didn't try to hide his analytical stare as the man slumped beside him, velvet of his dress sliding down the pleather chair. Cheap, squeaky pleather seating. Just what Brian needed to top off a hellish evening.

"How is …" Brian was never good with names, never really needed to learn names of tricks and old habits die hard. But the tattoo-- "Alex?"

"All right. Bad reaction to E, probably some GHB thrown in there for laughs. Whole sodding alphabet in his drink, so they had to pump his stomach. Keeping him overnight," Spike replied, words tight and skin pale. His lips looked the colour of faded coral:his lipstick smudged in a silver swipe across his cheekbone. Androgynous elegance with big ugly boots poking from beneath a soft black gown. Spike let his legs slide open, dropped his head back and exposed the perfect arch of his neck. Temptation, distraction, right there beside him. Opportunity to take, release from the shuttered clicks of the camera in his mind, shuffling through the images of dark hospitals corridors and whirring green beeps on a little black monitor.

"Brian?" his gaze snapped back to the blonde boy standing in the corridor.

A flippant, "Finally," was all Brian muttered as he slid to his feet and pulled a hand through his hair. Justin rolled his eyes and talked to Spike for a minute, asked him how Alex was, but Brian didn't care enough to listen. He had more important things to think about – like how his eyes were inexplicably drawn the criss cross of black stitches in Justin's arm. Stupid little fucker got in the way of the knife when he should have moved and let Brian take it. He'd taken worse, probably deserved it. Justin didn't.

"Take your boy home, he looks like shit," Spike said. It wasn't until they got into their apartment that Brian realised he'd been talking to Justin.

Xander hated hospitals. Didn't take a genius to figure out why. Insurance companies probably had his name in big block capitals in every office in the northern hemisphere with the words "Don't Insure This Moron" placed neatly beneath his picture – after all, he was in the hospital at least once a week.

Cut in my leg? Slipped on a loose tile. Broken nose? Run in with a door. Oh, the canine shaped puncture wounds on my neck and shoulder? Overly enthusiastic hamster – rabies shot? Uh, did I say hamster? I meant overly enthusiastic boyfriend. Yeah, I'm pretty sure he doesn't have rabies, thanks.

Excuses, evasive tactics and outright lies had all lead to helping his new career as Xander Harris, master bullshitter. However, this was probably the first time in years Xander didn't have to lie to the pigs in suits. Coppers. The Fuzz. Xander was also beginning to realise he was steadily being assimilated to the scone eating, soccer playing nation - because seriously, he'd never thought of cops as 'The Bill' before he'd been shoved into a small room with a certain bleached bastard. Damn Spike and his stupid BBC, with the gardening, home improvement and East Enders.

So, back to the 'not lying'. He had spent an hour giving descriptions of the man who had passed him the drink (about 5'6, white, blonde, didn't ask for his name), trying to recall his new address (apartment 34B, Christoff building, Liberty Ave.) and ignoring Spike's snorts of disgust and muttered comments at his stupidity for accepting the drink in the first place ("think you'd have bloody well learnt something after all this time").

After they'd left, Spike had seemed to work himself into a fury and demanded a reason for why Xander had been such an idiot. Well, actually, his version had a lot more snarling and expletives (not all in English) but 'idiot' was the TV friendly version. Xander hadn't replied, just pulled his underwear on and glared miserably at the only pair of trousers available – tight, uncomfortable, stains down the front. Not to mention the shirt that was stained and ripped, totally unsalvageable. Spike had flung a bundle of loose clothes at his chest without a word, picked up his skirts and stomped outside. Which was actually a pretty funny sight.

Spike had caught his arm on the walk home, tight and painful as he hauled Xander upright a moment before he fell. After three tumbles Spike grabbed him and pulled him to his side, falling into step and letting Xander use him as a crutch. The only thing he said the whole way back was "not a sodding word", so Xander decided it may be a good idea to try that whole 'quiet contemplation' thing.

On the first day back at the apartment, not word between them. Sure, they'd publicly been the battered couple, were still the prettiest poster children for 'resilient monogamy' on Liberty Ave, hot and possessive. Behind closed doors there was only civility. Spike would ignore him for hours then politely inform him he was stepping out to get a drink with cold distance. Alex would reply with similar indifference, sipping on a warm beer. Xander would quietly freak out. On the second day of silence he would have given his other eye to get a snarl, an insult, a hurled inanimate object in the vicinity of his head … something to show Spike cared.

It wasn't until the third evening that Xander found the tube of edible silver body paint sitting at the back of the fridge. That? Was pretty intriguing. When he pulled it out, he found that some had already been used. Now, that? Was downright titillating. He sat heavily on the couch, ignored the spindly Ikea legs whine beneath him, and let his eyes wander to the flickering pictures of Nate re-decorating Oprah's wardrobe, like any self respecting gay man was required to do. Xander was dutifully noting that Nate had a nice ass when the door was flung open and Spike stormed past him. Looking wet and slippery.

"Terribly weather we're having," Alex said, calm, sardonic and ready to let a few hours pass before the subject of the edible body paint was addressed. Xander watched Nate's ass and tried really hard not to notice Spike flinging his soaking shirt onto the floor, now half naked wet and slippery standing far too close for comfort.

"I didn't notice," Spike replied, sarcasm dripping to the carpet with the beads of rain. Alex smirked, Xander gulped, both considered the psychiatric bills for multiple personality disorder were going to be a bitch. Spike walked to the fridge, probably intending on pulling out a pack of AB positive. Opportunity knocked, Xander nearly fell over himself as he ran to the door to oblige.

"Looking for something silver?" he asked, clicking the television to mute. Spike froze. "Don't even try and claim you like it on toast. That didn't work with the strawberry lube, either," he continued, raised eyebrow and leg propped on the table as he leant back, because two could play at that game.

"Used it for slap at the parade," Spike replied, rushed words as he crossed his arms over his pale chest, halo of white curls and lips protruding in a pout of defiance. "Didn't have any lippie, so I used the body paint – edible, so I wouldn't catch something dire," spark of inspiration and lies painfully transparent. The eyebrow rose further and no words were required. Alex picked up the tube, twirled it in his fingers.

"Looks like you've been hiding things, partner. You know, you've been really quiet since I talked to the cops about my little … adventure. Wanna talk about it?" a challenge had been issued, sharp and mocking. Spike's expression slipped into something else, something harder, smoother.

"I can hide whatever I like, Alex. This partnership is professional – get paid, fed and the soul's wails are smothered when I'm off saving people and the like. You know that, you knew it well enough when you went to get yourself a piece of fun with that wanker at the club. This isn't real, remember? We aren't real." hiss of anger betraying the customary sneer.

"No need get all existential on me," was probably the most cowardly answer Xander had ever come up with, but his mind was still trying to wrap around the words. Because Spike sounded oddly … well, jealous was a word that sprang to mind. It was only when Spike began to walk towards him that Xander realised he had no idea what else to say.

"But do you really want to know, baby?" menace with every step, muscles tense beneath his skin and Xander sat up, remembered what Spike was, soul or no soul.

"No …"

"I bought it that night and smeared it down my chest …"

"Spike, I don't want to …"

"… down my cock, Xan, just for you …"

"God, Spike …"

"… always for you – was going to show you that night until you decided you wanted some stranger's hands on you instead of mine. And you don't see it, because you're so fucking blind - tell me, did the monster take your other eye too?"

"… I couldn't know! You never told me …"

"Of course I fucking told you! I kissed you, held you, screamed at you, bled for you. But you never looked, never wanted to see …"

"… would you stop interrupting me?!"

"Why, so you can interrupt me?!"

And just like that, something switched. They were both on their feet, bristling energy and a crackling charge moving through the air around them. He didn't have time to dodge the punch, and Spike was too wrapped up in himself to expect the kick that knocked against his leg and sent him crashing to the floor. They scratched punched and bit, hellcats writhing on the floor, primal and pulsing. Xander's shirt was ripped off, teeth scraping across his chest and his fingers were tangled in coarse hair, head thrown back as cold hands settled across his thighs, pulled at his jeans and tugged them open roughly.

Alex was already wondering about what the Boss would say, assessing how this new development would effect their dynamic and the mission. Xander was far too distracted by the tongue dragging on muscle to worry about anything at all. Neither noticed the cell phone's insistent ring – some things would have to wait.