New Year's Resolutions

by Josie

Copyright © 2004

josie_h@yahoo.com

Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don't own the characters nor make any money from stories etc, and bow down to their original creators Joss, et al., plus all the wonderful online writers who continue to give the Buffy/Angel verse characters life.
Distribution: The Mystic Muse: http://mysticmuse.net
http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=rngrdead
Feedback: Very much appreciated.
Spoilers: Post series.
Author's Notes: Sequel to Five Golden Rings. If you don't like boys together, don't play here!
Pairing: Xander/Spike

He hadn't really been fooling himself…

This was all about feeling something…anything…

He always seemed to be so cold lately, you'd reckon he'd be used to it by now, but this was different, colder than even a normal 'room temperature' standard. It permeated everything, chilled him to the core and seemed to freeze his hard won soul. Inner pain and darkness with a side serve of utter physical emptiness.

Starved of touch for…how many years now? Forever? How long was that? Dru was never one to cuddle; Harmony had a closer relationship with her bloody stuffed unicorn than him; and the transient slap 'n tickle with the slayer was certainly not to be counted (him bein' the slappee 'n all!). There was some platonic affection with her pre his amulet wearing departure, and of course the last couple of days with the whelp. The return and whole non corporeal thing fed the craving for touch, highlighted by the beginnings of a reconnection with his sire. He had never told the surviving Scoobies of his return, not even Xander. After all what would he say? Hardly brothers in arms any more, those few stolen hours of closeness pre battle, then his 'glorious exit' probably best left as a treasured memory.

He twisted the wedding band he'd exchanged for his own rings on that last fateful night of the fight with the First, idly wondered if Xander still wore his and wished for the comfort of the two treasured reminders of his past. Regardless of the lapsed years, he still couldn't bring himself to make contact, hell the whelp probably had wife and kids by now…he'd only ruin it again for someone else he cared about.

His mind drifted to the months of threatened impending death courtesy of the senior partners (or whoever!) and the time when connections with others had faded again.

The final battle with the senior partners had been a joke – odds so far out of their favor that the only obvious ending was a Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid 'cover'. But then the tide had turned. Illyria had gathered some inter-dimensional strength, used it and disappeared into her self created dimensional rift as the ensuing blast obliterated the opposition. The dragon was vanquished by the 'hero of the hour' of course, but it had still taken Angel down – stupid ponce – he only had to wait a few seconds more and Illyria's fire would have changed everything.

Oh, they had survived alright, only later was it apparent that the depth of the dragon claw marks on Angel was not the issue. His sire had failed to heal at all the following night. He had collapsed the day after, vomiting blood and shaking violently, but dismissed the incident as an effect of residual exhaustion. Spike rang Andrew at the end of the fourth day when things took a turn for the worse, Angel apparently fitting then crying out in pain when Spike attempted to lift him to a sitting position.

The boy had come through on the research – but with no solution, just information. Dragon talons apparently carried a poison deadly to all creatures, including vampires, and there was no known antidote. It was a swift death for most, but courtesy of a vampire constitution, his sire was to be condemned to a slow and excruciatingly painful demise. It would possibly take a few weeks for him to dust, or if unlucky, a few months.

It was strangely comforting and unbelievably distressing to spend that time finding 'resolution' with his sire. They had talked quietly for hours – history, family, life and unlife, their women, and their own love/hate affair that had spanned one and a quarter centuries. Spike pleasured his sire while the older vampire was still able to respond – following each climax, both invalid and his attendant had sobbed through the twilight of 'coming down', not sated but holding to each other crying out the shared grief for lost ones, lost opportunities, and lost tomorrows. As Angel's condition notably worsened, they began to grieve in advance for the loss of…everything.

Two months from the fateful night, the dark vampire was emaciated almost to a point of being unrecognizable and was no longer able to muster the strength to feed, even when presented with the dripping, open wrist of his childe. He sobbed silently for hours, excruciating pain taking away his ability even to scream, then had begun to repeatedly beg his grandchilde, in a barely audible whisper, to give him the dignity of dying in the embrace, and by the hand, of his 'favorite boy'.

Spike, knowing this to be the last gift he could possibly offer, had tenderly kissed the dark vampire for the final heartbreaking time with all the reverence one would bestow a beloved monarch. He then took a stake, placed it between their chests, held it in place with his 'wrong hand', and lovingly whispered goodbye to his creator. Choking back his own tears, he had grasped the wasted form of his grandsire around the shoulders with a adoring caress, and then used his own weight to drive the wood home in a last, desperate and deadly embrace.

He had spent the ensuing five days lying in the ashes of his maker, unable to think, let alone move. Then he simply got up, brushed himself down and walked from the apartment into the night without a backward glance.

He felt Dru's passing a couple of months later, though still had no idea how she had dusted. On that day, he had withdrawn from all contact, demon or human, adopting life as a hermit trapped by his own misery.

Six years on, found him in yet another damp basement apartment. He could afford better, with the ready cash flow from many investments these days. Angel had seen to that in his final weeks, transferring all the assets from AI and his 'Aurelian' Swiss bank accounts to Spike…But dark, dank and underground felt right…his mood was always dark and underground these days. The Spike of old was a gregarious, larger than life and undeniably social animal, it made his choice of subterranean solitary confinement seem even more fitting for his perpetual withdrawal and personal hell.

He was too thin, eating infrequently, smoking a great deal and inebriated often. After a century and a half, he'd concluded that feeling nothing was better than feeling hurt…No more deep wounds, no more rejection, no more fear…He knew he was a bad man, undead, not worthy of caring caresses, of loving. Everyone was dead or gone…or both.

The mantra was ingrained, Angelus left – he was the favorite childe, then nothing; Dru left – he was her prince, then so despised that a chaos demon replaced him; Buffy…Buffy was never really there, he knew that now; hell, even Harmony left; Angel he had only just found, and he'd left – albeit involuntarily. The only two times he had done the leaving was when he died – first as mortal choosing death in an alley over his dear mother. And second, to stop an apocalypse with his own blaze of light and destruction, leaving an ally he cared for deeply and only just taken as lover.

There was no killing any more except if he stumbled across a nasty whilst on a rare trip to buy blood, even those occasional fights had become a matter of physically reminding himself that he existed. He had been close to this desperate before, babbling confessions of angst and inner thoughts to 'the First' in a haze of insanity, starvation and sadness in a school basement. But this was far worse…This time there was just silence and he was utterly alone.

Now, somewhere in Boston, he lay staring up at another grey, blotchy ceiling complete with water stain in the shape of a fleeing elephant, and pipes that groaned and thumped at inopportune moments – it was always a bloody basement. People threw things they couldn't be bothered with into basements. They went down there when something was amiss with the plumbing or some such; or when there was a garage sale and they figured to rid themselves of the unwanted flotsam and jetsam in their lives.

He stared at the jumbo stain's 'flapping ears' and casually wondered if he was the 'flot' or the 'jet'…Finally fixing upon the thought that he was, no doubt, the 'Sam'. I am Sam, I am Sam, do you like green eggs and ham…oh Sod it He took another swig of the bottle in his hand, accidentally hit his front teeth with the rim of the bourbon, and began to giggle with the pain and his own obscure thoughts.

Strains of 'Away in a Manger' sung by a boy soprano drifted down from an apartment above him and his chortle became a hitched sob. Christmas again, years merged then dropped away as the memories flooded in. He dropped the bottle, curled up on the decrepit couch and cried in earnest for the fourth time that day.

Xander lay on his back staring at the ceiling of his room of his now 'single occupant' apartment.

The bed was cold, he was cold. For all the success at work, and acceptance back into the 'normal world', he felt empty and cold.

He'd all but decided to leave relationships alone for good now. "Gay me up Willow" had been the glib line delivered with good humor to his favorite Wiccan. It had been kind of appropriate for that moment, but he didn't think that in all honesty anyone could love him now. Gender, age and apparently even species had no bearing on his unloveability. Hell even his own parents barely tolerated him. To date he'd had a few 'anyones' from of each of the categories in his 30+ years. But there were two that held profound sadness when remembered.

He had stood on the edge of the crater that was Sunnydale, and publicly yet quietly, grieved for Anya, then later, alone and away from the abyss, privately and extremely loudly, mourned Spike. Both losses made more acute by the apparent willingness of the survivors around him to seem so eager to forget their dead demon friends, and so at ease with 'moving on'.

Andrew's heartfelt description of Anya's heroism had touched him deeply, and he had taken some comfort in knowing that her end had been swift. Not so for Spike it seemed. Buffy's explanation of his beloved vampire sharing a poignant moment then beginning to burn up, had Xander conjuring pictures of tortured witches with flames licking at their hair from Inquisition accounts in the watcher's books; of TV images showing self immolating priests dying in public view, protesting the Vietnam war; of screaming victims trapped and burning in countless scenes from Hollywood 'B' horror movies. Endless terrifying scenarios had played out nightly in torturous dreams and daily in his worst thoughts, for months after the averted takeover by the First.

Eight years later, they were the occasional companions that plagued him when stressed and alone, or momentarily distracted by the sight of a leather duster, platinum hair, or smell of bourbon, cinnamon and tobacco.

He had left the group of survivors shortly after the battle, choosing anonymity and relative solitude over a life as perpetual 'donut boy' and handy man repairer of all things. Giles had offered him a place at their newly established 'HQ' in England, promising relative luxury and 'loving' company of what remained of the Scoobies for as long as he would care to stay. Even suggesting Xander might try his hand at 'watching', the offer firmly rejected even before the former librarian had finished speaking.

Instead, he used his cut of the "Federal Disaster Fund" for Sunnydale's 'earthquake' victims to finance his move to the relative safety of suburban Sacramento. Building was still his thing – project management his forte. Dedicated and thorough, everyone knew Harris was available 24/7, his workaholic behavior put down to the welcome drive of a 'young and hungry exec.' in the post dot.com era of improved property investment and construction 'frenzy' in the area.

When others inquired of his personal life 'status', vague references were made to loved ones, the 'quake' and grieving periods. Eight years on, a few of his colleagues began to puzzle over their rather enigmatic workmate. Xander was well liked as personable, capable and intelligent; his management style seen as efficient and fair; but he always left functions first or 'found something to do' at parties to provide a plausible reason to retreat from contact.

Currently Xander sported a beard, trimmed and 'goatee' style, but definitely edging toward pirate. His eye patch itched occasionally, and vague memories of picking up a certain dearly departed vampire on his 'pirate speak', always caused him to twist the two 'borrowed' rings in habitual succession. The familial ring and the Aurelian seal were exchanged with Spike for his own plain band as a promise and sign of hope all those years ago, now they were sported as a sign of inner pain and posthumous respect.

At the moment Xander wasn't sleeping properly; his lean form reflecting the lack of desire to eat adequately or work out regularly; his ever present thoughts that he let down everyone who counted in one way or another fed a deeply entrenched guilt and self loathing. The 'all's great' capable work exterior crumbled in private to reveal a 'needy and naïve' underbelly and he felt ashamed of that weakness too. So he strove harder to be successful in public and hid the rest…

Tonight he had escaped a party early, citing a second commitment and departing with good natured smiles. As he entered his airy apartment, Xander was reminded of the main character from the movie 'Fight Club'. He too had the quintessential Ikea décor with the hand made 'whatevers' and neutral tones. Though he was hardly a 'Tyler Durden' having no intent to hit anyone again – ever – too much violence past had resolved any need to 'do that'.

Keys were removed from the door and eyepatch tugged off, then both were casually tossed onto the dining table. Xander decided to obliterate all further thought for the night or at least to dispel the lonely ache and self doubt embedded after years of being alone, all too brilliantly highlighted by the party atmosphere he had just escaped. He sought an act of solo carnal relief and its associated oblivion. Even he admitted this to be his 'rescue' method to forget the ever present sense of emptiness. If only he and his toys could make the world go away for more than a few exulted minutes.

He showered, wandered into his the tastefully appointed bedroom and fell back on the king sized bed. As an afterthought, he flicked the television on to view a delayed broadcast of Christmas Eve 'Carols from Kings' celebrations…'Away in a Manger' was being sung by a single (no doubt famous) young boy soprano with choral backing. Xander thought of Christmases past and of the people from those times, all now lost to him. He 'took himself in hand', gently caressed until he came, then let tears of loneliness and regret flow as he gave in to sleep.

It was Christmas Day though nothing in his immediate surroundings gave any indication of the same. Vampire hours were now but a formality, it was always dark in his 'cellar', his demon's 'clock' and changing sounds from apartments above, being the only things to denote the passing of another sunrise.

He was writing again, strange really, and a significant effort for an individual so well ensconced in the 'dark end' of existence, but it passed the time. The writing was new, and had begun as yet another way of expunging the oppressive loneliness he lived with nightly, providing some form of catharsis for the guilt and devastation plaguing his dreams in the day.

It had begun with the simple act of reading - a method of filling meaningless days. After the 'big battle' he'd begun reading aloud to Angel, distraction for them both and using Angel's own collection 'classic' books. He was 'out and about' enough to keep it replenished when they had worked their way through all the favorites, but after the demise of…everyone…frequenting book shops or public libraries really was out of the question.

It was inevitable then, five years ago a computer had been procured – traveling with him as he moved basement to basement, the then 'state of the art' monstrosity, now replaced by a sleek laptop with 'hyped' hard drive and all the add-ons. No longer in need of lights to read, his blacked out abode shrunk even further to the nineteen inches of dancing text on screen, and that suited him fine. The surprisingly web savvy, former poet recognized and grasped onto the anonymity and near limitless source of text the medium offered. He had latched on to a few favored sites, joined a couple of writers' lists and proceeded to bury himself in cyberspace whenever possible.

It wasn't about connecting with anyone. It was about losing himself in stories, much as he did when still a mortal – but rather than the romantic fluff of the past, they were now extremely dark, torturous and harsh. The literature was generally chosen for the similar plot path, starting at unhappiness and difficulty, a meeting of friends and building of relationships, love blossoming, and more often than not, ending in disappointment and sadness, and only occasionally in a place of peace. Stories that made Dickens, Hardy, even Shakespeare, look like poster children for the joy and light of relationships!

Inevitably, he imagined himself as one of the characters, most often the 'taken' one, sometimes buoyed up by 'being' the favored slave, the beloved consort, even daring at times to relate to the role of the cherished mate and 'equal' partner in the plot. At other times he read of violence and being violated, picturing himself the recipient of torture and humiliating training, and wallowing in the desperation and pain of the character with whom he identified.

One bored, freezing evening in January he had begun writing. Initially it was a short if somewhat obscure lament to his sire. But the result was mildly satisfying and other longer essays followed, more historical documents than fiction, but inevitably any 'outside' reader would not see it that way. Posting the works on one of the writer's websites as a 'Bugger this, just let 'em know what pain is.' moments, he was utterly unprepared for the enthusiastic feedback his prose attracted.

Nineteen stories on, and Spike rarely responded to the notes of praise, even when he did, it was with a word or three at most: "Taa pet"; "Life s'all "; or "Appreciated".

History and fantasy were his forte, coupled with sex, violence, love, hate, gender and preferences varied, graphic detail enjoyed, and his most favorite stories always long and full of angst. The common threads of his writing were the themes - love, pain and disappointment.

He logged on – it was Christmas night after all, surely some other sad 'wanker' had nothing better to do than look at a screen.

"FB: Re: Manifest Spirits and Talisman

Hey NonPerson,

Loved your story…really struck a chord. (No accounting huh!)

Lovely Christmas gift!

Please write sequel.

Regards
Xanman"

Spike took an unneeded breath, re-reading the pseudonym, and then kicked himself. There was no reason to assume this was the friend he had lost on the night of his own 'obliteration'. Still…he wrote back an uncharacteristically long response.

"Re: FB: Re: Manifest Spirits and Talisman

Cheers for the thoughts,

Spark for Ch. 2 welcome.

Muse is dead.

NonPerson"

Spike then hit send, logged off, and retreated to the furthest dark corner of his 'home'. He curled into a ball on the floor, and stroked his own hair in a vain attempt to make old memories of his boy and sadness and loss disappear.

It was Christmas Day. There was no-one to comment and nowhere to go until noon when he would head for the Sacramento airport and fly to the east coast for a five day break. He was heading for Boston. His favorite Aunt Agnes had been buried in Boston. He 'owed her' a graveside visit at least, and besides it was the only reason he could muster for choosing anywhere in particular to visit, and spending holidays at home had definitely lost their appeal.

He pushed the bed covers back, though there was no imperative to rise early. No children to calm or family to visit, no partner to greet or party to attend. Work colleagues had been gracious and thoughtful, but he had politely declined all offers, thereby successfully avoided the 'sympathy luncheons' apparently on offer that day. Xander really could not face another 'day full of cheer' as the 'extra wheel'.

He remembered with regret, his own Christmas promise that was made to a friend years before, and wondered, as he did at this time every year, if there might have been some other way things could have 'played out'. He twisted the rings twice, then tugged the covers up again and attempted to find solace in unconsciousness for a few more hours. Sleep eluded him. It seemed obvious that there was to be no relief from those thoughts without distraction.

He hauled the laptop from the side table onto the bed. Reading in bed (online) a habit developed after the super light piece of digital mastery was foisted upon him as part of his latest 'work package'. The whole transferable workplace, and need for top-of-the-line connections and max. Capacity, simply feeding his already rather obsessive need to work.

The penchant for online literature had come later, ever the comic aficionado, he had never considered that reading more than a few hundred words without pictures of any interest.
His workplace role however, had 'pushed the envelope'. Tenders, proposals, reports, Emails, customer documents, all had their place and Xander had mastered them as required, then moved on to enjoy the written word in the literary guise.

Additional to his newfound 'love of the literary word', he had kept up with Willow and the crew on and off through a generic Email, but was really introduced to the 'joys of the net and downloads and literature' by the dear, though fleeting relationship with 'friend' Neil. They'd met at a conference, connected, 'danced', spent the night then parted company with the obligatory though false, 'I'll call you', the next morning. But Xander was still grateful for the time they had spent looking for 'inspiration' online and his partner-in-passing's pointers regards websites for 'good reading'.

So now it was December twenty fifth, and he was perched in the very middle of his own oversized bed. As was his habit, he'd propped the notebook computer up on the 'V-pillow', logged on and indulged in yet another story by a favorite author, NonPerson. And may we all take a moment to thank the lord of wireless technology for the speedy connection.

The last three or so years, had seen Xander read and dismiss hundreds of 'wannabe Anne Rice's. He'd actively reviewed and ignored similar numbers of 'horror movie script-writer' creations, plus been truly amazed (but no less disappointed) by the plethora of budding 'alternative writers' whose claim on Wiccan or vampiric lifestyle was 'joke worthy'!

Over the next hour or so he worked his way through the new story. It was the third of NonPerson's literature that Xander had read in the last month. His/her 'account of the unusual' read like the narrative in the style of Sleepy Hollow. Xander felt a strange sense of deja vus with some of the material but dismissed it as mere personal angst borne of his own misery and prompted by what he assumed was 'some pretentious language arts student's' successful attempt at 'disturbing'…Yet he still reserved some right to feel a little 'wigged', formative years spent fighting evil at the side of the slayer on a 'Hellmouth' and subsequent experiences, had given him ample knowledge of all things 'bump in the night', and to recognize serendipity for its more freaky consequences.

Reflecting on the content of this one, Xander again concluded that the stories by NonPerson really did seem different. He contemplated the possibility of it being from a former Sunnydale resident, then dismissed notion and opted to give feedback on his genuine enjoyment of the story rather than seek out the author's origins.

"FB: Re: Manifest Spirits and Talisman

Hey NonPerson,

Loved your story…really struck a chord. (No accounting huh!)

Please write sequel.

Regards
Xanman"

He hit send then logged off, rose from what now looked like a 'nest' mid-bed, packed and dressed quickly and headed for the airport.

A relatively uneventful trip, had still seen him near miss the Christmas night flight after a pileup on the in ramp for departures stopped his taxi some kilometer or so from the terminal. Amazed by the numbers of people moving on the holiday, he was never so thankful to have packed light as he jogged past families struggling up the walkway with the better part of a household worth of luggage.

Packing and unpacking his laptop twice was to be expected, but when he had to all but strip to his boxers to get through the security, he began to seriously wonder if staying in his apartment for the 'phone off the hook and pretend I'm not home' holiday option might not have been the better one.

He had booked a boutique hotel in the Back Bay area direct from the web, so was pleased to arrive to charming architecture, tasteful antique décor, and traditional seasonal decorations. The warm welcome from the concierge included an explanation of hotel facilities and invitation to dinner – apparently offered gratis to all guests staying Christmas night. Xander felt genuinely grateful for the last part, not really relishing the thought of seeking out a restaurant solo in the snow covered chill of the Boston evening.

His room was light and airy with vaulted ceilings and period wallpaper. A large four poster bed dominated the room, only obvious concession to 'modern day' - a tasteful en suite, but even this was complete with black and white floor tiles, huge iron bath and impressive washstand. He noted the mini-bar had been well disguised in one side of the dresser and smiled as he drew back the curtains to find a tiny alcove formed by windows with reading seat and cushions. A fireplace with 'real looking' gas log fire warmed the room, and two high backed brocade chairs and a footstool completed the look of 'authentic old world Boston'.

He took a moment to wonder sadly if a certain bleach blonde would have lived in these sort of sumptuous surrounds once, wished he was around to ask, then shook off the descent into morbidity with the determination to distract himself with a little city exploration.

Unpacking was a brisk affair, and minutes later he was wandering out of the ornate front doors of the hotel, dressed in dark blue knee length cashmere coat, scarf and gloves, and a hat complete with fuzzy maple leaf emblem, boasting a ski trip to Whistler.

It was approaching dark, so adventures to Bunker Hill or galleries would have to wait. Instead he wandered the narrow streets, occasionally stopped to read an historic marker and was somewhat relieved to discover a 'Tea House' still open.

He was virtually alone in the café and chatted amicably with the owner. Xander revised his plans for the coming days based on the 'local Bostonian knowledge', grateful when the woman located the Mount Auburn Cemetery on his rather inadequate the tourist map. She was obviously touched by a 'favorite nephew's pilgrimage' and sent him on his way with a paper bag filled with Christmas fare that consisted almost entirely of various chocolate products. In another life, at least one 'Snoopy dance' of joy would have been performed. The holidays really were looking up.

Following the amicable company of his fellow hotel diners, Xander returned to his room, flicked on his computer and logged on. For the first time in months, he really did feel like emailing Willow with some genuinely happy thoughts and his plans for the coming days. Eleven Happy Christmas messages later, he had turned down the sound to avoid yet another tinny rendition of "Rudolf…" and returned a short thanks and greetings to each sender. Then dutifully wrote a longer message to his friendly witch.

Before dropping the connection, Xander decided to check for new fiction on his favorite authors' group, but found instead a rather surprising message from NonPerson replying to his feedback. Having seen very few replies to any feedback from this rather enigmatic writer in the past, Xander was a little intrigued by the request for story ideas that this note contained. He felt quite buoyed by the idea that he had managed a tiny measure of rapport with this person, then pondered possible plotlines for some time. Not being a writer, he found the task to be surprisingly difficult and finally resorted to re-reading the first part of the "Manifest…" story again.

The fiction began with a shell shocked soldier returning from the trenches of World War I. It seemed to center on his struggle with insanity and his inability to distinguish real from dream causing him to constantly 'see' dead comrades and relive past horrors, forcing a retreat from the world altogether.

Xander realized that he desperately wanted the character to recover; for someone to 'break through' the soldier's terror; for the man to find love and a purpose and normality (whatever that meant back then).

Rather than posting the reply to the list, he wrote direct to NonPerson's Email:

"Dear NP

Suggestion for Ch 2. - Thinking some tough love might be needed?

- Fellow returned soldier 'finds him' camped in the warehouse – acquaintance from before war perhaps
- 'White Hat' gives him a place to live
- They start to connect

Hope that's enough.

BTW Season's Greetings from Sunny (not!) Boston

Xanman

PS
Not sure how to deal with the 'supernatural' stuff, but figure you're writing-guy (or girl?) so…"

Xander was uncertain whether to put the personal touches in the message but figured it could hardly offend, so hit send.

He logged off, flicked the computer to standby and padded over to snuggle into the luxurious bed. The time change should have made his desire for bed happen later, but it had been dark for hours and he had adjusted his watch in flight. So, looking forward to a full day of 'touristy goodness', he fell quickly into a fitful slumber, with none of his usual sleep inducing 'techniques' needed.

Spike woke stiff and cold in the early afternoon of the following day. Sometime during the morning, he had shifted from a fetal position in the corner to the relative comfort of his cot. He had an electric blanket these days which did go a long way to banishing the physical cold of his apartment in winter, but his internal 'freeze' was not to be thawed so easily.

He had slept fully clothed last night, leaving little to do after his rise to consciousness. A cramping pain and rumble from his stomach reminded him that he had forgotten to eat again yesterday. He stumbled to the fridge to find only one blood bag remaining. Cursing the idea of having to venture out again tonight, he tossed the bag into the microwave and watched it turn.

The holiday season was horrid, at other times of the year, it was possible to have blood delivered (if a fellow had the right contacts o' course). Private demon and black-market websites even meant ordering online was now available. This time of year, however, the only way was to negotiate and pick-up in person.

Spike gulped down the now warm liquid meal direct from the plastic, and flicked on his computer as he tossed the rubbish in the general direction of the bin.

He was in the process of putting the finishing touches to a rather revisionist version of St Petersburg history, involving two beautiful visiting vampires and an unnamed Hapsburg prince with certain sadomasochistic tendencies and a love of cool male bodies. Fortunately the Russians of the time he 'set his piece', were a warring bunch, so battlefields provided a rich backdrop of hand to hand skirmishes, bloody encounters, body parts and general mayhem.

The story was one of the few he'd done to date with what Spike considered a truly 'happy' ending. The prince had all but begged his two new companions to been turned, but the task was carried out some month later by another of Darla's childer, the Master of St Petersburg, Luc. The new childe was made in a rather passionate and blood drenched evening followed by the gleeful massacre of his entire household. Though the 'tragedy' was blamed on insurgents from the south, there were still some questions regarding the prince, and it was felt wise for the two visiting 'friends' to move on. The story concluded with the prince leading the pair out of Russia to torture another day.

Spike idly wondered if a certain Fredrik was still around, decided it was doubtful, yet contemplated the wicked enjoyment that the prince might have were he, by some miracle, to read this account of his turning.

Satisfied it was a story worthy of posting, Spike logged on for the first time that evening to find mail in his inbox. He saw the title and sender, and given his 'reaction' to the same person's post the previous night, decided to read it a little later in the evening. He posted his finished story, and swung out of the chair to prepare for the first venture outside in a fortnight. Hair, coat and cash all needed attention.

The vampire had initially shaved his platinum locks off completely following the demise of his sire. Since then, they had been left to grow, now falling to his shoulders in a free range, dark blond mane of soft waves if let loose. He tied it back most days, although stray locks fell forward, or were absently tugged free, in the hours writing at the computer. The last time it had been this unruly was the Boxer Rebellion.

He still had his duster, but opted for a heavy woolen trench coat in these winter months, as much a bid for anonymity as to keep warm. His beloved Doc's and a satchel slung across one shoulder completed the 'look'. To the passing observer, the rakish young man appeared like any one of a thousand other university students trudging home late from, 'wherever'.

Spike slipped into the evening, took on a brisk walking pace as he headed toward the back streets of Chinatown. Collar up and hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, he stared resolutely at the ground a few feet in front of him, only glancing up when crossings had to be navigated.

The main streets were busy with tourists, no doubt heading back to hotels or on their way to a night of entertainment. Spike trailed after one group for a time. Silly coupla bints at the back, busy with their natter. Easy meal. Back-in-the-day he would have picked them off and drained them before the rest of their party even noticed anyone absent. He contemplated warning the 'ladies' of nightly dangers, but simply could not be bothered making contact, opting instead for a low growl that sent the two women scurrying forward unsure of what it was they'd heard.

Spike peeled off from the group, jaywalked across the street and headed for an alley way he knew provided a short cut. Distracted by thoughts of past hunts and his current 'mission', Spike failed to notice the crowd of patrons waiting outside a jazz club. His satchel knocked someone hard as he swept through the people.

The individual concerned gave a surprised "Hey?!" and hand immediately moved to check his wallet. Satisfied that there had been no theft, he turned just in time to make out a mumbled "Bloody tourists", and see the back of his offender retreating down an ally.

Twenty minutes later and blood obtained at a ridiculously inflated 'holiday' price, Spike took to the sewers for his return trip. Choosing the stench over negotiating any more crowds seemed the preferable option.

He slammed the door of his apartment hard enough to elicit a protest of dust from the door-jam.
"Bloody humans, bloody holidays, bloody…guhhhh!" He flung the satchel onto the table, threw himself onto the couch and grabbed the remote. Television – the ultimate tool for escape. Except when all 42 channels have to offer is aught but ancient war movies, rhino's shaggin' or house bloody renovatin'! He privately conceded that there was always the sport or 'soaps' channels available but was too annoyed for that to alter his current assessment.

He grabbed the JD bottle from the floor, drained what little remained from the previous night and stomped over to the computer.

Some hour and a half later, and one vampire calmer, Spike logged on to review the reaction to his latest piece. He sometimes wondered how many vamps checked the 'net', then dismissed the notion as ludicrous, given the plethora of slayers that were no doubt keeping the vamp population to a minimum these days, and that young fledges were hardly likely to be trawling the web while busy trying to survive.

There were two glowing compliments for 'St Petersburg', neither of which he could be bothered responding to. Exuberant feedback including 'flights of fancy', 'disturbingly delicious' and 'turn me, turn me!' simply confirming that these humans Really were thicker than clotted cream! But then, he had a soul now, so the 'wonderful fun' of vampirism in the yesteryear had a very definite, and daily extracted, price.

He did reply to one 'silly chit' who had posted to the list – obviously a first year literature major. Her 'OT = out there' message regarding 'Poetry on the Common tomorrow evening' annoyed him beyond measure. Apart from advertising a passably interesting event, her comparisons of contemporary US poets to the likes of Tennyson and Browning were silly, and exultation of Emily Dickenson's work as the 'pinnacle of literature' was simply nauseating to this particular (or indeed any) gentleman scholar of late 19^th C! As her studies thus far seemed 'era' based and her repertoire of authors and quotes appeared sadly limited, Spike decided to 'assist' her education by adding some Byron, and expand her horizons at least a little. His reply included a poem he knew by heart, but he left out both greeting and signature.

"Suggest you read more widely.
Away, away, ye notes of woe!
Be silent, thou once soothing strain,
Or I must flee from hence — for, oh!
I dare not trust those sounds again.
To me they speak of brighter days —
But lull the chords, for now, alas!
I must not think, I may not gaze,
On what I am — on what I was.
Byron, from "Away, away, ye notes of woe!", Occasional Pieces, 1807-1824 "
Public duty done!

Finally conceding that he simply must look at the Email that had been deliberately avoided, he 'double clicked' and began to read…

"Dear NP

Suggestion for Ch 2. - Thinking some tough love might be needed?

- Fellow returned soldier 'finds him' camped in the warehouse – acquaintance from before war perhaps
- 'White Hat' gives him a place to live
- They start to connect

Hope that's enough.

BTW Season's Greetings from Sunny (not!) Boston

Xanman

PS
Not sure how to deal with the 'supernatural' stuff, but figure you're writing-guy (or girl?) so…"

A chill settled over the vampire. It was not that the suggestions were good or bad – but that the phrasing together with the signature put him ill at ease. The terminology was most definitely 'SoCal'; the use of 'White Hat' odd but not that unusual; it was the 'writing-guy' reference that was simply too close to 'Scooby speak' for comfort. He reeled back from the screen cursing his wishful thinking and the flood of memories engaged by the simple note.

He decided that even if, by some miraculous coincidence, the respondent might be a former 'Scooby', or by some cruel twist of fate, his then friend Xander had found his literature, he was not going to feel threatened. They were all on the other side of the continent, or the planet for that matter, and oblivious to his existence. He felt comforted yet somehow far more alone with that realization.

Spike printed off the Email then shut everything down and headed for his cot, hoping that tomorrow would be 'better'.

It was the next evening before he realized there was a reference to Boston in the note.

Xander woke to the sensation of warm, soft bedding. He rolled, leisurely stretched then noticed the time. Holy… Sleeping for more than six hours straight was unheard of in his work-world yet here he was at 11am the next day having achieved a good thirteen hours of undisturbed slumber and body apparently content to try for more.

A quick shower and in room coffee, thanks to the courtesy facilities, saw him ready for what remained of the day inside fifteen minutes. He rang down to the concierge and ordered a cab. Despite the detailed directions from the tea vendor of the previous evening, he hardly felt inclined to navigate to the Harvard district on public transport today. Flowers could be purchased at the entrance of the cemetery according to the taxi driver.

Xander wandered through the vast graveyard that was the Mount Auburn Cemetery, at once beautiful and horrible, familiar and utterly foreign. How many cemeteries had he frequented in the past? How often had he ignored the messages, the ornate headstones, even the names (!), as they chased, fought or hid from, the various demons in the graveyards of Sunnydale. Tara, Joyce, even Jesse's tributes all now absorbed into the huge hole that had been his hometown.

It seemed fitting that Aunt Agnes' 'people' had been important enough and possessed enough foresight to reserve her a place in this esteemed Boston burial ground, albeit she had apparently elected cremation and was therefore…dust and a plaque. Xander could not help sad thoughts enter as he knelt by the small brass plate. It was always dust with those he loved. Always about dust.

"Agnes McAllister
1930 – 1995
Loved & loving mother & wife.
Now in heaven's embrace."

He placed the twelve white roses at the base of the plaque, and quite unexpectedly felt like his five year old self, wishing dearly for just one more cuddle in that ample bosom. Kneeling on the snow covered ground, he let warm tears of regret and loss drop, melting the thin layer with an odd little pattern of dots.

Some half hour or so later, he stood to wander with little interest through the older sections of the cemetery then continued on the road to Harvard Square. He had done what he had come for, yet it still seemed that closure of some other nature remained 'pending'.

He ambled by the various imposing buildings that made up Harvard University, admiring the Law building and trying to find 'Chemistry' for no other reason than he had spied it on the campus map. He wondered idly whose job it was to order the gargoyles or ornate column stonework, on the architectural team of the day. Yeah Stan, I'll have seven of those dragons with their tongues out, three ugly trolls and a couple of swirly thingies for the bit near the front Xander grinned to himself and walked on.

As he passed the library he was struck by the memory of a conversation with Spike in their last days. They had been talking about school, learning and regrets. Xander had always wished to be better at school, knowing he was not 'stupid', but taking on that mantle as he struggled with a home life that was less than conducive to academic achievement. Spike, on the other hand, had divulged that he had indeed been to university. Studying classics had been the standard for any gentleman of the day, and a trend he was beholden to follow, though he begged to be allowed to devote his time exclusively to literature. He admitted to whiling away many an hour in the vaulted halls of the main library of Cambridge, engrossed in the words of the literary greats despite pressing study deadlines in other subjects.

Xander wondered whether the Cambridge library looked anything like the Harvard one, then decided that he really needed to 'go do something touristy' and shake out of the growing funk.

Hours later Xander had 'done' Bunker Hill, making a point of near jogging the steps after several other out of towners exited past him with grumbles of 'how difficult' the climb had been, how there 'should be a lift', and various other unwarranted comments. He 'did' the USS Constitution and when light started to fade, took the subway back to near the hotel.

As he collected his key from the front desk, Xander was startled by a young woman nudging his arm as she announced loudly, "You'all by yer self? 'Cause if y' are, we'd jes love some extra company. D'yall like Jazz?"

He spun around in the direction of the voice to see a collection of rather handsome couples, noting that the Stetsons on the men made the group appear oddly reminiscent of a scene from the old TV show 'Dallas'. Xander smiled in response to the question and at his own thoughts that the notion of Country and Western dressed Texans seeking out trendy Boston jazz clubs must be contradictory to at least one of the laws of nature!

"Sure – be down in five. You folks eaten?"

The rangy red head man with black hat sporting a snakeskin band (and matching boots!) answered first, "Figured on eatin' Chinese or the like – you partial?"

"Great! Name's Xander Harris." Xander thrust his hand forward and firmly shook hands with the three men and names were exchanged. He felt strangely naked without a hat to 'tip' when it came to their 'women-folk', and opted for a rather embarrassed nod instead. After a fairly full day of walking, another lengthy hike was hardly welcome, but Xander did not fancy eating alone tonight, and the prospect of sharing a night of good music with these amicable southerners was certainly appealing.

The meal was pleasant with food proving unremarkable but the company most entertaining. Xander noted that eating Chinese out had probably been spoilt forever by the wonderful Edwin at 'Shanghai Palace' not a block from his home in Sacramento. Six years of regular patronage had led to a very 'personal' menu with Edwin knowing just how to 'tweak' each dish to suit Xander's tastes.

The members of his party were all loud and jovial. Xander quickly learned that the 'boys' had been school buddies, all played football, and now shared business interests in the car and truck industry. The holiday together was an annual event. The women said little, but when they did Xander had the distinct impression that given different circumstances, they would easily hold their own with their rowdy partners both intellectually and in generosity of spirit. Xander found himself the 'quiet one' of the evening but no one seemed to notice particularly.

At around nine they made their way to Wally's Café in the south end. They'd been told it was the place for local jazz and blues, was always busy, and hosted a diverse crowd. Something Xander could only be thankful for as he and the John Wayne look-alikes (and their partners) lined up for entry.

The line had been moving slowly but the atmosphere friendly and relaxed, so there were no complaints. Xander had just turned to ask one of the 'girl-friends' what she did for a living, when he was struck from behind by a person pushing through the crowd. Xander's first reaction was to check for his wallet as he turned to confront the ill mannered queue jumper. He could only see the back of what he thought looked like a twenty something student heading toward an ally. He was about to yell after the man when he just made out the words "Bloody tourists" growled in a distinctly English accent, so remained mute and opted to stare hard at the retreating figure, the voice and stride were distinctly familiar but the appearance and situation was wrong.

He stood looking for some time wondering whether his visits to graveyards and universities had brought on such odd associations. Finally prompted by impatient fellow music lovers, he moved forward in the queue, saying outloud, "God that could have been Spike in another life…" The woman behind him looked puzzled but said nothing, and the evening continued without further incident.

Stumbling into his room around three in the morning, Xander reviewed the events of the day, concluded that all in all, it had been an excellent adventure and resolved to 'do' the Freedom trail the following day.

Spike 27 Dec

Spike woke too early having been plagued by dreams of dismembered bodies, headless children and Xander screaming as his eye was pushed out. He opted to try for some writing to redirect his tumultuous thoughts.

He stared at the correspondence from yesterday now lying beside the computer and could not shake the thought that he might indeed have be conversing with Xander. It was incredible if it were true. He read and re read the words and finally focused on the 'Sunny Boston' line. The notion that the whelp was in the same city and chatting online to him seemed altogether too far fetched, but a part of him desperately wanted to believe it. Waiting for the computer to reboot, he worried a cuticle and reviewed his own reasons for not making contact with the boy after he regained his corporeal status in LA. What would he say to him now if they did happen to meet? What if they had been living right next door all this time?

Spike now desperately needed to positively identify 'Xanman' – otherwise he was wasting a good worry. He started online with the user group where he posted his stories, but the user biography for Xanman was empty except for the gender 'Male' and marital status 'Single'. There was also an Email address, but Spike already knew that.

He then tried a quick search for "Alexander Lavelle Harris + bio" and tried to predict just how many hits he would get. The first few returns were all the same. He clicked on the link and was taken to a construction company's website and the section profiling their management team. The whelp had done well for himself it seemed, with a number of awards for excellence on large projects listed amongst his achievements. If anything this site cast doubt on Spike's 'Xanman theory' as he read 'Head Office, Sacramento' in the listing for workplace.

Two other things he noticed. The Xander in the photograph at the top of the profile showed a thinner, older man than Spike remembered, most definitely older. Spike mentally kicked himself – of course he would be changed, humans age in eight years. He was looking here at Xander, the upwardly mobile, 'thirty-something'.

Frustrated that he was getting no closer to Xanman's identity, he lit a cigarette, squinted through the smoke and returned the screen to the list of search results. A quick scan to the bottom of the page produced little more joy, so he altered the search to read 'Xanman + Harris + bio' and hit enter.

The very first entry was for a live journal. Spike took a long drag on his cigarette and clicked on the link. And there it was.

User Name: Xanman
Nickname: Harris
Age: 32
Marital Status: Very Single
Location: California
Occupation: Project manager, construction industry

Spike clicked through a few pages of the journal, just to reassure himself, but this most definitely had to be right. Websites were recommended, favorite online authors mentioned (including NonPerson Spike was pleased to note), and even a surprising account of a one night stand that made it fairly obvious that Harris, at least occasionally, enjoyed 'batting for the other team'.

He was half way through the third page, when the words on screen caused his stomach to flip. Under the entry 'Absent friends', Spike read a loving description of…himself. Those last few days in the basement together had certainly left quite a legacy it seemed. It was the line "I would do anything to see him again" that had Spike questioning whether to act or not.

If the boy truly was in Boston, Spike just had to see him – even if they didn't actually meet, he simply could not be this close without sighting him. After that he would decide a next step.

He returned to his Email and replied to Xanman:

"Dear X

Taa for the plot bunny

Will see what I can do

If in Boston suggest poetry & blues event, south end Boston Common tonight, dress warm

NP"

He hit 'send' and was surprised to receive an almost instant answer:

"Thanks for the tip

Already planned on going – great minds…

X"

It was that easy. Spike couldn't help bouncing a little as heated some blood. He drank it swiftly then headed back to bed to bide his time until he needed to go. He was feeling truly excited for the first time in years. After five minutes of agitated wriggling, he decided to rid himself of some energy by indulging in a little horizontal activity.

He selected from his bottom drawer collection of 'toys' to help matters along. He took out his original butt plug, purchased shortly after arriving in Boston. It was oft now relegated to a warm up role, as it would be today. He then took out the real arsenal – a seriously, large, ribbed, multi speed number and of course, the essential lube (no need for flavor when flying solo)…he didn't mind hurting but essentially sought to feel totally filled today. He left the rest of the selection in the drawer – and pushed it shut.

Spike looked at the time, noting that there was around an hour until sundown, he began the familiar pattern. A little 'light reading', pour lube, slick entrance and 'warm-up' plug, penetrate, take self in other hand and begin matched rhythm. Then add more lube, swap toys, find the right angle, add vibrations, pick up the pace in front, seek more feeling, pinch nipples hard and continue.

After some minutes he felt tingles start to build, and began to breathe, but when his arousal subsided a little, he thought of the nights with Xander all those years ago, then worked for a little more harshness in the mix, shoving the plug almost painfully against his prostate. Finally with the artificial stimulus pushed to a maximum, the sensations ramped up just enough. He panted a few more times then released with a groan. For a few blissful moments he existed not as himself, but purely as his own physical need and satisfaction – all thoughts and doubts banished.

Spike slipped into a light sleep, waking just after sunset in time to prepare for his excursion to the Common.

Xander 27 Dec

Xander's plans to take a leisurely walk around the Freedom Trail the following day had been changed somewhat when his enthusiastic companions from the previous night decided to 'come too'. "Cuz, y'all seem t' have the day figured out and we're kinda at a loose end. So if y'all don't mind, we'd appreciate taggin along." Accompanied by Kathleen's sweet smile and memories of the group's generous inclusion of a solo Californian the previous evening, Xander hardly felt it fair to refuse.

By the time they had located Paul Revere's house however, he was having serious doubts. There were only so many: obligatory references to him as a 'Yankee, no offence'; lessons in confederate history (apparently far more riveting than actually appreciating Boston's history as they walked through it!); and 'Ooh ain't that jes the cutest thang' statements at shop fronts (with associated half hour of waiting while the souvenir savvy southern ladies made a purchase), that Xander could stand before, thanks to a fairly heavy downpour, he was able to convincingly fake a headache, then excuse himself and return to the hotel.

As he trudged back through narrow streets, he felt a little ungracious, as they really were nice people, but he was sure "Mitchell .K. the third" and friends would be just fine without him.

It was still raining, so the hotel really was a reasonable option for the afternoon. He jumped online and was pleased to note a reply to last night's epic letter to Willow. Apparently that amount of news from him was "fantastic" and "well overdue" and "better not stop there buddy". Xander smiled as he imagined the redhead delivering the last line whilst standing with hands on her hips in the 'grin and glare' combination of her 'resolve face' that only Willow seemed able to perfect.

He flicked open the writer's list and read a few of the entries, smiling at the NonPerson's response to an enthusiastic post on poetry. Noting the recommendation, he found the Boston City's site and located details of the event. If the rain held off he figured that a Blues and Poetry night in a park could really be OK, besides, it was free and he could always come home again.
He was just about to log off when mail landed in his inbox.

"Dear X

Taa for the plot bunny

Will see what I can do

If in Boston suggest poetry & blues event, south end Boston Common tonight, dress warm

NP"

He marveled at the timing – particularly the suggestion of the Poetry evening, so shot back a message, then put the laptop on the floor.

As he relaxed back onto the cushions of the window seat, Xander pondered the idea that this 'NonPerson' might well be a Bostonian. It did seem odd for someone to have knowledge of local events, if they weren't actually in the city. His thoughts ran to the storylines and characters favored by NP and, apart from the latest unusually disturbing contribution to the list, it all seemed plausibly Hellmouthy. He concluded that if NP was a former Sunnydalite, the most likely scenario was that they were either one of the potentials (now slayers), or possibly one of the new watchers flexing his or her 'history writing' muscles in the daytime, whilst doing their nightly slayer minding.

With thoughts of the irrepressible Andrew and the many slayers in the last weeks at Revello Drive, Xander decided against asking NP directly, or arranging any more formal contact. He really would rather not have to meet and greet any of that crowd. He resolved to enjoy the prose and forget the rest, to shower and head out for the Common to enjoy the show when the time was right.

Minus the satchel, Spike was dressed as he had been the previous evening. The only other variation, being a black ribbon rather than a rubber band containing his hair, the change for no other reason than the band broke as he tied the ponytail.

Spike made his way to the common, deciding en route, that he would need to be able to see the faces of the audience if he were to successfully spot 'the boy', and quickly fixed on a cover story if caught in close proximity to backstage.

Stealing a notepad and three HB pencils from a local all night store, he quickly scribbled a set of 'open ended questions' regarding poets-of-note on the first page and marched up the hill to the small amphitheatre-like rise at the south end of the park.

As it turned out, Spike need not have bothered with the pilfering. There were only around 150 patrons scattered across the lawn area designated for 'audience'. Spike easily spotted Xander seated on what looked like a plastic sheet as the vampire wandered across the grass toward the recital.

He stalled, undead heart attempting a beat when he spotted that familiar, yet oddly different face.

He changed plans, deciding that, as Xander had perched on a spot toward the central rear of the crowd, he could content himself with a profile view of his former 'brother-in-arms'.

He watched the boy for some time. Noted that he was here alone, then worked his way through to the forming and dismissing of at least six reasonable scenarios for making contact…all of which ended in imagined disaster.

Spike listened to a number of the contemporary 'artisans' deliver their own, what he considered, average material, then was genuinely pleased to observe Xander's smile when the first blues 'set' began. In that musical interlude, he took the risk of moving closer to his former friend, and enjoyed the idea that he really had been right in all his research of Xanman and a Boston presence. He noted that a beard had obviously been grown post the 'corporate photo', but the man looked good.

As his muse contemplated various complimentary terminology for the attractive brunette, someone began to read a particularly and very personal favorite poem from his beloved Byron. A poem he'd recited to both Xander and Angel on their last evenings together in vastly different circumstances. A poem found amongst Byron's papers after his death, and one that was so personal to Spike, that the world reduced to the deep baritone voice of the reader booming the stanzas out to the audience in that moment:

"I watched thee when the foe was at our side -
Ready to strike at him, -or thee and me -
Were safety hopeless - rather than divide
Aught with one loved - save love and liberty.

By the final line he looked up to see Xander's place empty and realized he was crying, just in time to register an emotion filled voice behind him whispering "God Spike, if it's not you then please don't turn around."

He hesitated for a second, then turned.

Xander had begun his on foot journey toward the Common in good humor, stopping only briefly to procure a pack-of-three 'heavy duty trash bags' from a late night shop – his experience at the cemetery on his second day in this city reminding him that 'snow', or even just 'ground in winter', did not equate to 'dry' in anyone's estimation.

He was fairly early, so chose a central spot, though still far enough back that if he found a need to leave early, he could do so without being too obvious.

Xander sat through the apparently obligatory reading of 'The Ride of Paul Revere', followed by a 'by rote' rendition of the Declaration of Independence recited by a person he swore had been borne post Y2K, then genuinely enjoyed the first 'set' from a local blues band who's lead singer vaguely reminded him of Oz.

As the music struck up, he began to look around the audience. It was obvious that some on the hill that day were regulars not tourists. The more than ample picnic baskets, warm rugs and ground level fold out seating, a give away for Bostonians used to enjoying this type of 'civic service' at Christmas. There were a few students – apparently they came in 'huddles' with associated backpacks full of illicit beverage that was, from time to time, being extracted and imbibed at speed. And then there were a few others…

He noted one slim young man in a 'great coat' picking his way through the crowd, and tracked his progress for long enough to mark a few other key details: the confident stride; the slim stature; the generally attractive 'look'.

His curiosity piqued, Xander graciously accepted the opera glasses from the elderly couple next to him, but turned his attention to 'that unknown student' rather than a focus to the stage.

What he saw caused him to draw breath. He somehow knew it was the individual who had bumped him so rudely the previous night. And his 'wiggins' meter left over from Scooby days cranked up to emergency levels.

The hair and clothes might have differed from his old friend, but the facial features were unmistakable. Cheek bones to die for, full pout on lips so familiar, and the blue eyes unmistakable, all so convincing that Xander was sure it had to be Spike. But it made no sense?! Spike had dusted, the Hellmouth had closed. He berated himself for the wishful thinking but as the Byron piece began he was suddenly no surer that he was right in this assumption, than of anything else in existence.

Xander handed back the tiny binoculars to their owner with a nod of thanks, then moved to a position directly behind the young man he'd been observing. He was suddenly conscious that the poem being read was one that Spike had recited by heart in their last days. He weighed odds only a child of the Hellmouth could consider – Angel had come back from Hell, Willow made the switch from trying to end the world to being one of its most powerful Wiccan protectors, and Buffy had come back from the dead…twice…so why not Spike?

Xander was now close enough to the long haired 'student' that even from behind, he could make out the pouting lips moving in time with the words of Byron, indicating at least a close familiarity with the poem. It was then he took what could only be described as a leap of faith…He sidled up behind the preoccupied audience member and whispered, "God Spike, if it's not you then please don't turn around."

He stood back then watched with some amazement as the perfectly remembered and adored crystal blue pair of eyes turned to meet his, now quite self conscious, one eyed gaze.

Still caught in his own thoughts regards the poem and love lost, Spike suddenly realized the implications of being identified by the person he was facing, and reeled back as if scorched. He knew that he had no explanation for his return to this plane! Let alone the idea that he had not contacted 'loved ones'? It smacked of Angelus' denial of his childe William post soul. And yet…

Already emotional from the powerful and painful memories the poem had evoked, it was all Spike could do to cough in a vague indication of disbelief as the single deep brown eye and patch of leather met his gaze barely three feet away.

In a self protective and quite instinctive response, Spike, with tears still streaming down his
cheeks (fault of his beloved Byron!), wrapped his arms around himself in a vain attempt to shield his inner core from the outside world and prevent the predictable 'meltdown'. He slung his left arm around his torso, and grabbed his own hair with the other hand, masking his face to all but the man that had elicited the reaction. Barely containing the urgent need to run from the moment, it was all he could do to struggle out a strangled "Ohhh Hell, Yeah, S'me ".

Xander on the other hand, had only been vaguely aware of the words woven into the rather moving (and as it turned out, personally touching) poetry. Instead Xander focused on the azure stare no longer fixed on the stage but on him, noting with some surprise that there were glistening trails adorning the cheekbones he had so often dreamed of seeing again. The tear streaked alabaster skin and Spike's protective self hug then near collapse 'flicked a switch' for Xander.

With no further thought, he launched himself forward to collect the collapsing figure in a safe embrace, miscalculated a little, and consequently, found himself kneeling on the grass with the, now quietly keening, 'lost' friend in his arms.

"Sshhhhh,
I've got you,
I've got you…
Oh God Spike?!
How?
When?……
I've still got your rings…remember?!…
I kept them safe like I promised"

Tears began streaming from the 'good eye', while Xander pulled the man closer to him.

"Ohhhh please!!!……
Please!!!
I know it's you!
I lost you!
I lost you?
Oh Jeez..
How?
How?
Oh God, Spike.
I've missed you so much?
I lost you
You were dead
There was the end and you were dead
Oh God…"

As Xander ended the one sided conversation, he gave in to his own sobbing, then instinctively opted for a gentle progression of kisses across 'armed' forehead, and in the process quietly removed the protective limb from its position over the man's head to reveal, then cup, the chiseled chin with his left hand, and lifted the unforgettably beautiful face. Their foreheads connected and he stroked the long missed cheekbones with his thumb.

As he touched and caressed the man he had mourned for, for so long, the eloquent words he had composed to say to his friend and comrade, should they meet post apocalypse, simply evaporated.

Lifting the pale chin, he gave a husky, tear burdened "Hey" then automatically shifted to kiss a surprisingly pliant mouth. As they connected lips for the first time in almost a decade, he instinctively wound his right arm around the great coat and pulled their bodies together.

Eventually they both became aware of their position – very public, and mid city park. But the good citizens of Boston (and no doubt, a bunch of other places) had apparently done them the courtesy of moving a discrete distance away.

In a single, somewhat coordinated movement, they both rose to stand without breaking their embrace.

And just as Xander began to feel a little self conscious at his emotional display, a calm hand touched his shoulder and he registered the owner's kind words, "Son, don't you ever let go 'o that boy…I lost John to a damned gook shot in '71…Should o bin me!…You got your friend back…don't you never let him go!" Xander looked up to watch tears track down the face of a man old enough to be his own father (or even older) sharing in a tight hug with a stout woman, obviously his partner, as though their very existence relied upon it.

Spike must have heard also, as it was his tear thickened, husky answer that elicited a smile from the concerned couple, "'S bin eight som't years, but what you said mate, 'n worth every minute of the wait." And with that, the vampire recaptured Xander's lips in a final swift kiss, then hauled them up and away from the open space.

Now slightly hidden from the audience by a 'leaf-challenged' oak, Spike turned to the man whose hand he still held and inquired, "Bloody hell…so what now pet?"

Xander turned to examine his companion closely for the first time.

"I have no idea…What Now?…" Xander looked again at the tear streaked face of his long lost friend – and 'war time' lover, "God Spike! You are still…So beautiful!!…How??"

Xander's free hand reached up to push away the stray lock of long hair that had fallen over the vampire's right eye. His hand lingered by the cheek of his companion until he felt Spike lean into the touch. He had no way to catalogue or deal with what he was feeling anymore – there were emotions surfacing that has been so long buried or denied that there was no longer even a point of reference – but for the joy that he was standing in front of a very solid, very real, Spike.

Xander did the only thing he could think of.

"Drink?"

"Oh Hell, yeah"

"Not a local. So…"

"I am"

"So…?"

"Fritz Lounge – be a walk but, know they're still open"

With that Spike, hand still firmly joined to his rediscovered friend's, headed for the path and down to the 'main drag' leading to the South End.

"I've got your back" Xander grinned and allowed the 'Bostonian' to tug him in the direction of the suggested bar.

Spike, meanwhile, heard far more in the ex Scooby's statement and mumbled, "You always did Harris…Bloody Hell, we all knew that…You always did."

The walk was brisk, silent, and utterly tense until…half way to the bar, Spike hauled his companion into a side ally and pinned the brunette, back to the wall, in an urgent embrace.

"Wha?" Xander's words were cut off by demanding lips meeting his and hands slid from his shoulders to grasp his behind and pull their bodies flush.

"Oh G…, Xan…I've missed you…I'm sorry…I'm so sorry…"

Spike's left hand drifted to the eye patch and Xander realized the source of the comment. Spike had always considered himself to be responsible for the injury. And though Xander would never believe that, he understood the need to remain silent, and stood motionless, holding his breath, and respecting Spike's need to touch his scarred face at that moment.

When he felt it safe to move, Xander placed two hands on the chest of his friend and pushed away far enough to look him directly in the eyes. He had never seen Spike quite this emotional and noted that the vampire was truly struggling, visage wafting and waning between his demon and human appearance. Xander could not help wondering what had happened to Spike in the interim years from Hellmouth to here, but decided that questions of history should be addressed at another time.

As the golden eyes and ridges oscillated and settled for the third time, Xander leant in to deliberately kiss the fanged mouth of his long yearned for demon in a long and passionate engagement. He pushed his tongue forward, and despite the years between, expertly flicked it across the edge of an elongated, razor sharp canine, drawing blood.

He pushed past the pliant lips and shared his offering. Spike's response, however, was not the one he expected…a stream of blood tinged tears tracked from demon eyes, and the vampire in Xander's arms began to keen as if in pain. For the second time in less than an hour, Spike fell to his knees, slid his arms around the thighs of his friend and buried his face in the bottom of Xander's shirt front.

The pain Xander saw in the yellow eyes that split second before the fall, had mirrored exactly the expression he had seen in the human face of Spike moments before they left the basement to meet their fate on the last day of Sunnydale. The emotion obviously transcended the emergence of Spike's 'demon within' leaving him utterly open and vulnerable. As Spike began to rock them both slowly, Xander petted the soft hair and slid to his knees for the second time that evening.

One arm around the waist of his vampire and the other still stroking the hair, he eased Spike's head down until it rested on his shoulder, fangs so close to his neck that in any other circumstances, or with any other vamp, the act would have proven fatal. Instead Xander heard gently whispered words, "Oh Xan, I've missed you. Everyone was gone and I was gone too. And I didn't know how to tell you. I needed you pet. I needed you and I wanted you so badly. I've been so alone. And I lost you too. You were gone. All those years…and I didn't know how to tell you…; I want you Xan, always wanted you…I need you so much…Please forgive me…Please forgive me…"

As the litany slowly ended, Xander continued to rock the body in his arms, and he gradually became aware of the cool tongue laving the base of his neck, the strong hand stroking small soft circles on lower his back, and a deep, unmistakable purr coming from his friend.

Gently shifting his position, he whispered, "Hey…hey…S'OK buddy, but you know…Eu d' Ally not so good for the night club admission yeah?" He continued to stroke the long locks, and waited a few more minutes. As the purring subsided, Xander began to wonder if his charge had actually fallen asleep.

Finally the weight in his arms shifted, Spike shook off the ridges and blinked up at Xander. In the dim light, he looked for all the world like a four year old William just waking from an afternoon nap. He lifted his head and leaned forward to rest his forehead against Xander's, sniffed then mumbled a heartfelt "Sorry…just…ahhh bollocks".

Spike was just about to push away, when he caught the smile on his 'captor's face and the accompanying "Welcome back." He returned the grin with a genuine smile, the likes of which Xander swore would launch ships, and in a bizarre twist of thinking, Xander instantly wondered if Helen of Troy might not really have been a boy…

"C'mon – I think we've done trying to walk places tonight, yeah? And in a line I am sure is going to be a quote from just about any 80's B Grade porn flick…Would you like to come back to my place?"

The taxi ride to Xander's hotel in Back Bay had none of the tension of the preceding hour. Sitting side by side in the rather tired interior of the General Motors…whatever…Xander was pleased that his companion not only accepted the offered hand, but actively returned a squeeze of reassurance as they arrived at their destination.

The night manager emerged from the entry hall office as the antique bell chimed the alert for entering guests.

Xander gave his most charming smile and announced "Hey John, 's cool - forgot to give in my key…so we're good. You have a good night." And with that, grabbed Spike's hand and led his companion up the period staircase.

Hand on the door to 204, Xander was reminded of his own musings not two days earlier regards Spike, residences, and 'past lives' etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. And it is only now I channel my inner Yul Brunner!

Spike had no idea of the internal conversation of his companion – only seeing Xander pause as he went to open the door.

"'S OK mate. I don't need to go in – Got my own place 'n all. M'be see you tomorrow yeah?"

Xander, suddenly aware of his own indifference to the vampire's state of mind, grabbed the hand of the newly rediscovered friend that he was now, apparently, at risk of losing and pushed the door open.

Spike felt his world shift again.

As if the night had not been emotional enough, Spike was now looking at a suite that could have been any one of hundreds that he and Angelus had shared 'back in the day'. Nights of lust, and love and…Yet now here he was, waiting for an invitation, and hand in hand with a human he cared so deeply about, that it had been the stuff of his nightmares for years.

"Come in Spike, come in with me…"

Suddenly quite self conscious, Xander realized that the large bed appeared very 'slept in' and the room occupied after it had been serviced. Also, that there were various modern detritus (such as still charging computer) marring the otherwise 'perfectly period' setting.

Spike seemed at a loss, in fact Xander began to genuinely worry at his friend's lack of response.
But was definitely reassured when a lustful, baritone voice ground out, "Got a bath in this 'ere establishment?"

With those few words, all the years between their last time together, fell away.

"Yeah in there…I'll get it…" Xander wandered into the en suite, flicked on the taps and turned to rejoin his partner.

Xander stopped in the doorway to marvel at the scene in front of him and contemplate for a moment, the wonder of the evening so far.

Spike had slipped the coat off his shoulders and now stood absently stroking the top of a high backed chair, staring into the fire. Xander noticed that the brownish button down shirt without a collar was none of the usual colors or style, he remembered Spike wearing. Face lit by the rosy glow of firelight, the vampire's features appeared softer, younger, and there was an open vulnerability that he could only remembered seeing a few times before.

Wanting to lighten the mood a little, he simply said, "Hey…drink?" and without waiting for a reply wandered over to extract two beers from the well concealed mini fridge.

"Taa pet" Spike accepted the proffered bottle and dropped into the chair he had been caressing.

"'s a nice place, you holidayin'?"

The answer came from the bathroom as Xander switched off the water then returned to his friend. "Yup, just here for five days – figured I'd be here alone," Xander wandered over to the second chair and sat," You know touristy things solo. Kinda gets enough after five days. Mainly came to pay my respects to favorite Aunt - Agnes – well her ashes anyways."

Spike who had been listening whilst intent on picking the label off his bottle, shot a surprised look to the speaker. "She a vamp?"

"What? Oh…No. God no!" then Xander grinned broadly and added "Don't think her moustache would have looked any good on a game face anyways.

"Hey I've got an option of extending my stay an extra couple of days if something comes up. And I figure tonight, something just came up." He looked over to Spike with a semi concerned stare and the unstated 'if you want me to stay?' Spike's trademark smirk went straight to Xander's groin. The blonde looked down, and the smirk became a genuine smile as he quipped, "Better do that then – 'cause looks as there's more than one thing has come up tonight, pet."

Xander blushed and shifted a little in his seat then looked at the vamp a little sheepishly "Jeez Spike…"

A few minutes of silence ensued as they both contemplated the myriad of questions that could be asked. Xander finally settling on the most mundane "So you live in Boston now?" then groaned at the ridiculousness of how it had sounded. "Uuurgh! Yeah, hi and my name would be Xander State-the-obvious! Sorry Spike I'm just struggling a bit here. On one hand I want to ask you everything – you know what happened to you? why you're here - in Boston, I mean? Why now – the finding and..? Are you OK? And then I get nervous cause, you know since all the meeting again and the…I mean the kissage was…and I really want…Ggahh a little help here?" He stopped abruptly and threw a pleading look in the vampire's direction.

Spike was looking down at the near empty bottle in his hands and chuckling a little to himself, "Oh Luv…I'd forgotten you breathe less than me when you get going." Then in one swift movement he shifted from the chair, and before the babbler even had time for a surprised squeak, he'd been scooped up, thrown over a slim shoulder and carried into the bathroom.

"Let's start this right eh luv." He gave the still startled man a lust filled look, then smiled sweetly and said "Care to bathe with me, Mr. Harris?"

With those simple words, Xander's knees felt rubberized and everything, including his brain-cells apparently, rapidly descended toward his groin.

Seconds later it was made worse, as Spike stripped naked and turned to face him. In that moment, he decided that he would forgo any visits to Boston's fine Galleries – it would be pointless to go seeking things of beauty, as he was certain that he was now staring at the most exquisite object in the world. Even thinner than he remembered, the body was nevertheless stunning. Near translucent skin stretched over taut defined muscles and everything perfectly proportioned. For the umpteenth time that evening Xander groaned out a heartfelt, "God, you are so beautiful."

"Well c'mon pet, don't fancy washing your clothes too now do you?"

"Wha? Oh"

Xander broke his stare and began to fumble with the buttons on his shirt, successfully undoing two but apparently unable to extract a third from its hole.

"Here let me." With that Spike proficiently stripped the man naked admiring Xander's new, sleeker build in the process, then led him to the bath.

They were seated facing each other, legs touching, in the generous tub. Spike now with an unreadable expression on his face. Xander had removed his eye patch for the first time since they had met that evening.

"I'll put it back on if it bothers you, even got a decent glass eye but it makes me look kind of crazy and it hurts after a while. Got glasses for work so you hardly notice the patch…"

"Shhh pet, it's fine, 's you innit – 's fine cause it's all part of you."

Xander felt his foot being lifted as a soft wash cloth began to track its way up and down his leg, first the outside then the inside. By its third pass Xander groaned and was painfully hard. Spike took up the other leg and began again, this time shifting his own right foot so it rested against his bath buddy's sex and gently rubbed the hardness in time with the other cleansing strokes.

The vampire pulled his charge further into the bath until Xander's head rested on the end and legs were wrapped either side of a kneeling Spike. He felt the washcloth swirl around his navel and up over now hard nipples, then became aware of a second hand stroking over his balls and perineum.

He began to breathe more rapidly and closed his good eye in frustration when neither of the movements found his erection. He ground out "Oh G…Spike please…can you?…" The stroking stopped, the body in front of him shifted back a little and he gasped as the tortured member was engulfed tip to root by a cool mouth. Xander felt his balls squeezed and groaned, then panted as the mouth proceeded to suck hard in a leisurely rhythm – swallowing around him when at its deepest, humming as the mouth sucked up, and finally tip swirled and flicked by the tongue as the mouth almost left the top, followed by a swift plunge down again.

Xander opened his eye for long enough to register that Spike was underwater – courtesy of the 'no need to breathe' clause for vampires. He also noted that the tickling sensation all around his groin area was Spike's long hair moving against him and that he was holding onto the tub with a grip in danger of making finger shaped dents in the iron. Spike picked up the pace, cupped the balls again with one hand and felt them tighten impossibly as he found Xander's puckered hole and pushed a single digit in.

Xander arched in the tub climaxing immediately, and sending spurt after spurt of warm seed into Spike's welcoming mouth. He opened his good eye in time to see his lover emerge from his underwater position, and lift the curtain of long hair that had completely covered his face to reveal a maniacal grin.

"Just got meself a love of snorkeling I reckon."

He was answered with a swift tug until he lay atop the human and a warm mouth claimed him in a passionate kiss.

Xander registered the rock hard member pressing against his rapidly softening one and felt the hips above him begin to undulate to try for some friction.

He broke the kiss, nibbling then licking across the bottom lip as he did so, reached down to grasp the hardness and whispered "Got a nice place you could put that if you want."

Xander heard a half moaned, half growled, 'Bedroom" as Spike lifted himself off the human, stood to reach for a towel, then offered a hand to Xander and hauled him from the now tepid water.

Handing Xander a towel, they both moved in the direction of the more comfortable place for continued 'reacquainting'.

Xander pulled the rumpled covers from the four poster then fell back onto the bed, his body replete and relaxed after their previous activities.

"You look knackered mate, wanna sleep first? 'Cause I can easy fix this," he stated looking down at his very erect appendage.

"Nope…Really want you…want this…Now" came the husky reply.

"K pet, what's your fancy front or back?"

Xander took a moment to process the question then replied "Wanna see you, wanna see you when you come."

Moments later the bed shifted and his ankles were nudged apart. He bent his legs further and let them fall open as Spike knelt almost as he had done in the bath. Cool hands began to massage across his torso and inner thighs, working their way down to his crease, a gentle touch squeezing the balls occasionally and finally rubbing firmly down to locate his rear pucker again.

"Please need you in me Spike!"

Hands still caressed the area as Spike asked quietly "You done this since…you know with blokes and such?"

Xander gasped as his perineum was stroked again "Few times, no one serious, no one good enough, not after you…oh G…! Spike please" He lifted his legs further, and hooked an arm under each knee giving his lover complete access.

Spike took the hint and ran his cool tongue along the same path the hands had so recently been taking. The human gasped as it swirled around his pucker before pushing through the guard muscles and into the warm channel. Spike sucked on the outer skin, withdrew a little, then plunged the tongue as deep into the man's core as he could manage. He grinned as a pass over the prostate was rewarded with a loud cry from his partner.

Xander pushed back toward the mouth then canted his hips further in an attempt to increase the penetration. Spike stilled him with a hand on his stomach, then withdrew his tongue.

#OK I'll beg, begging is of the good…needing to feel – just want to feel filled, completed, utterly# "Please…please I need more!"

"Lube?"

Xander reached over to the night table and grabbed the small tube of moisturizer, handed it to Spike and returned to his previous position.

Xander heard the tube snick open and released an all too loud sigh of pleasure and relief as a slender finger found his rear entrance again and pushed in. He relaxed around the intrusion, reveling in the sensations already heightened from the deep tonguing. One digit swiftly became three and Xander alerted to his own 'renewed interest' by the hardness now spreading a steady dribble across his torso.

"Need you inside…Please, Spike now…fill me with you."

The fingers were removed, the bed shifted a little and he gasped, then groaned in pleasure as he was entered fully in a single swift thrust. Spike then pulled out again until only the tip remained, and plunged back in, penetrating deeper than Xander thought possible.

"So hot pet, so tight and so hot, feels like you'll burn me up…"

Spike leaned forward for a kiss with the next thrust, and at the same moment altered the angle slightly to pass directly over Xander's prostate. The man's cry of bliss muffled by his lover's mouth.

Spike put a firm hand around the now leaking member between them and began to fist it in time with his own thrusts.

"Not gonna last Xan, come with me luv, come with me" With those words he sped up the rhythm and began to pant, then felt himself move into game face, his sac tighten and tingles start signaling the onset of release.

As if on cue, Xander came for a second time, his hot channel clenched and pulsed with each spasm, dragging Spike's own climax from him, milking him until the vampire collapsed, gasping unnecessary breaths, onto his lover's broad chest.

Xander let his legs down, stilled for a few seconds, began to stroke across the ridges on his partner's true face and smiled as a predictable soft purring began. He watched until the beloved face gradually shifted back to human and Spike fell into a post coital slumber. Wrapping his arms tightly around the slim form lying on top of him, he mumbled "Beautiful" and joined his lover in sleep.

Xander woke to find a vampire snuggled against his side. He looked at his watch on the dresser, saw 8am and quickly realized that it would be daylight soon. Thanking the 'God of Period Design' for velvet curtains, he padded over to check that there were no gaps in the cover, then returned to the bed, tugged up the covers and pulled Spike back into his warm embrace.

His companion roused a little, slung his leg over Xander's, nuzzled his bed buddy's neck, then purred himself back to sleep.

Xander stroked the ends of the silky mane and listened, vaguely wishing he too could purr, then succumbed to oblivion again.

When he next struggled to consciousness, the first thing that struck him was how entirely relaxed he felt. That lovely, heavy sensation only comes after a long, dreamless slumber. The second thought he had was how wonderfully soft and warm the bed was. And the third, that someone's leg was languidly rubbing up and down between his, and that a hand gently massaged his scalp. He opened one sleep filled eye and found two crystal blue ones staring back.

"Afternoon pet."

"Hey," Xander lifted his hand to return the caress. "'Time 's it?"

"After 3, I reckon"

"Oh God! We slept practically the whole day?"

"Yeah well, 's not such a new thing for yours truly. 'Sides I figured you were well shagged after last night and could use the kip." Spike wiggled his scarred eyebrow, grinned broadly, then leaned in to grab Xander's lips with a very determined kiss.

Xander's body responded instantly, pushing forward then rolling on top of his smaller companion, and in the process pressing their 'morning' erections hard against each other. He brought his hands up to cup either side of Spike's head, caressing cheekbones with his thumbs and deepening their kiss. The dueling tongues slowly calmed to match the movement of their hips, with neither game to break the pace as they approached completion.

Xander felt Spike's change this time, responded by again scraping his tongue across a fang and pushing the blood into his companion's welcoming mouth. He was instantly rewarded with an explosion of cold seed between them, immediately arched up and added to it with some of his own hotter version. He relaxed down squashing the residual puddle so it tickled down Spike's sides and onto the sheets below.

A few minutes of rest later Xander, realized that he really would need the room serviced after this, and slid off his friend.

"Guhhhh, 'K sticky becoming a real issue!"

Spike grinned and reached over to stroke the face of his companion, "You really mind luv?"

Xander's face softened immediately and he leaned into the touch, "'course not. But…would you like to do something today – I mean…you need to get stuff from home…Oh…" Xander trailed off as he realized. "I don't have…ummm."

Stopping mid sentence, Xander made a sudden decision, rolled toward the nightstand, fished out one of the spare razorblades and forced it hard across his own wrist. Despite its 'safety' claim, the two thin red lines that were left behind quickly welled into definite drips.

Spike smelt the blood immediately, "You alright pet?"

Xander moved the wrist until it was flush with the vampire's mouth and said "My treat."

Spike pulled back as he realized what was being offered, but was prevented from moving further by the begging look from Xander's good eye.

"Please Spike, I want to…please, my treat."

Spike stared at his companion in wonder, and shifting to partial game face, took the gift gently in both hands and drew it to his lips.

He licked the drops from the surface of the wound and with that his face changed completely.

"Bite Spike, 's OK, just bite, I know you won't take too much."

Spike allowed his fangs to press into the shallow cuts worrying them just enough to release more of their precious fluid then bit down fully. Both partners moaned at the first real draw of blood, and pushed their bodies together, touching wherever they could as the vampire continued to carefully feed.

Spike could not remember the last time he had fed straight from a vein, apart from exchanging with Angel in the early part of his illness, feeding from a lover was but a distant memory. And as far as sampling something as hot and sweet as the ambrosia that now passed through him…never. Yet he stopped after only a few deep drafts.

After laving the wound with healing saliva, he fell back to stare dazedly at the ceiling. He closed his eyes with a feeling of utter bliss, the likes of which he could not describe, and absently noted that there were tears of joy tracking down his face, this time tickling past his ears to finish in his hair.

"Oh sweetheart, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing."

Spike broke from his moment 'in the light' to register Xander's distress.

"A taste of heaven will bring even the bravest man to his knees, dear heart." And with that statement, Spike rolled to his side and looked directly at Xander, the adoration in his eyes reinforcing the wonder and gratitude expressed in his words.

Caught like a deer in headlights, Xander's expression shifted from one of deep concern, to relieved joy as he realized the reason for his partner's tears.

He reached over with the already healing arm and petted Spike's hair. Spike matched the act by rolling to face his friend, flinging his arm over the slim waist, then proceeded to massage gentle circles repeatedly over Xander's lower back.

After many minutes, Xander moved the stroking hand to cup one side of his partner's pale face. With a grin he said simply, "So what are we going to do today?"

Deciding that caution was the better part of valor, the decision was made (post independent shower) that they did indeed need a visit to Spike's abode at some point that evening – if only for the clothing, blood and 'a laptop run' – but should wait out the rest of the daylight in the hotel.

Pondering the need for new linen in his room, but not necessarily relishing the thought of being there as the other was removed, Xander was struck by a sudden idea. 'High tea' in the style of the Savoy, London, was offered in the small but elegant dining hall of the hotel and could not have been more timely or, Xander mused, more appropriate.

They were seated at a tiny two person table in the back corner of the ornate room. Still adorned with seasonal finery, there was also the obligatory chandelier, antique Edwardian style chairs, white linen and silver settings, and the appropriately stuffy Maitre D' who seemed relieved that Xander was actually a guest when they arrived with no 'prior booking'. The quiet tinkle of classical music from a miniature grand sitting in the bay window on the opposite side of the room enhanced the ambiance perfectly.

The tea of the afternoon was a choice of 'Lady Grey' or 'Pekoe', the position appropriately private, and the three tiered silver stand of food mid table 'to die for' as far as the now ravenous Xander was concerned. Bottom plate - assorted finger sandwiches; mid plate - delicacies in French patisserie style; and crowning glory - a plate of what Spike insisted were three enormous 'scones' and tiny crystal bowl of strawberry 'jam' (though Xander swore they were 'biscuits and jelly' but wasn't in the mood to argue).

Accepting yet another refill of well brewed, piping hot tea, Xander noticed his dining partner whispering something to their young, and genuinely English, waiter. Shortly after, a small bowl of thick pure cream arrived on the table, along with a bottle of vintage Madeira and two crystal glasses.

"What the…?"

"No good doin' things half measures pet." Spike said, then leaned across the table and sang/whispered conspiratorially:

"Have some Madeira, m'dear?
You really have nothing to fear…
I don't want to tempt you. That wouldn't be right.
One shouldn't drink spirits at this time of night.
Have some Madeira, m'dear…
It's really an excellent year.
I don't care for Sherry, and one cannot drink Stout,
and Port is a wine I can well do without!
You see, it's strictly a case of 'Chacun a son GOUT…'
Have some Madeira, m'dear?"

"And could you be more 'ancient British singing guy' at this moment? In what way am I more informed by that?" Xander looked appropriately puzzled then grinned, as Spike lightly kissed then sucked the top of his ear, and withdrew.

Spike sat back, winked and grinned wickedly – obviously having the advantage over his companion regards what Xander now assumed, was the 'rest of the words'!

Xander looked affectionately across at the refined features of probably the only person in the room who could truthfully compare the current menu to that of the Savoy in its early days, and had no doubt that Spike had eaten there more than once (though eaten who was perhaps more the point). Despite his current joy at finding his former 'Hellmouth' lover, it was still too early to tell what the exact status of the 'relationship' was…but assumed it to be 'going quite well' apparently.

Since earlier the previous evening, it was apparent that both parties at the table had, by mutual consent, focused their 'rediscovery' of each other on the more physical matters 'at hand'. Yet Xander had begun to worry that they still had not 'talked'.

Behold folks - teenage girlie man, where's Dawn when you needed her! Deep and meaningfuls, so not my forte.

Despite the inner thoughts, food was still a priority. Xander reached for a minute 'citron' tart, and took another three of the tiny white sandwiches, dutifully avoiding all the ones with 'green stuff' in them.

He had tried one of that 'color' earlier, therefore providing Spike with great amusement, when, after the first bite of the 'cress' filled delicacy, he declared, with some determination that no person had the right to put grass in between bits of bread and pass it off as food – even if the crusts had been cut off!

Spike on the other hand, had openly enjoyed all the cucumber 'fingers' on offer. Then went on to devour the two tiny asparagus rolls decorating the middle of the sandwich plate, whilst expounding the virtues of county cricket along with the wonders of 'bowling maiden overs' and 'good leg spinners'.

Xander really wasn't listening by the time Spike started on some fielding position called 'silly mid on'. Opting instead to nod and smile, whilst simply enjoying the rich sound of Spike's deep voice and attempting to contrive a method of touching legs under the table without being too obvious.

Sometime after a glass and a bit of Madeira, Xander found himself 'fortified enough' to ask at least an easier one of the plethora of questions he'd composed in his head the previous night.

He twisted 'his' rings habitually, realized what he was doing, stopped, and asked:

"Hey so…you're NonPerson?"

"Yeah"

"Did you figure it was me?"

"Not exactly MI6 pet, I mean 'Xanman'? " Spike gave Xander an incredulous look, took a deliberately slow sip of tea, then picked up his glass of Madeira again.

"Yeah but the internet, not exactly up with the 'I'm the only one with that name' clause?"

"Showed your hand with the feedback eh pet"

"Wha? How"

"Oh 'cmon luv. I spent how long listenin' to your lot, destroy the English language in old Sunnyhell. 'S obvious innit…you write it, I get a feelin', do a bit o' the old 'Net' Sherlock and voila."

"So you knew I was going to be there at the Common?" Xander now shifted a little uncomfortably in his seat.

"Only hoped pet…just needed to see you is all. Never meant…' Spike looked up at this point, noting with some distress, that the message being received was not the one he was trying to convey, and quickly amended.

"Hell Xander…Luv…It had been so long – and you might have…family(?)…or…And I just didn't know how to say. But I needed to see you, and wanted…but…" He trailed off, looked at his hands, now furiously plucking at some imaginary piece of lint on his napkin. Then looked up, begging for some indication of understanding, if not forgiveness.

What he received in return, was a message of such deep concern and love that he struggled to contain his tears.

'S becoming a bloody habit!.

Spike inhaled loudly then foiled his own thoughts with an easy, "So you like my stories pet?"

"Ummm yeah. God Spike I've been reading your stuff for months! It's great – always suspected it might by a Hellmouth survivor but never…" He stopped again, looking up with yet another pained expression.

"Oh hell pet, let's do this proper – c'mon"

Decision made and the better part of two hours of 'high tea' now, very literally, under their belts, Spike grabbed his friend's hand, tucked what remained of the Madeira under his arm, and threw a generous tip on the table before departing.

Spike noted that it was already dark as they reentered the suite; that the room had indeed been cleaned; and that his companion had taken on the demeanor more befitting of a whipped puppy.

He switched on a couple of lamps and sat the dejected human on the bed.

"C'mon pet, there's plenty o' night hours to explore, let's you and I clear the air yeah?" With that Spike dropped the bottle he'd been carrying onto the dresser and took Xander with a firm kiss that resulted in them both lying fully clothed on the covers of the now 'made' bed.

"Right. You all comfy 'n listenin'? Cause I will not be repeatin' meself. Clear?"

Despite the harsh words, Xander turned his head to see a predictably tense and vulnerable expression in the face beside him.

Seeing Xander turn, Spike switched his gaze to the ceiling and waited.

"I do really need to know Spike."

With that, Xander afforded the storyteller the courtesy of rolling onto his back and not looking at him, and grabbed his friend's hand – as much for his own comfort as any intent to calm the vampire, since painful memories were obviously to be revisited.

"Amulet. You remember, I wore it. Took out the First's Army and burned me from inside to dust. Hurt like hell."

Xander inhaled sharply, this part he had already pictured in his worst nightmares, but he remained silent.

"Yeah well, turns out the amulet had big mojo or some such, and I ended hauntin' me old sire 'round three months on. Best I could manage for a good while was moving a cup or two."

"So, sorry to ask Spike, but, you were a ghost?"

"Well not technically 'cording to the Texan chit, good sort she was too…" And again Spike trailed off for a few moments, then continued his account.

"Anyway got the body back – mojo again – ended up fighting for the white hats.

"Din't know what to say to you lot, big finish an all – be a shame to try and top that.

"Andrew found out – poncy watcher in training or some such. 'parently didn't share that I was around with the Wiccan mob, so figured I'd keep stum 'n 'all."

Spike slowed, wondering if he could avoid the next part "You hear 'bout the old boy?"

"Only that you guys took on most of the demons from Giles' 'big 'n nasty' file in one hit."

"Yeah well them 'n some. 'One more time into the breach' and all that rot."

" M' sire copped a dragon talon. Nothing we could do after that 'cept make the time we had…count." At this point, Spike's words broke. Xander rolled to face his friend, reached over, and pulled the slim shoulder until the vampire faced him.

Using the same hand to continue to pet and calm, he urged the speaker to continue, "And?"

Spike's face screwed up in the anguish at the still raw memory "There was nothin' I could do, nothin'…And then he begged me to…and I couldn't.. not…and everyone else was dead…and he was in so much pain.. I killed him, oh god, I had to kill him…he wanted and…" Spike's hand flew up to cover his face and he rolled entirely until heart broken sobs were muffled by both his own protective limb and the ample pillows.

Xander could do nothing but move closer to his friend until their bodies were touching then continue to stroke Spike, offer meaningless words of comfort…and wait…

Eventually, the figure rolled back, his hand rubbed across wet eyes and slightly runny nose. The now tired looking, red rimmed blue eyes fixed on Xander as he whispered, "Dru dusted bit later, d'no how…"

"Oh Spike…" Xander brooked no argument re lying on a comfortable bed, and that Xander had joined his friend in the 'hysteria' this time. He shed tears for Spike, for what the vampire had suffered, for all they had both lost, and for their significant, but before now, unshared grief.

In the end, it was Spike who broke the hold first, moving his hand to run fingers through the dark 'executive cut', and pet the trim beard that had grazed more just than his chin last night (not that he was worried!)…

"Ahh, luv, ain't we just the pair?" He whispered, continuing to caress and stroke quietly, then resolved to wait.

The Xander he saw now, the beautiful man facing him, with tears tracking from one eye and scars of the Hellmouth war obvious, was the summation of all the good Alexander Harris's he had known: the abused boy, the ignored Scooby, the injured soldier, the loyal friend, the shamed groom, and the grieving lover. This coupled with so much more: the respected professional; the confident adult; the private person; and the unreserved lover. Spike was so proud of the man before him and despite his emotional state, tried to convey the message in his touch.

He caressed the face again, gently wiping away moisture from the good eye and touching lightly across the eyebrow of the one lost.

Xander roused, rolled onto his back and reached over to the friend who still stoked his arm.

He opened a now clear chocolate eye, "Hey…"

"Cm'on pet. Let's you 'n I find a bar…and me a decent pint of O pos…No need for reasons now, ehh mate?"

Xander allowed himself to be pulled up, and genuinely relished the walk to the Fritz Bar – making an idle comment regards their two day journey to the same.

The bar itself was congenial and busy, Spike slipped out of Xander's touch, only to return minutes later with a self satisfied grin. His human partner for the night, understood that necessary supplies had to be obtained, but was still a little nervous.

As the 'anonymous black truck' was seen pulling away from the back entrance to the club, Spike returned to their end of the bar, leaned over to his friend, attempted a lascivious grin and growled "Fancy dessert, luv,". Xander would have been somewhat thrown but for the ruined 'Big Bad' impression radiating from the set of blue eyes that seemed to sing their gentle adoration and need for him.

By 2am, they were 'back in the building' at Back Bay, with both 'gents' still interested in dessert but apparently needing sleep more.

Despite his five bag 'bootie' (3 pints of 'good stuff' and two of animal) obtained from a rather shady 'contact' early in the night, Spike seemed determined that they keep any references to his dietary needs to a minimum, while Xander insisted that he had no need for anything but a soft mattress and a hug (both of which seemed readily available).

As they stripped naked on their respective 'sides' of the large bed, the beautiful figure watching Xander broke the silence "There's always tomorrow for hard stuff yeah? For now, why don't we just hold on luv. Figure I just need to 'hold on'…"

Xander, dived under his side of the down coverings, found the speaker willingly considering the 'amorous embrace' idea, then was rewarded for his 'mild abandon' by the much adored, naked and hard body of Spike pressing flush to his.

A long relaxed kiss later, Xander pulled his cooler companion into a spooned hug and both succumbed to slumber. It was not until three the next afternoon that Xander had the opportunity to wonder at what could only be described as their collective fatigue and sleeping thirteen hours.

Xander woke before his companion this time, aware that his body was intertwined with the other in a tangle of limbs, and that they had somehow rolled to lie diagonally across the bed. He waited a few minutes, decided his bladder really was in need of emptying, and began to extract himself from his bed buddy-come-limpet's grasp. It was no an easy task as it turned out. The blonde seemed to have wound himself around Xander so effectively that moving one extremity simply caused another to be held even tighter.

Finally Xander opted for waking the vamp and risking any 'grumpy-Spike' consequences.

"Hey Spike?" he whispered as he tried to extract his top arm and shook the shoulder of his friend. No response.

"C'mon undead guy, human needing relief?!" This time Xander worked hard to pull one of his legs free, with limited success as 'limpet-guy' simply adjusted and hugged tighter.

The slight twitch at the side of his companion's mouth after Xander's next aborted attempt and the consequent "Geez Spike!!" whine, alerted the man to the idea that his erstwhile companion was not as unconscious as he made out to be.

"OK Fangless! I know you're awake and unless I get to that bathroom in the next thirty seconds you are so going to be sleeping in a wet patch of the not-so-fun variety!"

Xander noted later that preternatural speed did have its advantages! Not only was he released from the embrace with a (to be expected) horrified "Gahhh!", but he was also lifted, carried and deposited next to the objet de nécessité, with an obligatory "Well, get on with it", in mere seconds, only just registering the door slam shut as his captor exited.

Though his ablutions were swift, Xander remained in the bathroom for a little longer. He had decided upon extending his stay, but still needed to consider the consequences of his current choices. He recalled Giles' advice in matters of the heart, "One simply needs to let nature run its course in these situations" and that "Sometimes you will be lucky." At the time of teenage lust Xander had probably misinterpreted the advice completely, but now felt inclined that there may be merit in following the former watcher's advice.

Emerging from the bathroom Xander could not help but smile.

The figure lying spread eagled on the bed before him, in all its marble-like glory, seemed to have found a morning activity to fill in the time while Xander relieved himself.

Oblivious to his audience, Spike had his eyes shut to enhance the feeling of well practiced strokes up and down the hard flesh under his hand. He had decided that, given past experience, Xander would be at least a half hour in the other room, ample of time to enjoy the soft bed and start his day 'satisfied'. Vampire recovery rates left plenty of scope for more 'interesting activities' should they be on offer later.

Not so much with stealth as speed, Xander managed to elicit a surprised "Oi" from the other male as he removed the caressing hand and swiftly replaced it with a very willing, and extremely warm mouth. The initial expression of surprise was replaced with a hearty "Oh yeah, Hell yeah, Xan!…" then a collection of other articulations of pleasure that seemed to have their origins in 'caveman speak' rather than any written language.

Not more than a minute later Xander felt his partner lift from the bed, shudder and then welcomed the jets of cool release, swallowing briskly and trying to think of appropriately witty things to say afterwards to make the vampire smile 'like that' again.

For his part, the now very satisfied, Spike began to pet the hair of his lover, then gently grasped his beloved's shoulders and moved the man to where he could thank him properly, noting the satisfyingly wet 'plop' as Xander released him and willingly moved up for a kiss.

It was four before the two really started to move again. This time Xander making phone calls to airlines, shifting his flights to late evening on January 1, and extending his time at the hotel to match the same.

His concern over the final day and 'twelve noon checkout' was eliminated when his room mate pointed out that he actually had a place in Boston to go! After some discussion regarding logistics, Xander rang the front desk back to indicate that he would be leaving very early on Jan 1, and therefore would 'fix the bill' for any extra expenses prior to sunup on the day of departure.

Cool hands began massaging his shoulders as he finished the last call. "All done, pet?"

"Yeah…God Spike…How am I supposed to go home anyway…ever…after this? I can't just walk away…?"

Spike sensed another meltdown on the way, and hit the green button on the remote he'd found in a side drawer. A tiny stereo unit emerged from what he'd assumed was a simple (if rather nasty) print of a 'red setter' with three rabbits at its feet. The picture slid down as the music started, revealing a rather elegant, flat, silver sound system.

A preset radio station started and serendipity seemed to step in one more time with its random sample adding to the mood…

"Let's take the train to anywhere,
I wanna feel the wind in my hair with you.
Let's tell them all, that soon they'll know
how very wrong they were to think we'd never go,

and if you tell me yours I'll tell you mine
and we will clean the cobwebs out of one another's minds.

Don't ever say you've tried to leave me in this life
Don't ever say you've tried for the last time." (www.missyhiggins.com , 'Don't Ever', 2004)

Xander's head fell back onto the shoulder of his masseuse. The song finished as did the massage.

"C'mon luv, let's us find some sights for you to see at night yeah?" With that the blonde grabbed the phone ordered a 'car' for "at least two hours mate" then claimed the bathroom as his own for a ten minute shower.

Xander could not help but smile, it seemed that 'Spike the irrepressible' was again in the building.

The tour of the city – at the behest of the resident Bostonian - was wonderful. Spike regaling his audience of one, with historical accounts that Xander was sure had little to do with official records.

He looked across as Spike began to explain the role of the "Irish Ire" in the final revolutionary acts against 'Imperialist England', and couldn't help but point out with a grin, that the 'teller' was in fact a card carrying member of the Empire – and, truth be known one of its elite of any era!

He was rewarded with an outraged glare, and an "Oh bloody hell, Harris, when did you become captain of the debating team!", but the wink and grin of his friend belied the harsh meaning of the words. Xander grabbed the slender hand resting by his, lifted it to his lips and kissed it deliberately.

After a full 'circuit' of the city they stopped at a rather non-descript apartment building somewhere between Xander's hotel and the Theatre District.

Xander looked slightly confused at his companion then realized that this must be Spike's Boston home.

He entered the underground residence, initially surprised by the amount of electrical equipment hooked to a very few outlets, and also noted the distinct lack of 'personal' touches.

Spike moved around the space quickly, apparently intent on collecting all he needed and moving on as soon as possible.

Xander grabbed the arm of the rather frenetic resident, trying to calm him and wishing that his friend could relax a little.

"Hey pal, 'sup? We've got plenty of time!…Can I try the big screen? You know, four days without TV can be fatal to the modern man!"

He caught the eye of his nervous host, and smiled. At some level he realized yet another source of distress and moved to pull his friend closer into a tight hug.

"Hey…C'mon…should see my place! All toys 'n Swedish designer, reeks of anally retentive single 'queer eye' guy!…" Catching the look of pain (or was that shame?) Xander lifted the face so he could look directly into the azure eyes. He kissed Spike chastely on the lips and said "Hey…C'mon buddy, vampire right? So south facing picture windows, not exactly a sought after feature, yeah?!"

"'S'not that."

"Then what? Come on Spike not exactly intuitive-guy here."

"Just that, oh hell!" Spike pulled away and stared at his companion in full game face, then switched back and rasped out…"How's this s'posed to work? Can't have you livin' in a basement. And you're hardly gonna move anyway…and…??"

Xander pulled the vamp back into his arms and began to rub soothing circles over the tense shoulders. "I don't know sweetie, I don't know how it will work…but it will…yeah? We'll make it work!" He kissed the forehead of his companion one more time, hugged him hard, then released his grip saying, "So, we doing sport on your big screen? or y' wanna head back to my place?"

"You've got at tellie"

"Wha?"

"In your room you git! You've got a plasma screen behind the bloody picture of the rich wanker on his horse!"

"You're kidding me!"

"Never been more serious, mate."

Xander eyed his current, rather austere surrounds, contemplated his room rate then offered (as non judgmentally as he could manage) "So, flat screen at my place?"

Spike needed no more encouragement. He quickly shoved a change of clothes, his laptop, duster and several bags of frozen blood into a duffle bag and was moving toward the door before Xander even had a chance to find a comfortable place to sit and wait.

The return taxi trip was taken in silence. Xander briskly ordered a meal via room service as they re entered the hotel, then pinned Spike to the wall and kissed him soundly as soon as they entered his suite.

The rest of the night was spent 'tucked up in bed', watching soccer, re runs of Deep Space Nine, and the 'classic' (according to Spike) 'Last Night of the Proms' from 'the Royal Albert' which, as far as Xander was concerned, simply meant a whole lot of 'tedious classical music'. The sentiment was stopped in its tracks however, when he looked across to the expression of pure enjoyment on his companion's face as "Pomp and Circumstance' by Elgar began. And any 'disinterest' completely lost as a moving, and as it turned out, bagpipe accompanied rendition of Aude Lang Syne began.

As the song finished, the sound was turned down and the two audience members in the room, turned their attentions to the 'old acquaintance [they had never] forgot' and spent the remainder of the evening demonstrating exactly why.

It was again after 1pm when Xander woke, but this time he was alone. In a slight panic, he sat up, scanned the room, then let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The consequent "Oh shit Spike, don't do that to me," went entirely unheard.

Spike was sitting on one of the lounge chairs. Clad only in jeans, hair loose, feet on the footstool and laptop perched on his legs. He was typing furiously whilst tapping his foot in time with whatever CD he had playing through his headphones. Xander noted with a measure of surprise and not a small amount of jealousy (!), that the vampire was typing with 'all ten digits' and did not seem to need to look at the keyboard at all, unlike his own 'two finger pecking' technique! He sighed as yet another of his inadequacies was made evident, then reminded himself of the number of stories NonPerson aka Spike, had been producing and how very long and involved those stories were, concluding that practice was no doubt the key.

Xander rolled out of bed and tiptoed across to wait behind Spike's 'leeside' for a break in the writing. As soon as it came he leaned over and firmly licked the neck of his friend. The appropriate reaction was elicited, and Xander grinned wickedly at the knowledge that he had been able to make a master vampire 'jump and squeak'.

"Bloody hell Harris, give a bloke a heart attack!" Spike tugged off the headphones, and put the laptop on the ground, hitting save in the process, then pulled his nude attacker across his lap and proceeded to assuage his shock and annoyance by punishing his assailant with a 'severe' kissing.

Passion easing, Xander pulled back, smiled then relaxed and 'snuggled', head on the vampire's shoulder and mouth near the pale neck. He leaned forward a little, whispered "Afternoon lover", and licked the original 'site of surprise' again, then proceeded to suck and bite the spot lightly. The reaction from his partner this time, a lusty groan and as a hand reached up to pet Xander's hair while the other found his groin.

"God, what you do to me Xan!" Spike captured the lips one more time, then sat them both up.

He pushed his lover to his feet and smacked him on the bare behind affectionately, smiling at the mild indignation in the brunette's expression.

"C'mon, luv, got me a fan base to service – 'Xanman' included! Check your Email lately?"

The human wandered to the bathroom for his 'morning' shower, turned momentarily to observe Spike retrieve his computer, then closed the door of the en suite. He smiled contentedly at the sound of his favorite author re-engaging his passion, computer coming off standby and pings noting that he had logged on again.

Could he live with this forever