Cat's-eyes, watching him in the gloom and Xander shivers, watching them back. Not really cat's-eyes. Demon's-eyes, actually, and that should make the shiver worse but it doesn't. Or it does, but worse isn't the word that Xander would use. He steps across the mansion's leaf-strewn courtyard, ignoring the remains of something off in the corner. Looks like something Drusilla has been playing with, and he dismisses it from his mind, because he doesn't want to see it, not really.
And he shouldn't be here - understatement of the year! - but he has to be. Because being here is helping Buffy, and the Scooby gang. Being here is Saving the World. Even though they really wouldn't get it. Xander's not exactly sure that he gets it, but it makes these little trips possible. Befriend the Hurt Vampire and He Won't Kill Your Friends. Or something like that. You take what you can get on the Hellmouth. Even if you have to hide if from your best friend.
So he's here on a secret mission, and that makes him giggle, just a little hysterically, and the cat's-eyes-demon's-eyes blink. There is the sulphurous flare of a Lucifer match and the gloom is suddenly thick with shadows. Shadows, and one very solid not-shadow, and that's Spike, stretching out from his seat in the wheel-chair, match-head to candle-wick. A quick shake, and the blackened match goes skittering away across the floor. Xander follows it with his eyes - then looks back up and the cat's-eyes are now human eyes, shadowed and dark with pain. Or something else. Crinkling at the corners just a tiny bit, internal laughter, because Xander was giggling and giggling isn't supposed to happen in the lair of three of the most dangerous vampire's on earth.
"What," Xander says, and Spike shakes his head - holds out his hand, and Xander walks slowly across the room to him, glancing at the long table down the center that's laid out with all manner of strange and grisly things. More stuff he doesn't really want to see.
"What's goin' on in that head?" Spike asks, when Xander gets close, and then Xander can see the marks on his neck; scratch marks, a bruise - a bruise along one impossibly high and sharp-edged cheekbone. Xander sucks in a small, sympathetic breath and can't stop his finger from going out and touching the bruise, pressing ever so lightly, and Spike pushes into the touch, just a little. Spike's fingers on his hip, rubbing.
"That fucker." Xander murmurs, and they both know who he means. Angel, even though Buffy and Giles and the rest insist on Angelus. As if that makes it all better, somehow. As far as Xander is concerned, Angel is Angelus - just a wolf in cheap clothing - and he won't shed a tear when Buffy stakes his miserable black heart. If she ever actually manages to do it, and that's another reason why Xander is here - Buffy's incredible lack of slayage concerning Angel.
This, however, will help - is helping, and Xander can't help but grin again, and Spike grins back, looking up at him with some emotion that Xander really can't - no, won't- identify sparkling in those demon-cat eyes. Even blue and human they hold all the hurt and rage of a prodigal son denied, and Xander just wants to chase that pain away. Wants, and can, and does, fairly often.
"Grab that." Spike says, gesturing to the candle, and Xander lifts it and follows as Spike wheels his way into the bedroom that's his and Drusilla's - although Drusilla hasn't been in this bedroom much at all, lately. More pain, that Xander will do his best to soothe away. He puts the candle on the mantle of the cold fireplace and turns to Spike, who is by the bed, now. Big bed, swathed in velvet and lace for Drusilla - made up in rich, soft cotton and heavy satin - for Drusilla. But she's spurning this luxury for the tumble of cheap poly-blend that Angel never changes or even straightens, and Xander likes to think that maybe Spike keeps the soft, rich bedclothes there for him, now. It's a nice thought, and one that he doesn't share.
Spike is stripping off his silk button-up shirt, and black t-shirt, tossing them over a rickety, upright wooden chair that already holds his leather duster. He bends in the wheelchair and pushes the Docs off, revealing bare, narrow feet and long toes. He does this, because they're doing their best to keep Xander's scent to a minimum. Not that Drusilla would notice, since lately she's so caught up in the end of the world and Angel/Angelus's little games that she doesn't seem to notice much of anything, at all. Certainly isn't noticing that Spike is quietly dying, inside, every time she take's Angel's hand and saunters away with him, forgetting the hundred years Spike has spent following her moon-drunk notions and Miss Edith's edicts. One more reason to be here, as far as Xander is concerned. Angel is, happily, much too caught up in screwing with Buffy's head, and hasn't noticed a thing. Which is good, since he might actually do something, where Drusilla might not.
Spike undoes the buttons of his jeans, and Xander steps closer to him, hands going out - ready to lift him and help him onto the bed. But Spike holds out his hand again, stopping him.
"Look," he says, smiling just a little, and then slowly, so slowly, he pushes himself upright - out of the chair, onto his feet. He shoots a look of pure excitement at Xander, who stands frozen, watching him. Carefully, inch by inch, Spike shuffles the two feet to the bed - lowers himself down, eyebrows together in a little grimace that proves there's still pain.
Which is kind of almost a relief, because when Spike is better - all better - Xander might just not ever get to come here again, and he's not sure he could take that.
Spike is grinning again, head up and eyes bright with happiness, and Xander grins back, pushing his own insecurities, his own…needs down somewhere in the same place he keeps Jesse's death and his parents utter and unrelenting dismissal of him. Down where the hyena still lurks, just a little. It snaps up the dark thoughts and eats them, in a way - sin-eater for Xander's sometimes-troubled soul - and he's grateful for that, even if he still flinches when he thinks about what he almost did to Buffy.
"Spike! That's - great! When -"
"Yesterday. I tried yesterday and I could. Getting better, pet." Spike looks at him for a moment, head to one side, the grin fading to something - else - and Xander shivers, wondering.
Spike lays back on the bed and pushes at the jeans - shimmies his suddenly-mobile hips and kicks a little, and the jeans are a heap on the floor. He pulls himself up the bed, mostly using arms and shoulders, and Xander watches the muscles flex and roll under the smooth skin, old-ivory colored in the candle-light. Spike lays in the middle of the bed, arms behind his head, watching.
And suddenly Xander remembers that he's been hard since he crossed the mansion's threshold, and he strips out of his clothes as fast as he can, tossing them down in a heap, putting a couple of necessary items on the bed. Then he crawls onto the bed, down by Spike's feet. He crouches there, and takes Spike's ankles in his hands - lifts one foot, and then the other, putting soft kisses on the tops of them - running his thumbs along the high arches.
"Feel that?" he murmurs, and Spike nods, eyes wide. Xander continues upwards, slowly. Kissing ankle-bone and shin-bone, kneading the bunched muscles of the slender calves. And "Feel that? Feel that?" every few breaths. The same, since the first time, and it's only been two months since Spike could feel anything, down here.
At Spike's thighs, now, his knees pressing them together, his hands on Spike's hips, stroking over hip bone and the smooth, hard muscles of his abdomen. Ghosting little touches along the rigid length of Spike's erection and the vampire is breathing, now - sighing every time Xander touches him. Xander's own cock is pressed into the crease between Spike's thighs, and he rubs there a little, panting himself. He leans down and trails his tongue over Spike - tasting the blood-salt flavor of pre-come, tasting the salt-musk flavor of his skin as he licks his way down and then back up. He wants to do more - so much more - but there's never time and after another minute he reaches for the lube he put on the bed and squeezes some out. He coats Spike in it - reaches behind himself and pushes one finger, then two, into himself - cursory preparation because he's ready for this - been ready for hours. Been wanting it for hours, pacing in his room until the sun was down enough for Angel and Drusilla to leave. Watching from a safe distance as Angel had said something to Spike - leaned in close and pushed his hand through Spike's hair - wrenched his head back by that grip and kissed him, hard enough to draw blood. Then walking out with Dru on his arm, smirk and some comment tossed back over his shoulder and Spike wiping his mouth on his hand, looking as if he wanted to spit or scream or maybe just tear Angel into little shreds.
But now it's Xander, and Spike doesn't look furious, or frustrated. He looks - like one of those boys in the Calvin Klein ads, all mussed hair and sultry eyes, half-open mouth and Xander leans up and kisses him, hard, fucking his mouth with his tongue, going deep so maybe he can get the taste of Angel out of Spike's mouth - can get the feel of him off of Spike's lips and replace it with his own. He creeps forward on his knees and holds Spike's cock in his hand - positions himself and pushes down and Spike is inside him, one inch and then two - more - and Xander arches his back, gasping, his own cock jumping a little, wet and so hard. He grinds lower and opens his eyes wide in shock and acute pleasure as Spike's hips suddenly come up - not much, but some. Pressure, where there wasn't any before. Spike is frowning, his hands knotted in the satin duvet, and Xander is pretty sure this hurts him.
"Spike, that's….god…" Xander rolls his hips a little - pushes more - and all of Spike is in him now, and he pauses for a moment and then starts to move, up and back, working himself and Spike, hand behind him to stroke and tug Spike's balls, his other hand sweeping over Spike's chest, scratching his nails along the curve of rib and the dip of the sternum - tugging at hardened nipples until Spike groans and reaches up. Spike's hands on his hips, helping him, moving him harder, and Xander leans down for another kiss, letting Spike nip at his lips - break the skin just a little and suck the drops of blood that well up. He's kissing the demon now, mindful of the razoring fangs but not that mindful - letting Spike draw blood here and there, lips and tongue, just tiny pricks of heat and then the soothing lap of a cool tongue. Xander's hips are moving faster, now, slamming down onto the body beneath him, feeling the slight upward motion Spike is doing and reveling in it. He pulls back, sitting up, and Spike's hands are hurtfully tight on his hips - making bruises that he'll examine later in the mirror; touch when he masturbates in the shower before school. The vampire is panting now, making a soft, moaning sound in his throat and Xander bends a little, twisting - gets one hand between Spike's legs and feels - pushes a finger into Spike, as deep as he can, and Spike goes rigid, trembling, mouth open on a drawn-out sound, keen of pleasure. Xander feels the muscles clench around his finger - harder than before - and he keeps moving, clenching his own muscles tight. After long moments Spike is done, relaxing suddenly and completely on the bed, gasping. Xander reaches over for the condom - hates using it, but knows that his own semen would be too strong a smell to hide from Angel. He gets it on fast, trembling on the edge himself, and Spike reaches for him - pulls him down with one hand curling around the back of his neck, the other on his cock, pumping. Xander goes willingly, shivering, Spike still inside him and hard enough still to stretch him - fill him - and Xander turns his head to the side, offering.
The demon takes with a small snarl, fangs sinking into the top of Xander's shoulder, hard pull of his mouth and the blood is flowing out, a rush of sparks and shudders all over his body that makes Xander cry out - convulse - and he's coming, his hips pistoning helplessly into Spike's grip, one hand twisting the bedclothes, the other in Spike's hair, pressing him closer. Spike drinks, drinks - finally pulls away, little licks of his tongue on the wound and that's a shivery feeling too, shivery-good. Xander just rests there for a moment, forehead on Spike's neck, lips on his collarbone, and Spike is stroking his back now, petting his hair and kissing the side of his throat - kissing his jaw. Xander gasps in a few hard breaths and then sits up slowly, smiling. Spike's eyes are half-closed, blue again. His hair is a mess but he looks… Happy, Xander thinks. Content, at least. Xander strips off the condom and knots it - toss it aside to retrieve later. He rubs his hands over Spike's chest - over the bruise-marks on Spike's hips, the scratches down his ribs. Leans down and kisses them - runs his tongue over every mark. Spike slips free of his body and Xander continues to kiss and touch - trying to get rid of the taint of Angel. Spike is practically purring, his hands working in the crumpled satin of the duvet, his eyes closed. Xander lays next to him - pulls him close and kisses him.
"That was so good, pet," Spike whispers, and Xander touches the bruised cheekbone - smiles when Spike open's his eyes.
"Yeah. Real good."
"Be all right, soon. Then -"
"Yeah." Xander runs his finger along the scar at Spike's eyebrow - reluctantly pushes himself up and out of the bed. Then, Spike will figure a way to get rid of Angel. Go to the Slayer, if he has to. Something - anything. Xander knows he'll do it, too. But he's afraid, so afraid…of what happens after that. He shakes his head, looking down at the vampire sprawled on the bed. Now, though, he'll do what he always does. He'll wash himself off of Spike, and he'll see him back to his chair, and then he'll go. Back to his room and back to school and back to being a Scooby. Back to the other world. The one where cat's-eyes in the twilight are just that; stray-cat running down the street, and not a demon with silken skin and clever hands and all the right words, all the right smiles. Demon-magnet, that's him, and it never felt quite this good.