Xander blames Spike's cheekbones. They run so high that he's still only halfway up the left one when Spike catches him.

"What are you looking at?" Pretty defiant for a guy tied to a chair, prisoner number one and only in the house of Giles. "Never figured you for the Marquis de Sade type, unlike your little friends."

"Just making sure those ropes are tied tight--in a strictly non-S&M way." Because this isn't OZ, or even Hogan's Heroes, just some babysitting of one renegade vampire.

"I don't have ropes on my face, boy-o. Go stand behind me if you're so interested." Spike sounds bored, but he's watching Xander like maybe he's measuring his cheekbones. Or something else, which is the only reason that Xander starts to move, nerves twitchy and sending confused signals south. He walks from Giles' couch to the chair where Spike sits, bound like an exhibit on the Spanish Inquisition.

Spike's still watching, and yeah, it's very still watching, doing that vampire thing where he moves less than a statue. He's dead, after all, and can do weird tricks, which is why Xander has to check the ropes, even though they're Buffy-tied.

"You know," Spike says, as Xander steps behind him, "you can see some pretty strange things from here."

Xander freezes, scanning the room for two-headed monsters, but sees only Giles' dusty living room and the back of Spike's very blond head. "I don't see anything."

"Maybe you're not looking hard enough. Step a little closer."

"Listen, Granny, I'm wise to your wolf disguise, okay? So don't try any funny business. I'm pretty handy with an ax."

"Relax. I can't eat you when you're standing behind me like that."

"You planning to eat me?"

"I'm just trying to show you something." A heavy sigh. "Stand behind me and bend down a little."

"You know that Giles is upstairs sleeping, right? All I have to do is yell, and he'll be here carving his initials on your chest."

"Just lean."

So Xander does, cautiously, because the command's stripped of everything but boredom, bends over Spike's shoulder until his cheek is practically against Spike's. "I don't see anything--Whoah." He doesn't see anything unusual, but sure feels it: Spike's hand closing over his cock. He's about to scream, or quip, or faint, when Spike starts to stroke. "I, uh, think we need to have that good-touching, bad-touching talk again."

"Which one is this?"

"Definitely good. I mean, bad. I mean, what are you doing?" His scandalized-virgin routine sounds half-hearted, and he gives it up. All brain cells are required to evaluate this situation. So, he evaluates.

Spike is groping him, well, a sustained, expert kind of groping that's scrambling Xander's normal reaction to vampire handjobs. Also, it seems that if he turns his head just a fraction, they'd be kissing. And, he observes with admirably clinical detachment, he might want this. Because Spike is strong, pretty and blond, like Buffy, which has always pushed some funky-monkey buttons for Xander, but also because Spike never gets tired, never gives up, never stops fighting. Sometimes Xander wants to, especially after the not-so-pleasant glimpses he's had of eternity, which tend to be either very painful or very boring. So, okay, maybe he admires that in Spike. The uncrushability.

Shoot him now.

All right, not now, not quite, not with Spike unzipping Xander's pants, and, "Oh, boy." Vaguely, he remembers Anya, and cheating, and what even now-human vengeance demons do, but Spike's not even alive, or female, so how bad could it be? 

"Best defense is a good offense. That's what the sports blokes are always saying. Give it a try." Spike sounds cheery, like they're at a football game or a gladiator match.

"You want me to--"

"Offend me."

Xander remembers Willow's spell from the other day, the one that made Buffy and Spike in love, and wonders if that's why he's reaching between Spike's thighs and fumbling with very tight leather. Because holding Spike's hard cock in his hand, while Spike holds his, is definitely witching hour stuff. Okay, sure, maybe he's had a fantasy or two--who wouldn't, with a pretty guy like Spike caught and displayed in the middle of Giles' apartment like some kind of human Tootsie Roll? "Is that offensive enough?"

"It's a start." Spike's spreading his legs wide as he can, his ankles still firmly bound to the chair legs. "Maybe a little faster...Yeah, like that."

Yes, he's thrusting into Spike's hand, the way Spike is thrusting into his. Maybe even harder, because unlike Spike, he's not tied to a chair. "You must, oh God, get pretty bored just sitting there." Spike's fingers started cold, but now they're hot, and they're moving with a rhythm Xander never even knew existed.

"What do you think? Sitting here, listening to you lot getting all the action. I wanted some of my own."

The sad truth is that Xander's a little hurt. What did he think, that Spike might've had his own fantasies, unrelated to spending his free time as kinky performance art? "Sure, I understand."

Spike shifts, so that one hand is holding the head of Xander's cock, the other one stroking it. "Not sure you do."

A few gasps later, Xander registers this weird little twist in Spike's voice. Can't turn his head, though, not with the whole mouth-proximity thing, so he can't see Spike's eyes. "What do you mean? I'm on the ball. I'm in the know. I get things. Sure, Willow looks like the smart one, and Giles is the book guy, but I'm not a total--" 

"You have good hands," Spike says. Like Xander, Spike talks in a deliberately slow way, like the words are ready to rush out.

"That's me. Good-handed boy. It's a gift, really--" 

"Xander." 

Spike has turned his head, and Xander figures it's only polite to do the same thing. Spike's tongue is hot, like he's all stirred up inside now, and he tastes like...

Cookies. Courtesy of Will and her post-spell guilt.

It's a relief, like this isn't weird, but right, and Xander licks Spike's tongue and jerks him off, and the room is getting very, very hot. 

Hotter.

Hands moving so fast now, kissing hard, moans that he feels in his chest, and he's going to...

A rush that's like wind under his skin, and he gasps into Spike's mouth, Spike, who's wire-tense now, and licking, and, there it is, hot and wet in his hand, the way Xander is hot and wet in his.

Waits until his breathing's less locomotive, and steps back. There's a box of Kleenex and Xander cleans himself up, then cleans up Spike. Stays quiet, embarrassed now, guilty, too. Guilty for the wrong reasons. "I can't untie you," he says to Spike. 

"I know."

"Even if I wanted to."

"I know." Spike stretches as best he can, and kind of laughs. 

Xander clears his throat, and decides to be brave. "Maybe I'll come by tomorrow and take over the watch from Will. You know. To see if you're bored." Sounds way too defiant.

"I think I will be."

He thinks that Spike is smiling, not a smirk, but a real smile, and tries one of his own. It feels fine. "Good. And maybe you can show me just what it is you see when you're sitting in that chair."