Spike traced the scars over Xander's back with a fingertip, like a doodled map of places no sane man went.

This road went to Kenya.

This road went to Oxnard.

This road went down the basement stairs.

"And see ye na yon narrow road, sae thick beset wi' thorns and briers?" Spike's fingers tiptoed from one scar to another, choosing the right one, nasty and long. "That is the path of righteousness, though after it but few enquires. Stupid git." He followed it with a fingertip until the curling silver line disappeared under Xander's armpit, making him snort and whuffle into the pillow.

Harris was ticklish?

"Are you done?"

"Could be. Haven't got to the braid braid road of wickedness." Spike rocked his erection against Xander's right hip .

"You braided it and you're calling me a git?"

"Pillock. Means broad in the poem."

"Aren't we full of ourselves?" Xander slithered down the mattress and Spike let him.

"Rather be full of you, mate."

"God, are all you vampires this needy?"

"Only me, pet." Spike wove his fingers into Xander's hair, spread his legs for the rough stubble scratch of human jaw rubbing against his thighs like a bloody cat. "Only me."

And he threw an arm over his face when Xander lifted his legs and stabbed that hot human tongue straight into him.

If Spike clutched his knees and spread wide in an unseemly amount of time for a man over a hundred and twenty five, it was his own sodding business. Because for a man of only twenty-five, Xander Harris had talents.

And a bloody fine cock.

"And anyway," he croaked, "who said the braid braid road of wickedness is anywhere on me?" Which was a bad idea in hindsight because it made Xander stop and lift his head like a confused Labrador.

"You're the vampire," Xander said casually, casual fingers replacing casual tongue with casual lube. And Spike was going to go casually round the bend if Harris didn't engage his casual cock right bloody now. "Ergo, wickedness."

"Least I'm not a sodding tease."

"There is that," Xander conceded and kept teasing.

Spike was still trying to hold off coming, to remember what came after the fair elfland verse, by the time Xander entered him with a slow, stretching burn. Their bed was only big enough for two sodding fairies. Elfland could fuck off elsewhere.

So of course the way Spike's luck was running of late, the telephone rang. And the way his soul was running of late, he answered it.

In hindsight, this was another mistake.

He'd have to start keeping a list.

Because the way Xander only slowed down, gave him the in-out-roll business, all Spike would remember of the conversation was 'hello'.

"Yeah? What?"

Bloody Watcher. Blah blah 'Buffy' blah blah. 'Yoronos, God Of Obliteration' Blah blah sodding blah. 'Apocalypse' blah.

"Right," Spike said and hung up with an uneasy feeling he should have listened more closely.

Spike really shouldn't have been surprised when Rupert showed up at his door with Dawn, Buffy and Willow in tow. Not only were they there, not only were they seeing Harris, but they were seeing a lot more of Harris than anyone but Spike ought to - and with growing looks of shock and horror on their faces.

Which matched the look on Spike's face when he heard the quiet, oh so very quiet thump behind him.

Spike slammed the door. "Fuck off!"

"Spike! Open this door now!"

"Fuck off!" His voice cracked - didn't crack - oh sod it, cracked and the world was fucking blurry and Spike dropped his head into his hands.

In the hall, the witch began to chant and Spike threw himself at the door, taking out his fury on the wood instead of the people behind it. "Fucking fuck off and leave us in peace!"

Beat.

"I'm not dead."

Spike stared at the door and the door stared back. It had a boot-sized dent in it.

Fresh.

"I'm not...dead," Xander said again in a key of hysterical wonder. "I'm not dead?" he asked, variation on a theme.

Spike had to turn around to answer it. He did.

Stiffly.

And drew a fast, hard breath, took in the freshly-showered human scent, healthy blood beneath healthy skin. Seventy-five percent eye contact crackled between them and Spike let out his breath. Went to the table, picked up his cigarettes and completely failed to light one with shaking hands.

Completely failed to stay standing with shaky knees.

"Looks like," he said casually.

Then dropped the lit lighter into his lap as his door exploded inward on a cloud of sparks and splinters and angry red-haired witch.

"You - get some clothes on, mister." Willow pointed at Xander, who didn't move. He sat there with his mouth and legs gaping, goods dangling in the breeze with a coating of door dust - which was coming out of the Council's security deposit. Spike lit his cigarette and began to feel better.

Dawn pushed past both of them and came back with his robe, sliding it over Xander's shoulders and patting him. "That's better."

*Still too skinny,* Spike thought with a flash of guilt. Then stomped on the soul till it shut up and crawled over the back of the couch to take care of business. "Come on, Harris. Up you get. Have a drag." He held the lit cigarette to Xander's lips and thank god it was the right end.

"Xander doesn't smoke!"

They all watched as Xander lifted a shaking hand to claim the cigarette and smoked it desperately down to the filter. "Few things changed in Africa, Red." Spike helped Xander around the end of the couch like an invalid. When they sat down, Xander lit up again immediately and passed the packet to Spike. "Why're you here?" Spike lit up, squinted at them through the smoke.

Red looked like she could use a drink. Buffy and the Watcher looked like they could use a good night's sleep and Dawn looked like it was Christmas Eve. Spike did the figures in his head and they added up to one thing.

"Time to saddle up the heroes again, is it?" Spike blew out smoke and propped his boots on the table. He slung an arm over Xander's shoulders. "Well you can saddle up elsewhere. Harris isn't well enough to go galloping off to the latest big battle."

He and Xander had some celebrating to do -

Except Harris wasn't following the script. Spike looked in confusion at the empty space in the crook of his arm where Xander was supposed to be, then at the man himself struggling off the couch. "Give me a few minutes to get dressed. I'll be right there."

"You sodding well will not!"

A cat - that's what Harris was like. A bloody cat.

Tell him no and what does he do?

Shreds your bloody curtains and pisses on the sodding rug.

"Fuck off!" Spike grabbed one of the shaggy demon minions of Yoronos, God Of Obliteration around its throat and dashed it down on the wrought iron fence surrounding Kensington Gardens.

Once it was stuck - squealing and splattering blood - it was someone else's problem and Harris had disappeared again like the once and future idiot fighting his way toward danger like those bloody snack food commercials where the rainbow of flavors danced straight into the waiting, drooling jaws of a prepubescent sugar-addled fiend.

Right.

Spike jabbed his elbow into a demon's face with a snarl. Too much television. If Harris survived this, Spike was cutting off the cable and they were watching nothing but porn and box sets.

"Behind you!"

"Fucking hell." Spike went down beneath a minion, its neck a satisfying crack in his hands but he'd lost sight of Xander. "Harris!"

He scrambled up, plunged through a throng of Slayers and into the demons, grappling for human flesh beneath all that fur - coarse and shaggy-curly like poodles gone to seed.

Poodles with sticks - and great big nasty spears an enterprising vampire and Slayer could snatch up and charge three of them at a time with, leave them writhing on the ground like great hairy kebabs.

"Obliterate this, Yoronos!" One of the witches (sounded like Dawn) screamed and there was a flash of light - sharp, lurid green that left pinwheels and sparklers in its wake.

"Spike!"

A warm and skinny bundle of bones hit Spike from the side, knocked him off his feet and into the fence - he could smell demon blood, the iron and aged wood tang of their spears and - Harris.

Blood.

Spike pried open his eyes to find Harris crouched above him on all fours, face bloodless pale. They both looked down to see the tip of a demon's spear protruding obscenely from Xander's chest, the point a finger-width from Spike's and shuddering with every shallow, human breath.

"Hey, Spike." Xander licked his lips, breathed hot air in Spike's face that smelled like tobacco smoke and beer.

*No no. Sodding no!*

"Told you I was dying."