On The Unifying Properties Of Greenery
It's okay as long as they don't kiss, right? That's definitely okay.
Well, as long as they don't kiss on the mouth, it's okay. Or if, say, they're sort of kissing on the cheek, the way people do, and the kiss sort of accidentally slides and glances over the general mouth area. That's okay.
Because everyone knows all the sex-having in the world doesn't make you gay unless it's gay sex-having with someone you, you know, like. Or can stand to be in the same room with. Or kiss.
On the mouth.
Not by accident.
None of that other stuff counts, not the stuff when Spike slides to his knees and gazes up at Xander through his eyelashes and leans over to mouth at the bulge in Xander's jeans, or the stuff when Spike slowly teases open Xander's zipper and wiggles clever fingers inside, or the stuff when Spike strips off Xander's clothes with swift efficiency and fucks him. That stuff's more like tension relief, you know? Which guys do.
And the stuff when Spike slowly peels off his own clothes, tossing them carelessly across the basement, his eyes glittering with intent, then straddles Xander and gives his dick a long, slow suck before easing it into himself and letting Xander flip him over and ride him... that's definitely not gay at all. Ask anyone.
Or, you know, don't. They've been trying to keep it quiet.
Not that sneaking around is in any way a turn-on, or at all reminiscent of Cordelia and supply closets gone by, because that was a real relationship, eventually, and this is just... this is just two guys, releasing tension in a guy way.
Anyway, this stuff with Spike, it's far from the best sex Xander's ever had. Sex with Anya was way better, before she decided to move away from the Hellmouth and explore her "burgeoning womanhood" with other people.
Of course, when Spike found the shoebox she'd left tucked in Xander's underwear drawer--and why Spike was snooping around in there is not something Xander wants to know--he'd certainly managed to wring more creative use out of its contents than even she had. And she's been around for like a thousand years.
So, it's not like Spike doesn't have skills.
And he's not a bad conversationalist, when you get down to it. He can rip apart bad Japanese horror movies, provide vintage X-Men backstory, and discuss the finer points of Deep Space Nine. Which, frankly, the Scooby gang was kind of lacking interest in. He also appreciates Xander's sense of humor, and has been known to consistently crack a smile at even his staler research-session comic relief efforts. And if there is one bedrock certainty in an uncertain, apocalypse-prone world, it's that if Xander snarks, Spike is guaranteed to snark back.
Xander hadn't realized how much he'd missed that.
After one particularly grueling near-miss to an apocalypse that leaves everyone jittery and more than a little nervous around shrubs, Xander staggers home to find Spike lounging on the sofabed, flipping channels and idly picking leaves out of his hair. Xander sprawls onto the bed next to him, makes a half-hearted attempt to snag the remote out of principle, and drifts off in the middle of a Starsky & Hutch rerun. When he wakes up, his shoes are gone and he's tucked under the blankets, TV off and a pale vampire arm draped across his stomach, pale vampire face tucked into his chest.
Xander occasionally calls Cordelia in L.A. to see if she's rich and famous yet, and she tells him about stuff like the skank who got the hand lotion commercial by demonstrating its uses on the casting couch, even though Cordelia had exfoliated half her skin cells off getting ready for the audition.
"So, you seeing anyone?" she asks in an overly bright tone.
He's immediately suspicious. "Why, what have you heard?"
"How would I hear anything?" Oh, she's cagey.
"Why wouldn't you?" he cages back. "Your parents are still in town."
"Like my parents have time to keep up with my news, let alone yours."
"Yeah, well, your old housekeeper was giving me the stinkeye at Walmart last week."
"Rosa? Oh, she just still hates you because of that thing where you cheated on me and I almost died. Hey, tell her I said hi!"
The groveling takes up some time, and then Xander has to go deliver pizzas so he hangs up. But she's planted a seed, and it's kind of a mutant seed that threatens to grow and grow and take over and--did that shrub over there look a little shifty? Xander crosses the street just in case, sticking his hands in his pockets and whistling. Nothing to see here, no sir, just a regular schmoe in an unflattering red hat, harmlessly making his way toward the pizza place.
Spike has a black eye, rumpled hair and a grin on his face when Xander comes home late that night. He's slurping a mugfull of blood and leafing through one of Xander's dad's old Playboys with a critical eye. The, uh, other eye, the one that's not bruised. Xander stomps over to the fridge, throws some ice into a baggie and hands it to Spike, threatening dire consequences should Spike forget to wash out the mug again.
Spike nods absently, gaze unwaveringly fixed on Miss June even as he puts the ice on his face. "Fancy trying that?" he asks, pointing at a rather prop-laden picture. Xander frowns, looks at the picture. Frowns again. Spike helpfully turns it upside down for him.
"Oh," he says faintly. "Um, sure."
Way, way more creative than Anya.
The Chaos demon incident seems to spark some bad memories for Spike, making him extra prickly and all-around less fun. Xander considers sleeping on the sofa to avoid him, but the fact that they are already sleeping on the sofa makes that kind of moot. Anyway, Spike just drinks himself into a stupor and rips up a few pictures while manfully pretending not to cry.
Xander nukes some mac and cheese and ladles some blood over Spike's portion.
He also makes a mental note to stock up on more of that extra-fresh-smelling toothpaste for Spike's post-blood ablutions.
Yes, okay, yes. The sex is fantastic. Xander might have possibly sneaked a little peek at Willow and Tara's copy of the Ultimate Gay Sex book, and frankly, there's not much in there that's all that surprising. And lately his throat doesn't even hurt anymore the morning after.
But there's still no kissing, because that's just a little more than Xander's ready for.
"So what are you holding out for?" Cordelia asks on her next phone call, as Xander juggles the phone in one hand and a overly laden slice of pizza in the other, the toppings threatening to avalanche off any second.
"Um, a stickier kind of cheese food topping?"
He can practically hear her elaborate eye roll over the phone lines.
Not having to lug his sleeping bag out into the back yard on Christmas Eve is cool; the basement gives Xander that much freedom, at least. But that also sort of leaves him at a loss. His family is making their usual fun-time racket upstairs, judging from the lovely sound stylings of hurled crockery and loud sobs. Maybe that sleeping bag's not looking so bad after all.
When Spike shows up in Xander's back yard with two mugs of hot chocolate, a gift with a lopsided bow on it, and a handful of mistletoe, Xander doesn't know what to say.
So he kisses him.