Spoilers for Graduation II and Doomed
Rated NC-17 -- ain't they all?
Disclaimer:   "The characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant
Enemy, Kuzui Productions, 20th Century Fox, WB Network, and whoever else
may have a hold on them.  The situation is totally mine, and I do not
mean to infringe upon any copyrights."  What she said.
Notes 'n thanks: To H.Nonny Nonny for the inspiration, to Te for awesome beta and Laura S. for same plus some fearless application of the poking-stick.
03/00

One of those nights.  Xander hadn't had one in a long time -- fighting evil.  Dirty, stinking business, he'd almost forgotten what it was like.  The high school.  The Hellmouth.  All the desperate stinks of demons, of burned-out building -- his own fear sweat; Willow and Buffy and Giles -- backbrain part of him that knew their high, excited smells.  Fear and aggression like some funky animal musk off all of them. Buffy's pepper sweat when she went into slayer mode.  Willow's hot wool and turned flower tang.  Giles secret anger smell of sex.  The sense memory of action.  Violence.  Things that left him horny and empty at the same time; left him with an ache, a throb in the bone and the faraway fade of howling laughter in his head.  Way back.  No pack.  There was no pack.  Ah shit, he was losing it now.

"Come on, Xan-derr," Spike at his back.  No smell at all, not even the musty sweet smell of old bones.  So *tired*.  Worked all day.  Fought all night.  So tired he was going to fall down or die at his own door.  Fumbled keys and he was out of night and into the cool damp of basement dark -- crooked squares of light through crooked windows painted on the far wall but no illumination.  Spike pushing past him, full of mean energy.  Tired too tired. So tired he felt drugged. Falling into bed in his clothes.  Should change.  Should pee.  Should shower.  Feeble yank at the covers.  Should tie Spike up.  Yeah.  Should...

***

...wander down that hall.  Slide his hand along that institutional green wall.  Patchy paint and the stink of old, wet burning.  Maybe fresh burning underneath.  Smoke.   His throat aches and he's hoarse from shouting orders.  Christ they probably need him out there in the quad, so why the hell is he wandering the halls of Sunnydale High all alone? It's a mistake, a wrong turn.  A Xander fuck-up.

Snake-slither right across his hearing.  A sudden skitter of noise that makes him jump.

Fall silent.  He can feel his heart pound, a dull distant thing.  The smell of burning's stronger.  He hears the sound of something huge slithering on the other side of the wall.  Terrifying.  Hears distant shouts.  Go back up, Buffy needs you.

But somehow he forgets, finds himself deeper.  In a classroom.  Someone's there behind a desk -- too fast skitter and he remembers the creepy dummy guy, imagines spiders, tiny demons crawling up his legs in waves.  He should run, but he doesn't.  Sits down at a desk, puts his head on his arms.  Someone shakes him, prods him.

"Roll over.  Yer snoring." Indignant but the prodding fingers are implacable.  Xander rolls.  Lifts his head.  The classroom's full of people. Not just a classroom, but  a class!  In full swing!  Christ, Xander thinks -- somebody must have forgotten to tell these people about what was going down over graduation.  He hopes it wasn't him.   Now it's obviously too late.  The last thing he wants to do is panic everyone.  Better if they all stay down here where it's safe, where no one knows about them.  If they're quiet, maybe the Mayor won't find them.  Gotta keep things normal, secret.  He hears the hissing rush of the Mayor's scaled body abrading the stone halls.  If anyone asks him, he can say it's the new heating system.  Yeah, that'll work.

And he's looking around, trying to see if he can figure out from the books they're using what class this is, so he can fit in, but everyone's got their back to him and is covering their books and he's starting to freak, a little, because if they realize he's not supposed to be there they'll.  All.  Die...  And there's a hand on his shoulder and bristled cheek against his cheek and...

"Larry!"  He's so happy!  All these months he thought Larry was dead, but he's not.  He's here!  And Larry's smiling back at him and they're hugging. He's hugging Larry.  So relieved to feel the solid bulk of him.

"Ger' off," Larry growls.  Or maybe it's not Larry.  Larry's face isn't growly.  It's kind of serious.

"Pretty bad up there," Larry says.

"Yeah," says Xander.  But he notices more than anything that he and Larry are still kind of hugging.  That Larry's hands are clasping his upper arms, kind of holding him in place.  It's a little odd, a little off, but really he doesn't mind.  It feels good.  He feels safe here -- for the first time in a long time.  He leans forward a little, lets his forehead rest on Larry's shoulder.  Larry smells of cotton and smoke, but nothing like death.

"You don't smell dead," Xander says into Larry's neck.  The skin is so soft there.  How bad could it be to want to kiss Larry in a place that's so soft?  Probably bad, but he doesn't want to let go anyway.  If he lets Larry go, he could be dead again and so he has to hold him here and that's why he's holding him.  Not just because it feels good.  Not just because he wants to be this close, to feel someone holding him.  To feel Larry -- Christ, no.  That would hurt Anya, and he looks up over Larry's shoulder, panicked -- is she here?  Is she in this classroom, watching him right now?  Getting her feelings hurt?  How the hell could he ever explain to her -- it's not just that it feels good, it's that he's saving Larry from certain death.  She wouldn't believe it for a second.  He isn't sure *he* even believes it.  Larry's hands are caressing his arms, running down his sides.

It feels so good.

"It's okay," Larry says.  "No one's watching."

"I have a girlfriend," Xander says. Wondering if Larry knows Anya.  If that has happened yet.

"It's okay," Larry says, pulling him closer.  "This is part of *history*."  And Xander's trying to follow.  Sure that he's missing something.  Is that a clue?  Is Larry telling him this is a history class?  Or does he mean *their* history?  Or history in general...?  But it's hard to follow because Larry's hands are stroking his back now.  Larry's rubbing a smooth cheek against his cheek, pressing cold lips to Xander's neck.  So good.  His body's responding to Larry's touch.  Maybe a little too much.  Someone's gonna notice soon for sure.

"Larry..." Xander says, but it comes out sort of a moan.

"S'all right," Larry whispers in his ear.  "Everything's all right."  And maybe it is.  Maybe it's safe down here in the basement with everyone else occupied.  And god, is it so bad to want this?  He wants it so much.  Larry's big, strong hands moving down his back, Larry's rough nuzzling at his neck.  His breath is coming faster.  He's turning in Larry's embrace, knees spreading; Larry fitting himself between them.  Larry on his knees hugging him and they fit together so perfectly and now they are kissing -- frantic and passionate. Larry's tongue laps at his mouth, strokes his palate.  Xander's getting so turned on.

He can't help it.  No one ever believes it but it's true.  He can't... he moans again.  Hears himself -- almost surfacing, in sheets and clothes; in fuzzy formless longing.  He struggles a little and then, sleep-drugged, heavy-headed, sinks again.

To find Larry has him up against the back wall of the classroom, holding Xander hard against the wall and he can feel the rush and rumble of the snake on the other side, but far away now -- on the other side of the school and no one's watching him.  Just Larry, with his big round, flat-topped head.  Wide mouth, softly bristled cheeks.  Larry watching him, looking at him funny.

"What?" he asks.

"You don't get it," Larry says and cups Xander through his jeans.

I get it *now*, Xander thinks.  Wants to say aloud.  I have a girlfriend.  I get it all the time.  But Larry's hand is merciless and the snake-rush at his back is like a low hum straight to his cock and Xander's falling to it again.  Hips bucking into it.  All he can do to stay upright, clutching at the railing of the blackboard behind him, wondering why there's a blackboard behind him.  Wondering why there's *still* no one looking .  Opens his mouth to speak just as Larry runs his big, bully's thumb over the head of Xander's dick so that all that comes out is a moan.

Heads turn.  Look at him.  Them.  Look away.  Xander turns his head in shame.

"Yeah," says Larry.  "Like that..."  Larry sliding down Xander's body until he's on his knees.  One hand holding Xander by the hip, the other rubbing him.  Fondling him.  Turning him into fire, melting  him inside his own skin.  Larry's big hand on his fly, tugging on the zipper.

"Don't," says Xander, but even he knows he doesn't mean it.  It's just for show.  He wants this.  *Wants* it.  Tug and pull at the tangled clothes.  Cool air on his hot dick like a shiver and suddenly he can hear/feel the pulsing rush of the Mayor-snake barreling down the hallway. Close now.  Close.  Just the other side of the wall.  This wall, thinning like a membrane at his back, softening and he can feel himself sink into it, feel the muted sweep of scales almost against his skin as Larry lowers his head, wraps his mouth around Xander's cock.  Sucks.

Sucks.  Xander blind and spastic with sudden terrifying pleasure.  Helpless to it, his body coiling and lashing even as he tries to hold it still, lungs labouring to make harsh, rasped, grunting breaths.  And even through it all, even though Larry's mouth is winding him tighter and tighter like some orgasm spring, some part of him, the opposite of backbrain is making notes.  The people in the class:  he doesn't know a single one of them.  They're not even from his school.  The teacher is a robot.  Nothing here is real and Larry's mouth is not... It should be... Isn't... Xander's losing it now, stuttering on a nerve's edge, close to the breaking -- but Larry's mouth...

Looking down, just as Larry's head comes up, Larry's face -- hair gone moon-pale, eyes  washed to crystal blue, morphing now like he knew he would because Larry's *dead*.  Has always been is always will be dead and Spike, Christ, Spike..  It's *Spike*, and Xander, surfacing to darkness, screaming, comes.

Awake.

To the sound of his own thudding, frantic heart beat.  Sleep and come-dazed -- wet warmth already cooling against his groin.  His bed.  His own bed.  Still night and he can feel Spike's weight, that cold, pale, angry presence right behind...

He whirls, still tangled, still caught in damp and sweaty sheets.

To find himself alone in the bed.

Soft crackle of burning.  The dim red flare of a cigarette and the toasty smell of fresh smoke and Xander looks up.  Spike's sprawled in his chair, fully dressed.  Watching him.

Long silent beat in which Xander has ample time to wonder if he just screamed or if he just screamed Spike's fucking *name*.  Impossible to read that angle-and-shadow face and Xander has to look away.   Wraps the sheets around him, struggles to get to his feet.  To the bathroom.  He needs to pee, needs to shower, needs to...

Doesn't say a word and Spike doesn't say a word but as he walks past the chair Spike's hand lashes out so fast it blurs.  Catches Xander's wrist, holds it in an unforgiving circle of cool skin and bone.  Just holds it there and Xander... doesn't fight.  Doesn't pull away.  Just waits, head bowed, not even knowing why.

Neither of them speaks.  Not a single word.

And even so, when Spike releases him, Xander knows something has finally been said.  No idea what -- maybe something so awful he's going to have to die for it some day, but finally -- finally -- even wordless, said at last. Sung or spat like poison on the ground.  But said.

And Xander stands there, breathless, feeling the darkness of it racing through his veins.

Wondering what happens when it finally hits his heart.

-the end-
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Thanks also to Johnny Rivers and Al Wilson for adorning my subconscious  Go here.