Title: Better Than They Know
Author: Am-Chau Yarkona
E-mail: amchau@popullus.net
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: very adult
Disclaimer: Not my characters.
Summary: A remix of ‘Big, Stupid, Funny’ (http://www.fanfiction.net/read.php?storyid=1153662) by Jeff/ Etalis. Xander is better than most people know: but Spike sees things the way they are. Set during ‘The Yoko Factor’.

I’m watching Xander again today. These days, I’m watching all of the Scooby gang a lot, but I’ve split the others up pretty thoroughly, so Xander is all that’s left. Before, I’ve always dismissed Xander the way the others do: he’s the stupid one, the big funny guy. Not a lot to bother about.

He’s wrapped in his own thoughts, face a little sad but not enough to tell you what’s going on inside his head. They all treat him as if he’s a little stupid, not quite clever enough to keep up with Willow or Giles, and not strong enough to keep up with Buffy.

He hasn’t noticed me, standing in the shadows outside the door. It’s easy enough to stand in the darkness of the porch and look in. You know, it’s a wonder the Watcher hasn’t realised how easy it is—I’m sure Buffy would worry, if she knew.

Why can’t they see what I see? Someone who needs to be drawn out, made to talk, to use that native intelligence. Someone who’s so loving, so loyal, that they treat him like a dog when really he’s better than any of them.

Not that I’m much better than them, of course: but I have an excuse. I’m evil, and he expects it. He quips back- he uses that brain. We’re well-matched, he and I. Equals.

There—you see that? He practically asks for love, for attention, and the Watcher either doesn’t notice or ignores him. That’s the weakness I want. He longs to be loved, and even his ex-demon girl can’t give him that the way he wants it. Now, to use that weakness to cut him off.

I slide back into the deeper shadows as the door opens, where I know they will never see me. This is the last mindfuck needed, and I’m going to make it a good one.

He wanders home through the late evening, torn between knowing that he shouldn’t be out here alone—he grips a stake, he looks round nervously and avoids the unlit streets—and not wanting to be in the dingy basement again, listening to the sounds of drunken fighting above. I don’t let him know I’m following him, not yet. He’s making himself nervous enough.

Finally, he reaches the hovel he calls home and creeps in. I see his shoulders tense as he tries not to make a sound unlocking the door. It creaks a little as it swings open, and he almost shakes with fear—this is going to be so easy.

I lie down on the ground (taking my coat off first—no sense in getting it dirty for a demon guy whose mother thought she was Frankenstein) and peer through the window as he gets ready for bed. I watched that so often before, and once more I enjoy the simple sight of prey, feeling safer for now but about to cower at my hands—or, given my current state of inability to inflict physical pain, my mouth and mind.

Fifteen minutes wait. I guess he’s asleep. I know the lock and the invitation has never been revoked, so soon I’m inside, creeping down the stairs, draping my coat over a chair back, and standing by the bedside. In the darkness, I slide into game face for better vision, watching him sleep for a long minute.

He rolls over and mutters. I expect it to be “Anya,” but it’s not: some other word or name, indistinct thanks mainly to the pillow he’s talking to. It’s a little sibilant, and I wonder what it was. Oh, what does it matter?

I shrug, and reach down to touch his shoulder. Just a little shake, aiming to wake him quickly for maximum confusion, but not hard enough to hurt him—or me.

Another shuffle of the whole body, moving onto his side, then he raises his head—brown hair that’s still a little too long tousled and messy—looks at me, blinking in an attempt to see. “Who is it?” He reaches out for the light switch.

“No, no,” I say, grabbing his wrist. “Darkness is a better look on you, pet.”

“S… Spike?”

“Well done. Have a check mark on your ‘identifying vampires’ test.”

“What are you doing here? Am I still dreaming?”

*Still* dreaming?  The boy was dreaming about me? That’s flattering, and slightly disturbing—but useful. “This is real. At least, if I’m your dream, I’m going to tell you this is real anyway.”

He frowns, a bemused expression so like my Dru’s when she touched sunlight and it burnt her again. She never did understand that fully. “What are you doing here, Spike?”

“Came to see you.”

“Why, Spike?” His left hand is groping under the bed—he must have a stake hidden somewhere down there.

“I thought I’d drop by and see if the Scoobies little outcast had any blood left for a starving vampire,” I tell him, kneeling silently to take his other wrist into my hand. I can tell by his expression—bless vampire sight—that he doesn’t know exactly where I am, or how I suddenly managed to be holding his other wrist as well. Maybe he’s forgotten that vampires have two hands, and can see in the dark.

There’s a twinge of pain from the chip, but I ignore it because the pounding of blood is getting stronger. I can feel it in his wrist, hear it in his chest, smell it mixed with waves of fear.

“It’s in the fridge… and hey! Outcast? Since when am I an outcast?”

I let go of his wrists and move away—when free blood’s offered, why not take it? He finds the light switch, and I only just manage to get out of game face in time. We’ll save that for the next round. “Oh—since you’re joining the army.”

“What? I’m not joining the army!”

“Anya told them you are. I think she was a bit upset about something.”

“When was this?”

“After you left Giles’ just now. I popped by to see if he had any blood, and Anya was telling them all about how you’re joining the army and aren’t to be trusted anymore.” He dashes for the telephone, but I catch him round the waist, stopping him. “No, no. They’ll have left now, and I doubt Giles likes being woken up. Especially on army business.”

“Let go of me!” he cries, elbows thrusting and knee aiming for my groin. I barely notice the pain—the chip was worse when I pinched his wrist.

“Let go of you? I don’t think so. All this warm, tasty blood snack just waiting for me, and I don’t even have to put it in the microwave? I won’t pass up this chance.”

“You can’t bite me.”

“Wanna bet?” I put my head down into his neck, and take a dramatically deep breath. “One nummy treat, coming right up.” Press lips against the skin.

He whimpers, that delightful sound all victims make when they hit the moment where it’s half terror, half pleasure. I know what I can do, and though this may be on the unusual side for such encounters, there’s no reason not to pretend it isn’t. He doesn’t know the chip still works, after all.

A little tongue, sweeping up the side of the throat. Tremors in his body now, and his arms are round me, squeezing firm and warm. Along the jaw line, savour every moment of a closeness I haven’t had in what feels like forever. Once upon a time, I’d have gone straight in for the kill; but then I had a different motive—kill for my dark lady. Now I’m just keeping him away from the others until Adam’s dealt with them.

Kiss on the lips, my cold hands down his torso, into the elastic band that holds up the stupid trousers. Pull them down, touch him, lay him back on the bed and give him what he dreamed of—or what featured so large in his nightmare.

I take a little comfort myself while I’m at it: what harm is there in enjoying fucking with Xander’s body as well as his mind? When we’re done, he falls asleep with a speed that must annoy the hell out of Anya. I can smell her on him, but I just thank my lucky stars (the ones Dru could see on the ceiling) that she won’t know I’ve trespassed on her territory.

Tuck the blankets round him, swipe the key in case he wakes early, and lock the door from the outside. He’ll probably not find out that he’s locked in before midday, which should be plenty of time for Adam to get what he wants. That’s a good job jobbed.

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