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Knocking on Heaven's Door

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Andrew and Spike are waiting inside the candlelit interior room of the mission. Andrew is lying on the floor on his belly, leaning up on his elbows, propping his head up on his hand. Spike is sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall with his knees bent up, arms resting on his knees.
ANDREW: (sing-songs) I spy with my little eye something that begins with a "T."
SPIKE: (rolls his eyes) Tapestry.
ANDREW: Hey, good one. How did you—
SPIKE: Tapestry's the only thing in the whole bloody room.
ANDREW: say you, but I say look deeper. (rolls over onto his back, looks at the ceiling)
SPIKE: I'll look deep into your jugular is what I'll look at.
ANDREW: Don't spazz out.
SPIKE: I'm not— (glares at Andrew) Don't say another word.
ANDREW: (rolls back on his belly, looks at Spike excitedly) Rock, paper, scissors?
SPIKE: What's the matter with you? Don't you understand what's happening?
ANDREW: Uh...yeah. We're waiting here till it's night again so you can ride on your motorcycle without exploding.
SPIKE: And every minute we're stuck here, the slayer's out there facing hell knows what.
ANDREW: Come on. What's the worst thing that could happen to her?

* * *

“I’m hungry.”

It wasn’t a statement, it was a thinly veiled whine, reminiscent of a clingy puppy. Spike stifled a sigh. It had to be early afternoon. For the last hour or so he’d done his best to tune out Andrew’s facile prattle, hoping to get some rest. He was weary, his bones felt like lead, and there was a growing queasiness in his gut that was hard to ignore.

The smell of blood seemed to linger in the air, mingling with stale incense fumes. The priests Caleb had murdered? Could be. Or maybe just a memory. Darla and Angelus had always had it in for nuns and monks. There had been family outings, picnics Dru had called them ….

“I’m hung—”

“Heard you the first time,” Spike cut him off, unmoved. He was leaning against the wall, knees bent up, arms resting on his knees, eyes closed.

With an indignant-sounding shuffle Andrew sat up and brushed off his clothes.

“Missions don’t normally come with room service,” Spike finally said, patience back in place. It was true. They came with crosses and glaring tapestry angels instead. Silent reproach practically seeping out of the very walls like morning chill.

“Unless I’m mistaken they do come with a kitchen,” Andrew huffed, audibly crossing his arms in front of his chest, pointedly not turning his head.

“That they do,” Spike conceded without opening his eyes, and added with a shooing flick of his wrist: “Off you go. Don’t let me stop you.”

Andrew could be heard getting to his feet. Three. Two. One …

“Uh, Spike? Aren’t you going to, you know, protect— uh … come along? I thought we were supposed to be a team, like Luke Skywalker and Han Solo?”

Spike took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and got to his feet.


It was the shiniest kitchen either of them had ever been in. All the surfaces looked like stainless steel, polished to hygienic perfection. Pots and pans hung from S-shaped hooks, matching ladles and knives dangled above bare work surfaces.

There were also several wooden cutting boards and a walk-in freezer.

“Wow, you know what this reminds me of?”

Spike sighed.

“The kitchen in Jurassic Park, that was just as shiny,” Andrew went on, with the eagerness of youth. No, make that the obnoxiousness of being a complete and utter geek.

“No raptors here,” Spike said, dismissing the dull flick with a shrug, then slipping on his predator smile. “Unless you count me.”

Andrew didn’t even have the grace to look nervous. Instead, he started a haphazard search, opening and closing random cupboards. On his third try he triggered a yellow cascade of fist-sized balls. They pelted to the floor in a noisy hail, bouncing here and there and rolling into every direction, under cupboards and into corners, until the floor was covered in yellow. Only they weren’t tennis balls but fruit: ripe, tart-smelling lemons.

“Well, well,” Spike said and picked up a lemon that had come to rest at his boot. Toss. Catch. Toss. Catch. He scanned the kitchen with mild interest. “If life gives you lemons, go look for tequila.”

Andrew began to gather the scattered fruit, balancing them precariously in his arms. “This is a mission, Spike. You won’t find any alcohol in here. Priests don’t drink.”

Spike ignored him and began a search of his own, yanking cupboards open and slamming them shut. Salt was easy enough to find. He also came across huge cartons of breakfast cereals and corn flakes. Spike wordlessly pulled them out, until the work surfaces were cluttered with brightly colored boxes.

Meanwhile, Andrew had managed to collect most of the stray fruit. As he bent down to pick up another one, he overbalanced and several lemons escaped the cradle of his arms. In an attempt to catch them he almost lost the others as well.

Spike shook his head, but didn’t lift a finger. He leaned against the sink, crossed his ankles, tore open one of the boxes and dug in. Crunch, crunch, crunch.

After returning the lemons to their storage place, Andrew joined Spike, leaning ever so casually against the same sink, ankles crossed as well. Before he could also dig into Spike’s corn flakes Spike thrust an unopened box into Andrew’s arms. “Here, try these. There’s plenty.”

Andrew looked hurt, but obediently tore open the flap and started fishing for the prize.

Spike shoved another handful into his mouth then tossed the box away. There had to be booze here somewhere. If not tequila, then at least cooking sherry or wine. The question was: where? Spike wandered off, brow creased in concentration. Andrew followed at his heels, munching audibly. Spike whirled around, coat tails flying. “What?” he snapped. “Are you my shadow now?”

“Oh, I—uh … no?” Andrew stammered, backing off.

Spike crouched in front of a locked cupboard in a less accessible part of the room. The ‘should I or shouldn’t I’ debate took about two seconds, then Spike slammed his palm against the lock, breaking it, and pried the door open. Bottles. In all shapes and sizes.

“And we’re in business,” Spike drawled, brandishing a bottle of tequila.

Armed with water glasses - because they couldn’t find shot glasses - a huge tub of salt, a knife, and plenty of lemons, Spike sat down on the tiled floor and got to work.

Andrew hovered around him uncertainly.

“Will you stop breathing down my neck and just sit down,” Spike groused.

The boy complied with alacrity.

Spike passed him a lemon wedge and a full glass.

“Uh…” Andrew regarded the glass uncertainly.

“Don’t tell me. You never had tequila before,” Spike stated, shaking his head in exasperation. “So, the duty of making you a man falls to me? Might as well. Here’s what you do.”


Andrew watched, mesmerized, as Spike made a fist and sprinkled a hefty pinch of salt into the little nook on the back of his palm.

Spike caught his eye. “You ready?”

Andrew nodded, suddenly dumb-struck.

“Lick.” Spike’s tongue came out and swooped up the white crystals in one broad lick. “Slam.” Spike lifted the glass to his lips and knocked the golden liquid back in one hefty gulp. “Suck.” Teeth dug into juicy flesh, cheeks hollowed almost impossibly and there were sucking, slurping noises as the sour juice disappeared down Spike’s throat, making his Adam’s apple bob.

Andrew’s mouth was suddenly dry.

Spike exhaled and the grimace on his face smoothed into an expression of profound satisfaction. He tossed the drained lemon wedge away and licked his lips.

“Now you.”

Andrew swallowed and eyed the glass in his hand. He’d sworn off alcohol forever after that horrible thing with Warren’s ex-girlfriend. But this was different. Drinking with Spike was an initiation thing, a rite-of-passage, a male bonding ritual. Two guys on the same path of redemption, shoulder to shoulder, one looking out for the other, joined together by a common purpose—

“Come on. Lick, slam, suck. It’s easy enough,” Spike interrupted his musings. For once the vampyre didn’t sound bored, or irritated, but downright amiable.

Spike was right. It was a simple enough recipe, much easier than your average chemistry assignment. But doing it with Spike watching his every move? Andrew’s nervousness went off the Richter-scale and his mind blanked.

“C’mon,” Spike said with a smile that was almost wicked.

Entranced, Andrew licked, swallowed (well, sipped), and sucked, never taking his eyes off Spike’s face, the flavors barely registering with him. Until he began to splutter and cough, suddenly hit by what could only be called as taste overkill. And then it felt like acid ran down his throat and into his stomach only to go poof!- and combust there, flooding his insides with heat. Whoa!

Spike grinned, but he reached over to pat his back. Spike was touching him!

When the coughing seizure subsided there were tears in his eyes, making Spike look all blurry. But the mocking smirk was unmistakable.

“Ewww,” Andrew managed to say. “That’s just… ew.” He clutched his stomach. “Whoa, is it supposed to burn like this?”

“Once heard it said like this: First salty, like licking the sweat off your lover’s skin, then hot, burning in your gut like anger, and finally the bitter tang of breaking up.” For a second, a wistful, faraway look crossed Spike’s face but then he shook it off and held up the bottle. “’Nother one?”

Andrew put on his bravest face, determined not to back down from the challenge, even though his stomach felt funny. “Yeah, okay.”

“You get used to it,” Spike told him and poured.

Indeed. The second coughing fit really didn’t last as long, Andrew noted with pride.

“See?” Spike tossed back his own drink and again Andrew couldn’t help staring. At Spike’s mouth, his moistened lips, and that agile pink tongue. He was feeling hot and dizzy, and not entirely sure it was the tequila’s fault.

Spike froze, lemon slice still between his lips. His eyes met Andrew’s.

Andrew hurriedly lowered his gaze, wondering if Spike could hear his thundering heartbeat. “Did you … your first time, did you … did the same thing happen to you?”

Suck, slurp, toss. “You mean, did I look like a right ponce when I had my first strong drink?”

Andrew nodded.



“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Spike said. “Where I come from, they laced pacifiers with spirits. Didn’t get carded, either. Practically grew up with wine an’ sherry for din—” Beat. “Well, just saying, got used to it from an early age.”


Half an hour later, the bottle was almost empty and there were squashed pieces of lemon scattered all around them, their fragrance smothering any lingering smell of incense or blood.

There was another, more intoxicating scent in the air, one Spike ignored as best as he could.

“You know, Warren was my Yoda,” Andrew was saying, sounding weepy and tipsy, but not quite four sheets to the wind. After the first drink Spike had been easy on him, pouring only half-shots into his glass.

“He actually wanted to hang out with me,” Andrew continued. “You know, watch TV, play Monopoly, that kind of stuff.”

How they’d gotten there Spike couldn’t remember, he found it hard to focus on loser-boy’s geeky lingo. A lot of what Andrew said didn’t make sense. A lot of it sounded downright Japanese. Maybe it was. Besides, Spike’s thoughts had a habit of gravitating towards Sunnydale, particularly towards Buffy. Being stuck here with that pathetic little tosser, forced to twiddle his thumbs, was infuriating, tequila notwithstanding.

“Spike, you’re my best friend now,” Andrew suddenly gushed out. “My Yoda, no, my Obi-wan, cause he’s cooler and better looking and all, and Ewan McGregor is so hot. Hey, if you’re teaching me all this cool stuff like drinking tequila, that makes me your padawan.”

“If you try to hug me, young padawan, I’ll rip your guts out through your nose, and tie’em in a bow,” Spike snapped.

Andrew froze, arms extended. His face fell.

Stifling yet another sigh, Spike reached up and angled his arm so he could grope around on the work surface directly above his head, without having to get up. He found an unopened box of Special K, tore it open and offered it to the boy. Appeased, Andrew dug in and was soon chewing happily.

At least eating shut him up, saving Spike from more padawan crap.

Naturally, that happy state of affairs didn’t last.

“Spike? Can I ask you something?”


“Something personal?”


Silence. Gloomy, dejected, reproachful silence. Time crawled, minute by minute.

In the end Spike caved. “What?” he prompted, dodging the question why loser-boy here was getting under his skin like that.

Andrew perked up. “Uh … I was wondering … when you die, what’s it like? Do you hang out with all the other dead people, talking about stuff you did while you were alive? You know, like old people on park benches? And do you always stay the same? Like, if you were a— were very old, would you stay old for all eternity?”

“Asking the wrong guy,” Spike said, rubbing his neck.

“You’re the only dead person I know,” Andrew pointed out.


“Duh. But you died. Your soul went to … well, either upstairs or downstairs, until that gypsy curse brought it back..”

“How often do I have to say it? I didn’t get cursed. Fought for it.” He was still proud of having made it through that gauntlet of pain.

“Oookay, so where was it?”

Spike picked up the bottle and poured himself another tequila. “Where was what?”

“Your soul.”

“How the hell should I know?”

“You don’t remember?” Andrew sounded disappointed.

“You’re not planning another one of your stupid documentaries, right? Cause if that’s—“

“No, I—I just need to know. Because I guess I’m probably not going to make it, but that’s alright, I mean really, I’m okay with it. I’m like Darth Vader, at one time seduced by evil but not anymore, walking the narrow stony path of redemption—“

“Vader? Gollum more like.”

“—Path of redemption, and when it comes to the big fight, the one that decides the fate of the world, I will make my stand, giving my life for … for Dawn maybe, only when I’m dead I won’t dissolve like Vader, because obviously I’m not a Jedi. Or a vampire. But the heroically dying in battle, that’s pretty certain. How many ex-villains do you know who live past the end credits?”

Spike shuddered, momentarily struck dumb by the sheer ludicrousness of the conversation. There had been a point to this, somewhere, he was certain of it, sandwiched half-way between padawans and movie credits.

“I guess that means you’re going to die too,” Andrew warbled on gloomily. “But hey, it could be like Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid; you and me, leaping off a cliff or something, our lives flashing in front of our eyes. Only your life will be full of adventures and lots of violence and …um … sex. Mine will be about trying to steal a mint condition Incredible Hulk number 181, the first one with Wolverine in it, and almost getting caught.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” There was a sudden sinking feeling in Spike’s gut, but he tried to shrug it off.

“Dying. It could happen today, or tomorrow, or next week. And I don’t think I’m ready for it. I mean I am, but not quite.” Andrew squirmed, eyes fixed on his sneakers, nervously kneading the hem of his drab sweater. Embarrassment oozing out of every pore. “There’s this thing. Nothing important, just something I—before I leave this plane—You see, I never—”

It was a strange moment of synchronicity. As Andrew looked up, so did Spike. To say ‘comprehension dawned’ would have been an understatement. Comprehension hit with all the subtlety of a runaway train.

Much later, Spike reasoned that he should have seen it coming, pieced it together sooner: the furtive glances, the veiled hints, and most of all the scent. The idea had sped towards them with the inexorability of a cruise missile riding on tequila fumes, unerringly following the twists and bends of their conversation, dodging his admittedly distracted radar until it was too late.


As a telling blush spread over Andrew’s features, Spike leapt to his feet, almost slipping on a lemon peel in his eagerness to put some distance between himself and his suddenly hopeful padawan.

Andrew opened his mouth, but before he had a chance to speak Spike whirled around.

“No!” he snapped.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Andrew whined. The puppy dog look was back, hungrier than ever.

“I do and the answer is no. Watch my lips, Andrew. N. O. No.”

Andrew was silent for a moment, his face scrunched in misery. “Why not?” he finally asked.

“For god’s sake, Andrew, what makes you think I would?”

“You’re a vampire.”

“Oh please.”

“And you had sex with Anya. I saw you.”

“How—? Ah yes, the camera.” Spike took a deep pained breath. “Listen, that was different. Anya and I, we were sitting in the same boat. Trying to ‘move on.’ ‘Course it didn’t work.” He shook his head and began to pace, crunching scattered corn flakes and squishy lemon chunks under his boots. “Yeah, Anya and I had a thing. So? Doesn’t mean I bang every willing body that comes my way.”

Andrew’s lower lip began to tremble.

Spike stopped right in front of him, struggling to keep contempt and anger down. “An’ you? Shouldn’t jump my bones just cause I’m—convenient. ‘Sides, when you snuff it, what’s it matter if you’ve fucked once, or a thousand times, or never? Still gonna be dead.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Andrew shouted, hugging his knees. “How old were you when you got killed? Look at you, I bet you didn’t die a virgin.”

Spike stilled. If it was true that everything in life was preordained, someone somewhere, whoever wrote the damn scripts, had to be laughing himself silly. Spike tried to as well, but broke off in mid-guffaw, because all things considered? It wasn’t that funny.

“What if there really is some kind of afterlife where all the dead ex-villains hang out? Everybody will laugh at me, because I never did it.” Andrew went on, his voice thick. Shoulders slumped, face buried in the cradle of his knees and arms, he was a study in misery.

Spike had 1001 barbs primed and ready. Yeah, as if. Somewhere along the way he’d lost his taste for this. And it wasn’t like the little twit had planned this. It was more a case of in vino veritas and all that rot. And now? The stupid wanker thought that Spike’s cock held the answer to all his problems. Some epiphany.

Spike listened to the unhappy sniffles, wishing the boy would just shut the fuck up!

Spike sighed and crouched down before him,

“Andrew, look here. Just cause I’ve been round the block, doesn’t mean that I’m the right bloke to pop your cherry.”

Andrew raised his head, trying to look coy, but failing miserably. “But I—I think you’re really hot.”

“That’s cause you’re drunk.”


Drunk? Andrew felt dizzy and slightly queasy, and the world had a tendency to tilt if he didn’t rest his head on his knees or hands, but drunk was cool. One more check in the humiliatingly empty ‘things I’ve done’ column. Maybe he should ask Spike for a cigarette too….

But Spike was wrong. Andrew didn’t need a few tequilas to find Spike hot. Especially with the gleaming leather coat, but even more with his clothes in disarray, shirt unbuttoned, pants pooled around his ankles, strong hands roving over Anya’s body, long wet tongue slowly traveling from her throat all the way between her thighs ….

The memory caught his breath, boiled his blood and made him so hard it hurt, especially with Spike so close. Andrew’s fingers twitched with the desperate urge to touch.

He shook his head, but stopped when the world threatened to spin out of control. “No, I think—I think you’re hot, because you are.” Remembering the way Anya had writhed on the Magic Box table, the way Spike had driven her wild, he added haltingly: “And I think you’d—you’d make it good.”

Spike frowned at that. He rose with liquid grace and strode away, coat tails flapping in annoyance. That’s when Andrew knew that he’d never wanted anything or anyone quite as bad. He’d strike a match to his entire comic book collection, just for a touch.

Unable to take his eyes off the pacing vampire, he watched Spike put a cigarette between his lips and angrily work his lighter. He had to clear his throat twice to be able to continue: “Don’t you like—? I mean, I heard that most people enjoy doing—being the first. You know?”

“What? Do virgins? Go where no man’s gone before? You’re barking up the wrong vampire.”

Even in his inebriated state Andrew heard the sarcasm in Spike’s voice. He winced and the unhappy knot in his stomach tightened painfully.

“Look, It’s not that I’m not honored….” Spike was saying.

But Andrew wasn’t listening. He was trying to think. There had to be something he could offer to Spike, something he could do to make Spike … Want. Him. As long as it didn’t involve too much pain….

“You could bite me!” He blurted out. “Please? I—want you to. I know you won’t do anything to really hurt me, cause you’re a good guy now. So, you could….”

He broke off in mid sentence, because Spike was no longer pacing. Instead he stood in the middle of the cluttered, neon-lit kitchen, rigid and silent. A striking image of black and white. Then Spike turned on his heel, flicked his half-smoked cigarette away, and approached Andrew in two brisk strides, dropping into a crouch before him.

Andrew swallowed, remembering the shock of Spike’s fangs ripping into his throat and the dizzying pain as his life was sucked out of him. He’d been so terrified, but if that was the price of getting Spike to touch him …. He closed his eyes, lifted his chin and bared his throat.

“Oh Andrew….” Spike said, in the same resigned, pitying tone Andrew’s mother had always used when Tucker broke Andrew’s brand-new toys. “I almost killed you and you still want me to bite you?”

“I’m not afraid,” Andrew said, eyes squeezed shut.


“You sad, sad little boy,” Spike murmured, studying the thin white lines on Andrew’s throat, where he’d torn skin and flesh. One more memory, a bit more hazy than most. He lifted his hand and wistfully traced the faded bite-mark with his finger, thumb resting against Andrew’s chin.

The boy’s pulse raced beneath his fingertips and his breath hitched at Spike’s touch. Stupid little puppy, scared but brave, in his own pathetic way. Scarred but alive—and hungry for something none of his stupid TV shows could give him; for the fantasy to turn into something tangible. Even if only for a few hours.

And maybe Andrew was right and they were practically knocking on Heav—well, however the phrase went.

Slowly, Spike leaned forward, dropping to his knees and letting his fingers rest on the nape of that warm, enticing neck. When Spike’s kiss lightly brushed Andrew’s lips, there was a gasp and the boy’s eyes flickered open. His heartbeat went from canter to gallop.

‘Not gonna bite you,” Spike told him earnestly, tightening his grip

However, he pulled Andrew towards him so they were both kneeling, then started nipping and sucking on Andrew’s lower lip. By the time Spike thrust his tongue into that warm, needy mouth, Andrew was whimpering.

It was painfully obvious that Andrew had never been kissed before. He was eager but clumsy, and too shy to return Spike’s caresses, probably afraid of doing something wrong and driving him off.

Spike caught one of Andrew’s hands and placed it on his ass, then slipped his own hand under the boy’s sweatshirt. Andrew arched into his touch, fingers digging almost painfully into Spike’s ass, while the other hand fumbled and groped until it found and claimed the collar of Spike’s T-shirt in a wordless plea.

Spike found himself hardening, responding to the boy’s sheer hunger.

Too many clothes. Three seconds later Spike had peeled him out of his dreadful sweater. Andrew was almost as pale as Spike himself, but with a rosy hue, flushed and warm.

“Gonna make it good, you’ll see,” Spike murmured, licking and nipping his way across Andrew’s naked chest, shoulders, and arms, tasting the boy’s skin, making him squirm under his expert tongue. Meanwhile he ran his hands over still clad thighs and buttocks. Stroking. Teasing. Gauging Andrew’s reactions.

It didn’t matter that Andrew was too plastered and inexperienced to return the favor. He did try a few times, clumsy, shy caresses, but Spike countered them with a lick or by raking his nails over Andrew’s skin, deliberately sending him into sensory overload, until he was incapable of doing anything other than writhe and moan and whisper Spike’s name.

There was no doubt in Spike’s mind that Andrew wanted this, but he had to ask anyway. He paused, hands poised over Andrew’s zipper, until the boy was as coherent as could be expected under the circumstances. “You sure ‘bout this? Andrew?”


Andrew had never been so sure in his whole life. His certainty was rivaled only by the sudden dread that Spike might change his mind.

“Don’t—please don’t stop,” he stammered. His body seemed to be on fire, throbbing and humming with need, while the world rocked and wobbled in front of his eyes.

“Shh, not going anywhere, just needed to be sure….”

And then Spike’s hands were on his fly, opening his pants, oh god!

Sure, strong hands were holding him steady, tugging on his clothes, lifting him up, pulling down his pants. He tried to help, fumbled with his shoe laces, almost crying in frustration, but in the end he just let Spike’s hands take care of him.

At one point, Spike was gone, but Andrew could hear the banging of cupboard doors, as Spike ransacked the kitchen again. It didn’t take long though, and Spike’s hands were back, ghosting over his heated skin.

It wasn’t the most romantic of places, but it smelled nice, of lemon, honeyed flakes and cigarette smoke.

Andrew found himself lying naked on a soft if uneven pile of clothing, and oh god, Spike was naked too, kneeling beside him, and his—his dick was hard and big and – okay, maybe a little bit frightening.

Andrew half reached out to touch it. Paused, gaze flitting to Spike’s face for permission. Was it okay if he--? Spike’s lips curled into a wicked smile and he did that eyebrow thing Andrew found so sexy, and for the first time in his life Andrew touched another man’s … penis?

“Yeah, touch my cock, feel how hard it is,” Spike murmured, his voice sultry.

Andrew shuddered, as the words slammed through his body like a heat wave, traveling right into his dick. Making him even harder, if that was at all possible.

Spike’s cock: cool against his hot palm, hard and thick, moist at the tip … Andrew pumped a few times, then looked up, nervous. Spike was watching him, heavy-lidded, his smooth chest rising and falling rapidly.

A moment later cool strong fingers closed around Andrew’s dick, pumping and pulling, and oh god that felt so good! Spike was touching his dick, jerking him off. “Spike!” Andrew gasped, body tensing like a bowstring, Spike’s cock slipping out of his grasp because, this was too much, too good, oh god, not yet, not yet….

It was like the proverbial fireworks, climbing higherhigherhigher, and then bang! – bursting into stars, many many stars. Andrew came, shooting all over Spike’s fist.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, so sorry,” Andrew babbled, mortified, when he the shivers had subsided enough for him to be able to speak again. “I couldn’t—”

“Shh, never mind that, pet. Was just taking the edge off …” Spike’s voice drifted through the haze, soothing and… and nice, wiping Andrew’s embarrassment away.

“Your age? You’ll be up for another round in to time,” Spike said, grinning. “C’mere, let me have a taste.” A moment later Spike’s tongue was lapping at his thighs and balls, bathing his limp dick, licking him clean, and Spike was right, Andrew could feel himself hardening again.

This time the build-up was slower, less dizzying. Spike was gently stoking his excitement, letting him see, feel and savor what was happening to him, like when Spike sucked his dick, slurping noisily, before taking it deep inside his throat, or the incredible tightness, when Spike straddled his hips and very very slowly sunk down on him, taking him all the way inside his body. Andrew could hear someone – himself? – whine and moan. Spike leaned forward to claim his mouth and snatch the words and whimpers right out of his mouth, his kiss no longer languid but heated, hungry. And then Spike rode his dick, slowly, deliberately, making Andrew writhe with need. He needed—needed to—

His eyes searched Spike’s face. Spike’s brow was furrowed in concentration but his mouth hung open, slack-jawed, wanton. Spike was breathing heavily, panting with every downward thrust of his hips, obviously getting off on this, getting off on Andrew’s dick inside him.

Andrew grabbed Spike’s hips, urging him on. “Please, please, please….” He didn’t care that he was begging.

Picking up speed, Spike slammed down harder. Faster. Faster. Pulling on his own cock, fast and rough.

“Oh fuck, yeah!”

Spike’s release sent Andrew over the cliff as well. As Spike’s come splattered on his burning chest, Andrew bucked a few times, arching underneath the other man’s body, until he spilled himself deep inside Spike’s ass.

He didn’t pass out, not quite, but he felt kind of dopey, happy, content, his limbs heavy. Every now and then an aftershock made him shudder. Cigarette smoke drifted towards him. He thought it smelled kinda nice.

“’S called afterglow,” Spike said.

Andrew opened his eyes and turned his head. Spike was lying next to him, head propped up, cigarette between his lips. One of his legs was hooked around Andrew’s leg.

“You’re not going all lovey dovey now, are you?” Spike asked, frowning. “A good shag will do that to people.”

Andrew swallowed, stung even though he knew he shouldn’t be. Spike loved Buffy, always would, and it was okay. Really. And the burning feeling in his eyes was really just the smoke. He waved his hand to fan the smoke away. He shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

“Good,” Spike nodded, after studying his face for another moment. “Here, might as well go with tradition,” he smiled, and offered his cigarette.

It was the full cliché as seen on TV: Andrew took it, inhaled tentatively, and started coughing. He grimaced, peeved, and tried again, this time getting the cough under control.

“That’s the spirit,” Spike said, but to Andrew’s great relief he stole his cigarette back. “Something else you wanna try?”

Andrew blushed. He brought a finger to one of the little wet puddles on his chest, scooped up some of the wetness, and brought it to his mouth, licking and sucking on his finger, tasting Spike’s come.

Spike’s grin widened. He tossed the burning cigarette away and shifted, bringing his knee between Andrew’s thighs, rubbing his half-hard cock against him. “Somethin’ else?”

Andrew glanced at Spike’s cock and licked his lips, feeling sheepish. “I—uh—Can I?”

“Wanna try that, do you? Fair enough.” Spike pushed himself into a seated position, stroking himself languidly to full hardness.

With the single-mindedness usually reserved to collecting action figures and comic books Andrew gave his first blow-job, glowing with pride, when he caused Spike to pant and talk dirty, but his jaw tired soon and besides, he wanted more. Wanted it all.

He cried out, not in pain but in bliss, when oil-slick fingers gradually insinuated themselves into his body, ‘opening him up,’ as Spike called it. When Spike finally pushed inside him, his mind, heart, and body took a breathless plunge.

The last thought that rushed through Andrew’s mind, as he came for the third time that night, just before he passed out, was that no matter how nice heaven might be, it would have a hard time beating this.