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Foreign Tongues

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Giles’ kiss grazed Spike’s jaw as the vampire lunged past where Giles lay in bed. Spike reached for the brandy bottle on the nightstand. His pale fingers scrabbled for the neck of the bottle, then closed around it. He flopped back down on the other side of Giles with a smile of satisfaction on his face. “Knew I’d get there in the end. Gonna take another couple minutes to get my strength back. You exhausted me, Rupe.”

Giles bristled at the nickname. It had come from a suggestion that Spike call him something other than ‘watcher’ while they were in bed at the very least. Calling him by his given name would have been the easy solution, but somehow Spike had known that would just make Giles think of one of his previous lovers… Wesley or Olivia or Jenny or Ethan. But ‘Rupe’?

Spike took a few healthy swigs and passed the bottle to Giles, who downed roughly the same amount. The warm burn made the after-sex euphoria last just a little longer. And God knew he could use anything that kept him from having to jump back into life again. Just a little time away from his books, away from advising Buffy, away from the rest of the world. Never in a hundred years would he have thought he might find that refuge with William the Bloody.

“Spike, what was that you said just before…?”

He would have passed the bottle back had Spike not grabbed it right out of his hand. “Sometimes I get a bit carried away.” He swallowed another gulp of brandy. “I can’t remember, but there is something I sometimes say... Did it sound something like Ixapalantee cheetazinco?”

“That’s it. What language is that?”

“Supposed to be Paxion.”

Giles rolled onto his side, looking quizzically at the vampire. “There hasn’t been a Paxion demon alive in decades. It’s a dead language now.”

“Yup. But I’ve known a couple in my lifetime. And, after all, you lot still hang on to Latin.”

Giles located his glasses on the nightstand and polished the lenses using a corner of the bed sheet. “Perhaps, but we don’t typically shout Latin phrases when approaching climax.”

“You might if there were a phrase in Latin that meant the same thing as Ixapalantee cheetazinco.”

Blinking as he put his glasses back on and his sight adjusted, Giles reclaimed the brandy bottle. “Which means?”

Spike shrugged. “Closest I can get to an English translation is something to the extent of ‘Bloody Hell, this is going to be the best orgasm I’ve ever had.’”

Giles almost choked on the brandy. He coughed and swallowed and coughed again. “And you say that a lot during sex, do you?”

He grinned. “Only when it’s true.”