Xander has no complaints.
They’ve all sunk down to the bottom of the murky blue.
He melts in the warm, warm water.
Oh yeah, he needed this.
It hasn’t exactly been the smoothest sailing to set up a slayer headquarters in Iceland.
If you build it, they don’t come. Kevin Costner has a lot to answer for. A hell of a lot.
Of course the vamps come but that’s thanks to the four to five hours daylight in the winter not to a cozy slayer quarters in Reykjavík. If only slayers were drawn here the same way.
Mental note: long life expectancy and good health aren’t the best arguments to get slayers to relocate.
Hot springs and lots of spas are tempting.
Minimal darkness in the summer? That is the winning argument.
Everyone needs some down time.
And right now it’s time for Xander’s.
Since his next destination is unknown, he charts his own course. The Blue Lagoon.
Who doesn’t want to be outside in a bathing suit, in water when there’s snow on the ground? He closes his eye and basks. Brooke Shields should be along any minute in a coconut bikini serving food and drinks.
But it’s definitely not a jail baity Brooke who comes along.
It’s someone much older
He doesn’t have to open his eye to know who’s behind him sending a shiver down his spine.
“You own a bathing suit?”
It’s reassuring to know that he can still always say exactly the wrong thing and ruin the moment.
“Might've had one. Once." Clearly, he doesn't now.
Maybe that was exactly the right thing to say after all.
"You owned a swimsuit?"
“Traded it to the elves in Hafnarfjörður for the - rr - nothing much really. Nothing important.”
When Spike – because who else would ignore the ‘bathing attire is mandatory’ signs? – presses against him as proof, Xander’s sure that was the right thing to say. He's also sure it's a diversionary tactic.
"Okay," Xander says, thoroughly and willingly diversioned. Because a relationship like theirs doesn't work with too many questions asked.
He rests his head back on Spike’s shoulder in a weird mirror of Spike’s cock resting between Xander’s thighs.
They stay like that for while.
Xander breathing slow and deep, Spike not breathing. It should feel off.
It definitely doesn’t when they retreat to the shower area and Xander slides to his knees like he does this every day. Seeing Spike shiver when he trails his tongue up Spike’s cock makes him wish he does.
He forgets it’s been a long frustrating couple of months since they’ve been together when Spike grips his hair and gasps like he’s the one desperate for breath.
Xander inhales through his nose and slides his mouth down further.
Spike doesn’t complain about that.
Later Xander fucks Spike on the bed with the lights on ’cause with all the darkness here he’s gotten attached to having some light. Besides its 4pm, it shouldn’t be dark.
Collapsed together, sweaty and bleary eyed, Xander wonders if he’s addicted. To the feel of Spike’s ass clenching around his dick. To the taste of Spike’s skin. To Spike’s teeth biting his skin in a less scary version of what he could do. To Spike’s cock.
It's all about the Christmas shopping in Tunisia. Because if Xander had known how easy it was to shop for girls - and Andrew - in High School, his dating life would have been a lot more exciting.
Not - you know - that it was lacking. Or that Cordy was exactly beginner-level.
But Xander would've gotten a lot more trim.
Or so he likes to think.
Yeah, the secret to pleasing the ladies is apparently all that glitters. As long as it has an air of the exotic and didn't come from Wal-Mart.
Yep, it's all about the glittery exotic.
Which is why he's here at a tourist bazaar in Tunisia sorting through a bin of bangles with a bag of swag slung across his chest while a Bedouin in Ray Bans leads a loaded camel picking its way delicately between the stalls.
Xander keeps his eye on the camel.
Never trust a camel as far as it can spit.
Which is to say when Bedouin and camel pull in next to him on the left and finger the bangles, Xander's ready to turn all the way around to keep keeping an eye on that camel.
The Bedouin lowers his sunglasses and winks an eye at Xander. It's blue. So's the other one. "Shopping for the girls, then, or have your tastes changed that much?" And Xander doesn't need to see Spike's face under the wrapped cloth to know he's smirking.
"Isn't that kind of dangerous for a vamp?" Xander's hand makes the up and down gesture conveying the flammability of everything under that white robe.
"I live dangerously." He does. He's not even watching his camel. Xander guesses a guy doesn't have to when he radiates the kind of touch my camel and I'll remove your fingers you thieving little sod menace. Even the camel seems to be vaguely impressed and Xander guesses that's fair; it's not often a camel meets something even more bad tempered and stubborn than it. "What's so funny?"
"Absolutely nothing," Xander says like a man who might be going off to face his death but at least he's going with a great joke. "It's you. Very Lawrence of Arabia."
"I think the local insult is 'son of a pig.'"
"Yeah, well. I've met your dad. Seems a bit unfairly honest."
Xander considers working up offended dignity. But that ship's just plain sailed. "And poof isn't?"
"Poof's fair honest. And anyway you're good at it," Spike explains with the kind of logic only native to Spike. And maybe camels. The camel seems abnormally docile in his presence.
There's a lot of abnormality going on in Tunis - not quite lion laying down with the lamb abnormal - but human strolling with vampire at noon in a sunny Mediterranean port city has to count for something. And since this isn't exactly friendly territory for a little friendly macking, Xander goes for the small talk. "So, averted any good apocalypses lately?"
Because it stands to reason Spike might actually be in the business of averting them. Xander hasn't been called on to avert him in months after all.
"Nah. Been a quiet season."
"It has at that." Xander's aware of the weight of Christmas presents in his sack. It's not exactly Indiana Jones quality excitement this trip. "So, going my way?" It's a way wending vaguely toward La Goulette and a boat waiting to take him into the Gulf of Tunis and eventually to Sicily.
He takes it for granted that Spike knows this.
Spike does. "Might do. I know a place in Palermo."
Spike knows a place everywhere.
Except, possibly, Tunis.
"What about the camel?"
"He can swim."
Spike'll swear later it's coincidence that the gob of camel spit hit him right in the back of the head.
Xander’s no Renee Zellweger.
Ignoring the complete lack of physical similarity and that she’s a girl, Xander wouldn’t say that Spike had him at ‘hello.’
Of course, Spike might have had him at ‘hello’ if he’d bothered to say ‘hello,’ but he hadn’t. In fact, Xander doesn’t remember either of them saying ‘hello’.
Or much of anything actually.
Well, that’s not exactly true. Xander had tried to ask Spike about the gash across his face and the torn shirt but Spike had made it clear with a sharp look and some cunningly distracting moves that Xander was treading on shaky ground.
And Xander went with the distraction because he didn’t want to talk about the blood crusted into his jeans and why he has a knife strapped to his ankle.
Fortunately Spike was more interested in getting Xander out of his jeans.
He likes to think they were too busy getting, well, busy to bother with the ‘hellos.’
Besides, the not talking works well for them.
Xander likes to keep his business and pleasure separate. Even if the thing that’s currently separating them happens to be a very blurry and increasingly confusing line.
At the moment, they’re way too close to people who wouldn’t approve of Xander fraternizing with the enemy.
But it’s hard to believe that Spike’s the enemy when he looks exactly like how Xander feels after battling evil. And has the same post-battle urges.
Boy does Xander hope Giles doesn’t decide to pop by Bath to see how things went. He’d rather not explain how he and Spike both ended up in close vicinity to Stonehenge and its wacky demony powers. Not that he knows the answer, it’s not like Spike is big on the sharing or Xander has the ability to read Spike’s mind – although that would be really cool.
He would be a sex god.
Of course it could drive him insane.
But it’s a risk he’s willing to take.
Spike rolls over and blinks at him. “Brooding’s not good for you. Look at what it’s done to Angel. Boring bugger.”
Xander snorts. Mocking Angel? Never not funny. “Nah, just wondering if there’s an evening Jane Austen walking tour.” He holds up the brochure on his nightstand. “Apparently it’s ‘like stepping into Jane Austen’s world.’ Did she write the one with Heathcliff?”
“That was a Bronte. Austen wrote the one with the brooding Darcy bloke.”
“Ahh.” Xander tosses the brochure back. “I like Colin Firth.”
Spike rolls his eyes. “That’s not a world you want to step into, so proper Giles is a wild child in comparison.” Spike stretches and yawns, as if to emphasize how boring it would be.
Xander shrugs and drops his head onto the pillow. If it so happens his head lands a few inches from Spike’s and he has to put his arm across Spike’s chest, he’s not complaining.
If Spike so happens to slide his arm under and around Xander’s shoulder, he doesn’t complain about that either.
Neither does Spike.
It’s possible that they’re doing something someone could define as cuddling.
But they don’t cuddle.
So they’re not.
It’s also possible Xander melted a bit – just a bit, more like a smidge really – when Spike wrapped his arm around Xander.
Not that he’d admit that.
So it didn’t happen.
“Have night tours, but only in the summer.” Spike’s finger traces over Xander’s arm.
Xander’s about to say, ‘And you know that how exactly?’ when he decides that he can’t be bothered. He’s not breaking their unspoken not sharing rule for something about some British chick author whose books Xander never even bothered to read in school. (His mental Willow is glaring at the rest of his brain for that thought.)
He goes with, “Guess we’ll have to find another way to occupy our nights,” instead.
Spike chuckles. It’s an evil laugh but the kind of evil laugh that shoots straight through Xander’s body and gets him interested again. “Can think of a few things.”
So can Xander.
It’s a good long night.
A tuk-tuk pulls up to another tuk-tuk on a street in Bangkok.
It's nothing so mundane as a stoplight up there but Xander's pretty sure his tuk-tuk hasn't moved in at least five minutes.
So of course the guy in the other tuk-tuk is Spike.
"Look alive, Harris." He throws a wrapped bundle through the window into Xander's lap.
And his tuk-tuk speeds away defying all laws of physics and three dimensional geometry while Xander's continues to sit there mired in traffic. It kind of figures Spike would find the one magical tuk-tuk in Ratchaprasong.
It also figures it's one of two and the other's carrying two little blue guys in sarongs with pointy hats and pointier swords.
He doesn't know what they're saying and doesn't want to and sits there like any other ignorant tourist in a tuk-tuk with a strange and squishy bundle of cloth in his lap.
It also figures Spike would know where he's staying so when there's a knock on his door, Xander's not that surprised to find Spike on the other side. What he is surprised to find is the room service kid standing behind Spike with a loaded cart.
Apparently, Spike can do considerate.
So Xander can do polite. "Come on in, Spike."
"Cheers, pet." Spike sheds his duster and boots and slouches into the only slouchable chair in the room and waves an imperial hand to the bus boy. "Leave it anywhere."
He doesn't tip.
But Xander does. One of them has to leave laundry outside his door in the morning and would kind of like to get it back.
Spike's continued shedding while Xander was seeing the well-tipped hotel employee out the door and he's down to half buttoned jeans and pouring champagne by the time Xander turns around. "What's the occasion?"
"There has to be an occasion?" Spike passes him a flute, licks spilled champagne off his thumb.
"I think it's in the official champagne rulebook. If you make under a hundred thou a year, there has to be an occasion for champagne."
"Rules." Spike's tone says it all. Somewhere, the rulebook smolders and self-immolates at a slow burn.
Xander concedes the point. "So what's in the package?"
Spike's methodically uncovering dishes Xander doesn't recognize and probably doesn't want to because his stomach's sitting up and begging. And food usually tastes better when Xander doesn't know what's in it. He pauses long enough to ask: "You didn't look?"
The bundle was really squishy in an instinctively disturbing way.
Xander's a guy who goes with his instincts.
He's also a guy who telegraphs everything via facial expression if the look of sympathy on Spike's face is anything to go by. "Probably for the best." Spike passes him a bowl and a spoon. There've been a lot of funny bundles of cloth around Spike and Xander's pretty sure he's glad he hasn't looked in any of them.
Xander slurps soup. It's hot. It's good. He's not thinking about what's floating in it. "So who were the blue guys?"
"Quadrangle of the Red Branch."
Xander's not certain but he's pretty sure his face is telegraphing 'excuse me - but what the hell?'
Spike shrugs. His expression says clearly: 'I didn't name them, did I?'
"Evil Inc. was kind of scraping the bottom of the barrel the day they came up with that one, huh?"
"Sounds more sinister in Romanian," Spike assures him.
They've moved on to charred meaty things on sticks when Xander gets around to asking: "End of the world?"
Spike tears a piece of meat off the stick with his teeth, shrugs. "Not if I can help it."
Xander whirls through the crowd whilst the crowd applauds the Whirling Dervishes.
His whirl is definitely less whirl-like and more stumble-like with a side of oh-god-where-did-my-slayer-go panic.
As luck would have it, he slams right into her.
And did he say luck?
It’s definitely not luck, it’s pure slayer skill when Cigdem shoves him to the ground and grabs the blade inches before it reaches his neck.
Definitely a close shave.
Xander chuckles inappropriately while Cigdem kicks some demon ass.
“What?” She stands over the now dead demon, her head cocked.
“It’s okay.” Xander coughs to stop the laughter and sends thanks to whoever decides these things that this slayer knows some English. “Just – thanks. For saving me.”
She shrugs and scuffs the ground.
He nods at her bleeding arm. “Is there somewhere we can go to patch you up?”
When there’s a knock-knock on Cigdem’s door an hour later, Xander’s not even a little surprised about who’s there.
No surprise either when he becomes Xander’s second patient of the night.
Xander wouldn’t even be surprised if those Red Rectangle guys are responsible.
It’s that kind of night in Konya.
Of course there is a big clue in the form of a cloth-covered something at Spike’s feet that squishes creepily when Xander pokes at it.
Xander’s more than happy to keep not finding out what’s behind the curtain.
“Is this even necessary?” He winds the bandage around Spike’s arm. “Aren’t you like a super quick healer?”
Spike raises an eyebrow. “Don’t like playing nurse? Bet you’d look cute in white.”
Xander opens his mouth and closes it again. No way is he going there.
“Cat got your tongue?” Only Spike can make that question sound dirty. The artful spread of his legs and the leer on his face don’t help.
Xander rolls his eye. “You’re not that irresistible, you know.”
“That so?” A finger runs along Xander’s arm.
Xander tries to suppress a shudder as he pats a bandage into place. “I’ll have you know that I run across lots of hot guys in my travels. Lots.”
An arm encircles his waist and pulls him in between Spike’s legs (thankfully well clear of the package). “Monks don’t count.”
“How did you –?” But Xander has some dignity.
Key word being some.
Enough for token protests, but clearly not enough to stop himself from gasping and pressing into Spike when he’s shown just how talented Spike can be with one hand.
“The slayer…,” he manages.
“Is snoring,” says the vamp with eerily good hearing.
Xander still pushes away. “I have a hotel room.”
Spike’s on his feet and pulling Xander out of the door before he even gets to the second syllable of ‘hotel.’
The next morning Spike rolls over. “So,” he says between puffs of nicotine, “end of the world.” As if they’re continuing a conversation they’ve been having all along.
It’s all Xander’s brain will do right now.
Spike just traces his finger back and forth between Xander’s nipples.
Xander tries to get his brain to work.
It takes a while, but it gets there.
Xander props his head up and stares down at Spike’s face, looking for clues. “When should –?”
Spike could've had Xander at 'hello' if he'd bothered to say hello.
But instead, Spike chose to get right on with the action and Xander's really not in a position to complain.
Sweaty, sticky, sated, Xander's in a position that's going to give him a leg cramp soon but it's not a position he tends to associate with complaining.
"Uh," he says.
"Mmhm," Spike answers from the vicinity of Xander's neck.
Xander pats Spike's hair agreeably. Eventually, he gets around to asking: "What's the occasion?"
"End of the world," Spike says.
Spike squints at the clock like a man too proud for glasses. "'Bout an hour."
"Oh," Xander says and drops his head back to the pillow. "No hurry then."
"Got time for another round," Spike says helpfully.
Apparently, they have inappropriately timed sex in common.
In their line of work, as things to have in common go, it's pretty good.
As tardiness-causing things to explain post-apocalyptically go, it's less good. And Xander's prepared to acknowledge the advantages of vamp speed when Spike's out the door and down the block to get the motorcycle while Xander's still fumbling with his shoelaces.
It's the shoelace fumbling that gets in the way of the whole noticing of the next door neighbor standing in his doorway thing.
Fortunately, apocalypses don't leave much time for mincing the words. "Willow. Hey. Gotta go."
It also doesn't leave much time to worry about having a secret affair with the enemy exposed. He's grabbing his jacket when she says: "Wasn't that - ?"
And straightening his patch when she asks: "But isn't he - ?"
"Evil?" Xander hunts for his keys and finds them under the ficus. "Probably."
"And you and he - ?" She makes a vague gesture that could mean anything from 'take lemon in your tea' to 'fuck like rodents.'
Xander goes with the rodent interpretation. "Oh yeah."
"Um - congratulations but you haven't told - ?"
"Thanks." Xander kisses her on the forehead. "And Giles? Buffy? That'd be a big no."
"But has he - "
Xander puts an arm around her shoulder and steers her toward the door. "Told Angel? I'm gonna bet no."
"But isn't that - "
Xander pauses to lock the door. Because apocalypse or no apocalypse, a guy never knows. "Unethical?"
"Um - yes."
Somewhere, not too far away, the loudest motorcycle in London roars to life. "That is so not a question I can give you an unbiased answer to anymore. But I'm gonna go with no."
"But he's - "
Spike rounds the corner. Fast.
Xander doesn't wait for an answer.
He's got a motorcycle to catch.
The world's not going to save itself.
The world can’t save itself.
But it gets by with a little help from its friends.
Its very loyal defeaters-of-Quadrangle-of-the-Red-Branc
Who know when to kiss and know when to kill.
And that’s the last time Xander listens to his iPod on shuffle before a big battle.
Though, for an inaminate object, it does give pretty good advice – because it definitely feels like kissing time.
Except it’s not. Thanks to Angel and his oh-so-untimely arrival.
Timely would have been about ten minutes earlier when Xander’s life was flashing before his eyes and all he could think was why am I not wearing clean underwear?
Untimely is right now when Xander was just about to suggest Spike remove said underwear right here and now, demon viscera and blood be damned.
But no, here he is now, all furrowed brow and hulking mass of him. “Xander,” he nods.
“Angel,” Xander mutters. He spares the nod.
“’Bout bloody time.” Spike tosses down his sword. “There’s a mess needs cleaning.”
Angel casts his eyes upward as if expecting divine intervention. “Spike.” He motions to a spot across the rubble, out of Xander’s earshot.
Xander rolls his eye. “You two have your special little private chat. I’m gonna crash.”
He walks off – walking the walk of a totally cool world saver, which bears only a passing resemblance to a bitchy boyfriendly huff.
But at least he’s able to sink into bed with the smug satisfaction that the world keeps turning because of him.
Okay, because of Spike too.
Spike and him.
He sleeps for hours or maybe weeks before he’s shoved over and a cold arm drapes over his shoulder.
“Wha-” he coughs, tries again. “What’d Angel want?”
“Wanted to know if we could trust you.”
“What? Trust me?” Xander sits up. Blinks. “But we’re the good guys, you’re the bad guys.”
“Okay, so you in the singular aren’t bad but Angel…” he trails off as his brain tries to work through a confusing pile of brambles.
His brain isn’t helped by Spike’s hands pulling his underwear off and Xander’s favorite parts reacquainting themselves with Spike’s hands.
Had he been thinking about Angel? Why would he do that?
He puts Angel out of his head entirely when Spike whispers in his ear, “You want bad? I’m still bad, baby.”
Works for Xander.
The novelty of traveling with Spike has yet to wear off.
Granted, meeting the private jet probably has something to do with keeping the novelty going.
"Sweet," Xander says.
"Perk of the job," Spike waves him off. But Xander's pretty sure Spike's loving it - having a private jet he can mention off the cuff like that.
"I'd wondered how you were getting around the world." It's true. He had.
Spike's not doing a great job of hiding the smug smirk he obviously wants to be smirking. "Beats steamer trunks."
As it turns out, the private jet beats pretty much every other form of transportation known to man and Xander has his formal induction into the Mile High club in the comfort of a great big bed.
"Wow," he says, really not concerned about the semen slowly getting sticky on his stomach or his thighs because there's a shower in the private jet too.
"That for me or the jet?"
Xander turns his head, the only part of him that's not pleasantly tingly and numb. "Would you be offended if I asked you and the jet to share it?"
"Depends." Spike's hand slides slickly through the mess and okay - maybe Xander's not as numb as he thought. "How big's the wow?"
"S'pose I could be generous enough then."
Spike’s generosity extends only as far as the jet. He’s less generous about forking over actual cash – which is in no way a surprise for Xander.
But Xander’s okay springing for the accommodations because, hey, it’s not everyday that a guy arrives in French Polynesia by private jet.
Okay, so it’s not everyday that Xander travels by private jet.
But his fortune’s starting to look up.
He might even believe that fortune teller in Butmir who had gazed into her crystal ball and spun him tales of a life of luxury, love and llamas.
And here he thought it was all about telling the customer what they want to hear. Well, that plus llamas.
But she was wrong about something. He very much doubts he’s going to meet the girl of his dreams.
Which is fine by Xander.
And when Spike suggests sex to pass the daylight hours? Also fine.
Okay, more than fine.
It still blows his mind how mind-blowing sex with Spike is.
"Stop and I will so stake you!"
In true Spike fashion, he stops.
Well, it’s not really a stop, per se, more a pause mid-thrust.
And how is Xander still able to think right now?
“You stopped,” he gasps. It’s a gasp that in no way resembles a whine.
A decidedly evil smile slides across Spike’s face before slowly – oh so slowly – changing to the picture of innocence. “What? Thought you had something to say.”
On ‘say’ he thrusts and all thought rushes out of Xander’s head.
“You – don’t stop!”
The evil smile is back. “As you wish.”
And Xander'd mutter about Spike watching too many movies on late night television but Spike's back to not stopping so Xander's back to not thinking and it's a whole big unthinky, nonstoppy thing.
That blows his mind.
It seems that this is where saving the world gets a guy these days.
Or - well - not every guy probably because then the straight ones and the ones who don't have a horny vampire in their lives would be seriously out of luck. But as a big cosmic thank you for saving the world, a few weeks in Tahiti with Spike are pretty good.
"You're thinking," Spike says in a vaguely accusatory way. A way that's more than a little offended Xander's capable of thought after the kind of sex Spike's doled out.
It occurs to Xander his capability for thinking has impressively improved over the years. So when he says, "Yeah," it's with a touch of pride.
Spike goes with a touch of offense but only a touch - not enough to get off or out of Xander or otherwise move. He goes for option B. "Might as well share it then."
The look Spike's giving him has serious doubts about the quality of Xander's thoughts.
"Oh. Thoughts. I was just thinking about job benefits."
And now Spike's giving him a look that clearly says Xander's gotta be kidding it.
Xander shrugs. "You asked. They're good job benefits."
"That's me. Man of upwardly mobile world saveage that comes with great benefits." He tangles the fingers of one hand through the curls on the back of Spike's ungelled head. It's not manly but neither's the brief soppy impulse he's got to kiss him.
"Suppose I'm one of the benefits, then," Spike says with the world-weariness of a cuddling vampire.
"Pretty much the benefit. Though the jet is nice. And there is the beach. And the fucking. I like the fucking."
"'S good fucking," Spike agrees.
They're in agreement.
And then they're in India.
After quick separate detours to answer the calls of duty.
Xander sips his drink and waits.
But it’s not the bad kind of waiting. It’s the settle-into-a-chair-and-lounge kind of waiting.
Right now, Xander is non-flappable guy. Eighteen hour delay in Heathrow? Not a problem. Bus travel in India? Done with a smile on his face.
Long wait in the Jaisalmer’s heat?
Still not flapping the Xand-man.
Especially not when there’s a damn spectacular sunset happening over the desert.
It’s possible the Bhang Lassi is helping.
Or it could be the arrival of the guy who settles down beside him just after the sun has set.
“Super sexy strong?” Xander asks with a nod to Spike's Bhang Lassi – because what else would a guy like Spike order?
Spike snorts. “Super sexy strong's for poofs. Went with the full power, 24 hour, no toilet, no shower.”
“Because that describes you so well.”
“Don't need a Bhang Lassi to make me sexy, mate.”
Spike's not wrong.
Good thing too because:
“Yeah, I ordered that one too.” Xander takes another sip. “We’re going to wake up in the morning wondering what the hell happened and where our passports went, aren’t we?”
Spike takes a big sip. “Probably.”
Xander takes a big sip, shrugs. “As long as we still have our clothes.”
There’s a raised eyebrow.
“They don’t have to be on us.” Xander thinks he had more to say but he can’t remember anymore. It’s possible he may already be high.
This is one strong Bhang Lassi.
Strong enough that they do wake up somewhere in the desert with no idea how the fuck they got here.
Fortunately they didn’t lose their clothes.
They did gain some. Red and yellow saris, to be exact.
Which is a good thing since the sun’s about to come up and neither of them wants Spike to burst into flames and die.
“Don’t we have to see that guy about getting that thing?” Xander asks while Spike wraps a red sari around himself.
Spike gives him a what-the-fuck-is-up-with-you look. “We’re alone, why the code talk?”
“Can’t remember the guy’s name or the mystical thingy’s name.”
“But you know where he is, right?”
“That I know.”
"Right, then." Spike encircles the last bit of yellow sari around his head. “Let’s go.”
What's a Bhang Lassi, you're asking? Click here for the info.