Lindsey sometimes wears cowboy boots, and Xander thinks that's about the coolest thing ever. The guy can pull it off because he's an authentic shitkicker. Xander has never kicked the shit out of anything, except the can as a kid, maybe himself and a bottle of Jack. Then he kicked that habit.
Sometimes he imagines the guy in nothing but the boots. It's disturbing, cheesy porn disturbing.
"Nice boots," he says. Lindsey's one-word thanks makes him feel like a dork. You don't compliment a guy's shoes. So very gay.
He doesn't know Lindsey thinks he's a hero of the ordinary.
They met at Angel's agency. The Buffy and Angel show, Riley called it. Angel uncursed was insufferably upbeat. It made Lindsey feel like a sour bitter drink, one too many; it made Riley hard-faced, watching Buffy and Angel lock eyes across the meeting table, cut out early with excuses.
"Swell," Riley muttered.
"If Romeo and Juliet lived," Lindsey said, "the audience would've walked out."
They assessed each other for about the fifty-seventh time in as many days. No longer covertly.
"You think we're the audience?" Riley asked.
"Nah." Lindsey paused a beat, still locking eyes across the table. "Different play."
"Are You Experienced."
A hesitation. "Keep."
"Harvest." Oz frowned. "Are these in any order?"
Giles studied an album cover, half absent in memories. "Hobgoblins muddled my taxonomic system."
A look passed between them, dry and brief.
"A dog ate my homework once," Oz said. "That was a tough sell."
Momentary interest. "Hell-hound?"
"Schnauzer." A shuffle of covers. "Ricochet."
"Yeah. Overrated." Shuffle. "Disraeli Gears...hey, it's signed."
"My heyday wasn't without its moments."
"You know, someday this will be your heyday."
"A rapturous thought." He paused, glanced at Oz again. Softer: "I suppose it has its moments."
Once, Spike tried to keep her panties, holding them above his head and smiling at her. Stupid move. She punched him in the stomach and his bastard smile fell off.
Face burning, she grabbed the panties and turned away to put them on. Fury felt like sex. She hated that.
He drew in a breath and wrapped her close from behind. "You're a glass half-full of badness, slayer," he said softly. "And I'm going to fill you up."
She tore away. "You're an empty glass."
Hurt hit his face and flattened his expression. "I've poured myself out for you."
One day the world ended and only Angel was left. The only one Spike knew, who knew him. He liked nothing about Angel--blockheaded clotheshorse with one broody expression to his puss--but that hardly mattered when it came to sex.
Shag over, Spike decided to stick around the crumbling hotel. Nothing outside worth looking at anyway. Red and black sky patrolled by raptors, scurrying humans, demon overlords that weren't hiring.
A slayerless world.
"I don't share beds," Angel said, as Spike stretched out. Pissy bitch. Ungrateful, too, considering.
"Move, then. Hundred more to choose from."
But he didn't move quickly.
ETA: Added better cut tags.